The Luckless Elopement

by Dorothy Mack

  Miss Seymour gasped at the insult conveyed. She did not trust herself to answer, but her eyes shot arrows of rage at the uncaring man before she turned her back on him and picked up a piece of sacking she had brought with her. When she started rubbing down the colt, she found the cloth taken from her hands.

  “You shouldn’t be doing this after the shaking-up you have had,” he said roughly, proceeding to do the work himself.

  Miss Seymour hunched a shoulder and allowed him to perform the task for her. There was no further conversation while Mr. Massingham attended to the horse, and Miss Seymour, suddenly overwhelmed by a dismayed realisation of the dishevelled picture she must present, tried to straighten her appearance. She brushed loose grass and dirt from her breeches and re-tucked her shirt into the waistband, frowning at the grass stains on the elbows. Her hair had come loose from its neat coil, and a cursory search of the ground failed to turn up any of the pins.

  Mr. Massingham had been concentrating on Shadow during this cleaning-up process, but when she seized the red cap and started to bundle up her long hair under it, he intervened. “Must you make more of a figure of yourself than you already have in that ridiculous costume? Leave it alone.”

  “I thought I made rather a handsome youth,” retorted Miss Seymour defiantly, continuing her efforts to stuff the golden mass under the cap.

  “Well, you don’t. You wouldn’t fool a blind man.”

  “I fooled you. You called me lad.”

  “From behind and from a distance only.” The roving glance Mr. Massingham sent slowly over her long-legged and slim-hipped figure in clinging knit breeches was insultingly comprehensive and lingered on her breasts, heaving with ill-contained fury. Colour flared into her cheeks, and she dropped the cap from fumbling fingers.

  They bent together to retrieve it and cracked heads.

  “Ouch! Now look what you’ve done!”

  Tears that were more fury than pain sprang to Vicky’s eyes, and Mr. Massingham’s hands shot out to steady her as once more he assisted her to her feet.

  “Again I apologise, Miss Seymour. Please allow me to remove the grass from your hair,” he proposed in a neutral tone.

  “Pray do not trouble yourself, sir. It does not signify.” Vicky was very much on her dignity as she turned aside to head for the fence.

  “Perhaps it doesn’t signify to you, but when we appear at your door I’d just as lief not have your state of disarray laid at my door. People will talk, you know.”

  “Oh, you are odious!” snapped Vicky, even more flustered than before. She stopped short and began frantically combing her fingers through the blond tresses to loosen any bits of grass that clung.

  “I begin to think I am,” he agreed softly, watching her efforts for a time with a softened expression she didn’t see. “Allow me, Miss Seymour.”

  Before Vicky knew what he was about, Mr. Massingham had moved behind her. He lifted the shining mass away from her shoulders, then gathered it together in one hand. With the other he meticulously picked out any remaining blades of grass or straw.

  At his first touch she had attempted to pull away from him, but the inevitable yank on her scalp as he held on kept her motionless, though fuming, for the few minutes it took to rid her hair of all foreign matter. When the task was finished, he ran a smoothing hand down the silken length to restore order to the degree possible without a brush. His other hand reached to repeat the gesture, then clenched in mid-air and returned to his side. His teeth were clenched too as he stepped back, but she didn’t see that either.

  “You’ll pass muster now,” he promised tonelessly.

  “Thank you.” Vicky cast him a fleeting glance before walking purposefully toward the next fence. Mr. Massingham went back to retrieve his horse, and presently came up with her at the edge of the next field, where she had opened the gate. He was carrying Shadow’s bridle.

  “You may leave him here to graze if you like,” she offered. “I have been gone longer than I intended. Drucilla will be wondering what has become of me. I left her playing the pianoforte, but it is nearly teatime. What brings you to the Oaks, Mr. Massingham?”

  “I came to visit my fiancée.”

  “If you are referring to Drucilla, it would be more accurate to describe her as your former fiancée. I believe she has come to the realisation that one shouldn’t choose one’s life partner hastily.”

  “Hastily or not, it will come to the same thing in the end.”

  Vicky opened her mouth to refute this, but before she could utter a syllable, her attention was diverted to the avenue, where the sound of horses and the rattle of wheels on gravel proclaimed the approach of a vehicle. They had been walking across the fields toward the back of the house and the stables. She paused and put up a hand to shield her eyes as she peered through the trees trying to identify the carriage that was about to turn to the right to go around to the main entrance.

  “More company for tea,” predicted Mr. Massingham lightly.

  “I cannot appear before guests like this,” Vicky said, indicating her masculine attire with a frown. “I shall have to slip in the back way and change. You, sir, may present yourself at the front door as if just arriving, while I… Good heavens, it can’t be!” she exclaimed, breaking into a run as the chaise pulled by four horses turned onto the carriage drive that circled around to the front.

  “Who can’t it be?” asked Mr. Massingham, loping along beside his hostess.

  “My aunt!”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Your aunt? Do you refer to Lady Honoria Blakney?” asked Mr. Massingham, suiting his steps to Vicky’s as she cut across a corner of an area of shrubbery to head for a gate in the brick wall.

  “Yes, of course. Why, how do you know my aunt’s name?” she demanded, pulling up short and facing Mr. Massingham squarely.

  “She and my mother were school friends.”

  “You know my aunt?” Vicky was astounded.

  “I was used to, but I haven’t seen her since I was a schoolboy myself. It must be all of fifteen years,” mused Mr. Massingham.

  “Why did you never mention the fact before?”

  He looked faintly surprised at the suspicious expression on Miss Seymour’s face, but answered readily, “The subject never came up.”

  Vicky showed a disposition to question this simplistic response, but the man gestured to the wooden door. “Through here?”

  She nodded absently and led the way through the gate onto a flagstone terrace that bordered the carriage drive. Her thoughts were in a whirl, but there was no time to examine them, for her aunt’s travelling chaise, with its trim newly painted bright yellow, had already pulled up to the entrance as a second carriage loaded with baggage entered the drive. Cavanaugh was opening the chaise door as a breathless Vicky arrived in front of the entrance with Mr. Massingham in tow. She had just time to note the oddity of a saddle horse tied to the back of the coach when a familiar figure descended stiffly from it, assisted by Cavanaugh.

  “Aunt! How glad I am to see you, but why did you not let me know that you were coming?”

  Vicky launched herself at her relative, embracing her exuberantly until the older woman complained, “That’s enough, child, you’ve knocked my new hat askew.”

  “And what are you about, wearing such a quiz of a hat in the first place?” teased her niece gaily. “I leave you for no more than a fortnight and you appear…” She broke off to stare open-mouthed at the man who had followed her aunt onto the drive. “Gregory! What are you doing here?”

  “Victoria, you will give Ellerby a very odd notion of Leicestershire hospitality if you continue to goggle at him in that ridiculous manner,” Lady Honoria said warningly. “He’s here because I invited him, of course. I was very grateful for his escort on the journey.”

  “Yes, of … of course. How do you do, Gregory?” stammered Vicky, giving the embarrassed man her hand. “Please forgive my lapse of manners, but this is all so unexpected.” Her eye fell on Mr. Massing
ham standing quietly at her side, regarding this newest arrival with interest. “Allow me to present Mr. Massingham to you both,” she said quickly, feeling as witless as a Bedlamite under the combined onslaught of surprises. “Lady Honoria Blakney, Lord Ellerby, sir.”

  The men bowed politely, but before they could open their mouths, Lady Honoria exclaimed, “Massingham? Andrew Massingham?” The older woman peered closely at the man beside her niece in lively astonishment.

  “The very same, Lady Honoria,” he admitted, kissing her hand with a warmth that Vicky had never seen him display before. “It has been a very long time, ma’am, since I have had the pleasure.”

  A suspicious moisture shimmered in Lady Honoria’s eyes.

  “Andrew, I am persuaded I would have recognised the smile anywhere. You have changed, of course. You were only a boy when last we met, but you still have your mother’s smile.” Her expression grew sad. “I was terribly sorry to hear of Marie’s death, Andrew, and glad I had seen her just two months before.”

  “Your letter was most welcome, my lady.”

  “Yes, well, we were very old and dear friends.” She sighed and seemed to become aware of the others watching this tableau in silence. “Well,” she said again, briskly this time, “how came you to be acquainted with my niece, Andrew?” Lady Honoria’s eyes travelled to the bemused girl, and her gaze sharpened as she took in the masculine garb and the hair streaming over Vicky’s shoulders. “Victoria! What have you been getting up to in that absurd costume?”

  Vicky had been all too aware of Gregory’s growing astonishment as he had assimilated her strange appearance. “I’ve been exercising Shadow,” she explained hastily, avoiding Mr. Massingham’s wickedly appreciative eye, “and I must change this instant. Come inside, everyone. Cavanaugh will show you to your room, Gregory, and we’ll all meet shortly for tea.”

  She ushered the company indoors, striving to present a serene facade while longing desperately for some privacy in which to gather her scattered wits in preparation for a tea party which promised to be the ultimate in embarrassing confrontations. She could see that her aunt was determined to buttonhole her first and didn’t know whether to be grateful or not when Mrs. Simmons, the housekeeper, appeared in the hall the moment they crossed the threshold and bustled over to welcome Lady Honoria. Mrs. Simmons was a voluble and purposeful woman. She took Lady Honoria under her wing and swept her upstairs while Cavanaugh escorted Lord Ellerby to a guest chamber. Thank heaven that Mrs. Simmons prided herself on being ready for guests at a moment’s or even no notice!

  With two of her problems temporarily accounted for, Vicky looked around and beckoned a footman forward to show Mr. Massingham into the main drawing room, but not before that gentleman whispered with odious satisfaction, “You brought it on yourself, you know, by parading around in that revolting outfit.”

  Which was the outside of enough! A sorely tried Vicky flashed her unwelcome guest one look of loathing before flouncing off upstairs.

  A half-hour later, an outwardly composed but inwardly palpitating young woman made her reluctant way to the drawing room to preside over an assemblage of oddly assorted persons, not one of whom she could greet with honest pleasure at the moment. Her appearance at least was now above criticism. Thanks to Lily’s nimble fingers, her hair was once more gathered smoothly back from her face and arranged in a neat coil at the nape of her neck. She was attired (or armoured) for the occasion in one of her newest gowns from London, a drifting and floating affair of finest mauve muslin rather daringly low-cut for daytime wear but undeniably feminine. Her head had begun to ache and there were bruises coming up in several places as a result of her recent toss, but none of this would be visible to the company.

  Her brain had been scrambling in circles ever since the carriage had disgorged Lady Honoria and Gregory, or perhaps it might be more accurate to admit that she had already been confused by a variety of inexplicable sensations arising out of her afternoon dealings with Mr. Massingham before this newest complication occurred. Ordinarily she would have been delighted to welcome her favourite relative, but what demon had possessed her aunt to drag along her niece’s rejected fiancée! Of all the awkward situations! And if the awkwardness of consorting with a former suitor on a daily basis in one’s own home weren’t conducive to sufficient embarrassment, there was the additional factor of an old and seemingly valued acquaintance between her aunt and the fortune hunter Vicky was determined to drive off.

  How had she never heard of such a connection before? Lady Honoria had referred to Mr. Massingham’s late mother as Marie, but the only Marie that she had ever mentioned to her niece had had a French surname. Vicky’s brows wrinkled in concentration as she left the staircase and headed for the drawing room. St. Croix, that was it! Her aunt had been at school with a Marie St. Croix. Not that it signified if the two Maries were one and the same, of course. The real problem was how to explain Mr. Massingham’s presence to the newcomers.

  Vicky reached the drawing-room door and the conclusion that she must simply play everything by ear at the same time. She had already turned the handle when her name was softly called from behind. The door swung inward a couple of inches as she released the handle to turn around. Lord Ellerby, smiling somewhat diffidently, was approaching.

  “I hope you found your room comfortable, Gregory?” she inquired with what she hoped was a natural smile of her own.

  “Oh, yes, everything is perfect. Vicky, my dear, I fear my appearance has been an … unwelcome surprise to you. I did not know … that is, Lady Honoria did not tell me that you were unaware that she had invited me here. I must apologise.”

  “No, no, it is I who should do that,” replied Vicky warmly, distressed by his obvious distress. “Of course you are always welcome, Gregory. It is simply that I was so surprised. I was not expecting anyone.”

  “If it is awkward for you, I shall go,” he said quietly.

  The devil fly away with Aunt Honoria! her undutiful niece fumed silently. This man was too fine to play games with. Her aunt must have led him to hope that she might be regretting her decision.

  “No, please stay, Gregory. But you should know at once that this doesn’t mean that I have changed my mind about marrying you.”

  “I haven’t abandoned all hope yet,” he said with a stubborn jut to his chin.

  She shook her head and pushed open the door. Her first step inside brought her up against Mr. Massingham almost literally, and she jumped back like a scalded cat.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Seymour. I had intended to shut the door, which seemed to have opened by itself.”

  Vicky felt herself stiffening in suspicion. She distrusted the facile explanation. How much had he overheard? She and Gregory had been speaking softly, but that bold dark face was too bland to be believed.

  She opened her lips, but whatever she might have said was lost in the simultaneous arrival of Drucilla from the music room and Lady Honoria from the stairs. Vicky hadn’t spared her young guest a thought in the last hour, but she chuckled now at the girl’s round-eyed surprise at the number of strange persons clogging the entrance to the drawing room.

  “Do come inside, everyone. Poor Drucilla is at a loss, not having been informed of our visitors.”

  She shepherded her small flock into the bright, comfortable reception room and saw them seated after general introductions were made. Vicky may have forgotten about her house guest for a time, but all her faculties were suddenly concentrated on her as the young girl acknowledged Lady Honoria’s greeting with a pretty curtsy before turning to extend her hand to Lord Ellerby.

  Thinking back over the succeeding chain of events, it became obvious to Vicky that they had been privileged to witness the oft-written-about but rarely seen phenomenon that had inspired countless poets down through the ages, namely, love at first sight. At the time, she merely wondered, with a twinge of impatience, what had gotten into the girl. The gregarious Drucilla, whom her hostess had quite accurately labelled an in
stinctive coquette on the evidence of her previous behaviour in the company of gentlemen, was suddenly rendered tongue-tied. After one startled, wide-eyed look at Lord Ellerby’s smiling face, her eyes fell, her colour fluctuated alarmingly, and she seemed to have lost the use of her motor functions.

  Lord Ellerby’s conventional smile faltered and he looked to his hostess for help. Ignoring the sudden scowl on Mr. Massingham’s face, Vicky requested him to place a chair for Drucilla. She surreptitiously pushed the girl onto it while inquiring brightly of her aunt and Lord Ellerby for details of their journey. Once launched, this trial balloon took them through the arrival of the tea tray, by which time Drucilla had come out of her reverie to the extent that she was able to answer direct questions in a soft little voice. The fact that she avoided looking directly at Lord Ellerby over the next half-hour possibly went unnoticed by anyone but Vicky, who was beginning to get the glimmer of a suspicion as to the cause of her vivacious guest’s present unnatural shyness.

  Under cover of general conversation, she tried to study Gregory with fresh eyes. It didn’t take a prodigious imagination to see that he might easily be mistaken for a fairy-tale prince by an impressionable seventeen-year-old. His blond good looks and air of breeding would always make him an appealing figure even before one could discover the lively intelligence and good-tempered kindness that were an integral part of his nature. He was a thorough gentleman, too, and invariably treated the fair sex with a respect that bordered on reverence.

  Her thoughtful glance lighted on Mr. Massingham’s saturnine features as he lounged in a negligent posture. There could scarcely be a greater contrast in the attitude of the two men toward females. Perhaps a closer association with the charming Lord Ellerby might serve to point up Mr. Massingham’s dearth of husbandly qualities without a word being spoken in his dispraise by Drucilla’s hostess. In fact, closer acquaintance with Gregory might very well have —