The Chaperone's Secret

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “I see. My fault, then, was not truly in what I did, but just that I did it so publicly.”

  “Exactly.”

  Pierson snorted in disgust. It truly was deceitful in his opinion, the way society was so very blind to its own failings, but who was he to cavil at it? It was to his advantage that his peers were so very willing to turn a blind eye to shortcomings kept private. “I suppose I ought to be grateful, and I will not disappoint you, Bain. I appreciate your aid in this.”

  “I would do much more for you, my friend.”

  Pierson threw him a thankful look, but then his attention was claimed. “There she is,” he whispered.

  Lady Rowena Revington’s arrival was an event. She was trailed by her companion, and the moment she was done greeting her host and hostess, she was surrounded by a sea of black coats. Damnation! All her dances would be claimed by the time he got to her, was properly introduced and asked for a place on her dance card. He should have thought of that, should have realized how it would be with a lady of such spectacular beauty.

  She was gowned in white, like many of the ladies, but her white dress frothed around her like seafoam, adorned by palest pink rosebuds and rich gold trim. The skirt cut away to reveal an underskirt of gold tissue with her family’s ducal shield embroidered over it in silver thread. Her silvery hair was dressed high off her white forehead, and a jeweled tiara nestled in the coronet of intricate braids. Her white arms were clad in long white silk gloves and her exquisite throat was circled by diamonds, as befit a young lady in her third Season.

  It was impossible to ignore her spectacular figure, slim and lithe, yet womanly. In that second Pierson became sure that any warmth he sensed toward him earlier that day must have been a habitual sweetness of disposition, because she was worthy of a royal prince, and he was very far down the peerage from her esteemed father. And yet—

  And yet he must try. He must at least see her, and if he was very fortunate say a word to her.

  Accompanied by his friend, he made his way across the crowded ballroom, and was soon at her side. His heart pounding as if he had just ridden the Derby, he saw her turn toward him.

  Eight

  It was him! Amy, standing just beside and a little behind Rowena, gazed at Lord Pierson, drinking in his masculine perfection, the sweep of his strong jaw, his dark hair, cut and tamed into a fashionable crop, and his black evening attire perfectly pressed. He was so close she could catch his scent, spicy and masculine, and feel his warmth. The marquess, Lord Bainbridge, stood at his side, regarding his friend with amusement. Lord Pierson stared at Rowena, who had not seen him yet, with a yearning expression in his golden eyes that broke Amy’s heart.

  Oh, that she should ever see a man such as him look at her like that!

  But she would be sensible. She had met many men in the last few weeks, and almost without exception, though they were courtly and polite—almost obsequious—to Rowena, to her they were just passing courteous, or even oblivious. Lord Pierson would most likely never know her name, even long after she could enumerate the freckles that dotted the skin just below each of his gorgeous golden eyes.

  In the normal course of things gentlemen would attempt to charm Amy too, for as Rowena’s chaperone she ostensibly held the power of deciding who the young lady could or could not dance with, and controlled the itinerary she would follow for her daily visits and perambulation. And yet even though Rowena kept up that fiction in public, referring offers of riding or walking or visiting to Amy, gentlemen seemed to sense her powerlessness to affect her charge’s preferences and benignly ignored her. Rowena would simply make up her own mind about engagements, quite willing to break an appointment if it suited her and then blame it on some caprice of her chaperone or father. So as chaperone Amy had found it best to keep plans deliberately vague, merely saying she would send an answer the next day by post or messenger.

  Seeing Lord Pierson again, feeling that instant surge of attraction that was surely based solely on his handsome appearance, she took comfort in the knowledge that his treatment of her would likely end any tender feeling she had toward him. She had, in the past weeks, met many London gentlemen, and for the most part they seemed to be vain, selfish, and witless; they were crude sometimes, rude often, and on most occasions employed what little wit they possessed to the detriment of others. To all that they added an air of doing a favor by bestowing their presence. That sat poorly with Amy, as it would anyone with a modicum of spirit. But since Rowena never saw anything that occurred beyond her perfect nose, she never appeared to notice their slights toward her chaperone.

  Rowena turned just then and found Lord Pierson at her elbow. She colored prettily and curtseyed, then looked around, wide-eyed. Lord Bainbridge drew forward the host of the ball, Lord Parkinson, and a proper introduction was quickly affected, after which the man was pulled away by his wife to see to some other guests just arriving.

  “My lord, what a pleasure to see you here.” Lady Rowena was at her most gracious.

  “I am ecstatic to see you, my lady,” he said, his face aglow with pleasure. “You remember Lord Bainbridge from this morning?”

  Amy watched as her charge greeted the marquess with a nod of acknowledgment. That young man, with a cynical lift to his brows, stepped back after the greeting and watched his friend and the lady converse, her replying to his question about a free dance, which she—what a miracle!—still had, and not just any dance, but the dinner dance.

  “Miss Corbett, how are you tonight?”

  She was surprised by the marquess’s notice of her and so her tone was one of astonishment. “I am very well, I thank you, my lord.” She looked up into Lord Bainbridge’s eyes to find their silvery depths alight with mischief.

  “And how is her ladyship’s cat? Did it recover from its . . . experience?”

  Amy bit her lip to keep from laughing. Did he know the truth? Is that why there was such humor in his voice and a sly smile on his lips? After Lady Rowena’s fitting at Mr. Lance’s shop, when they returned to the duke’s carriage to go home, Rowena had gazed with disgust at the purring creature in Amy’s arms.

  “What are you doing with that filthy animal?” she had asked, her lip curled in a sneer.

  Amy explained that since the viscount had thought it was Lady Rowena’s, it seemed they were now the owners of it.

  Rowena pulled her skirts close to her. “Just keep the beast out of my way or . . . or I swear I will kick it again.”

  Amy knew that Rowena was not usually physically cruel. She seemed to have a fear of cats; perhaps it was some ingrained dread that she could not control.

  But the marquess could not know any of that. “Puss is fine, my lord,” Amy said evasively, in answer to Lord Bainbridge’s question.

  “Good, since for a moment on that shop step it truly appeared as though her ladyship was trying to kick her own cat. Very disturbing. Until I learned the truth, of course, that the poor thing is actually her own dear pet, and all due to the perspicacity of my friend, the viscount.”

  “Of course,” Amy said primly, avoiding the marquess’s piercing gaze. “Actually, though,” she added, “Puss is more my cat. It is a foundling.” That much was truthful, anyway.

  Just then the music started, and Lady Rowena’s first partner claimed her for the dance. The viscount, his gaze lingering on the lady as she departed, finally turned with a sigh to his friend.

  When he saw Amy, he immediately said, “How rude of me, miss, not to have greeted you properly.” He took her hand and bowed low over it. “Miss—”

  “Miss Amy Corbett,” Lord Bainbridge supplied.

  “Ah, yes, of course, Miss Corbett. What a crush this ball is already. Would you like to stand or sit someplace less crowded?”

  Amy, surprised by his notice and courtesy, agreed immediately, and the three of them moved closer to the chaperones’ area, a bank of seats already occupied by elderly ladies and matrons with turbans and plumes nodding as they put their heads together and gossip
ed. Amy saw Mrs. Bower and knew she ought to go over and speak to her—her plan to learn more about Lord Pierson and what chance he stood of gaining the duke’s acquiescence in any courtship of Lady Rowena was still in her head—but she was dazzled by the viscount’s courtly affability, and she could not have moved even if someone had shouted Fire.

  She noted Lord Bainbridge’s quizzical look as it shifted back and forth between them, and then he bowed.

  “Excuse me, Miss Corbett, Pierson, I see some acquaintance with whom I must speak.” He stalked away, joining a group of ladies.

  Amy, flustered, knew she would not be able to speak first, so she was grateful when Lord Pierson began the conversation.

  “Are you enjoying the Season, Miss Corbett?”

  “It is not my position to enjoy the Season, my lord, but rather to . . . to make sure my charge enjoys the Season.” Oh, how prim she sounded!

  “Indeed. So, you are . . . Lady Rowena’s chaperone?”

  She heard the incredulous tone and looked up. His warm golden eyes were fixed on her and his brow furrowed. It was not the first time she had seen that expression, that puzzlement. Her first couple of balls had been awful experiences, since she had little more than the village assemblies she had been accustomed to, to go by. Many had looked down their long noses at her, and many more had ignored her. It had been close to disastrous.

  Since then Amy had done what she could in the way of making herself look older and more serious; she wore sober colors and scraped her hair back in a staid bun. She had perfected a haughty stare, even though she generally forgot to use it. Short of donning a gray wig and utilizing a lorgnette, she didn’t know what else she could do, but it was vital that she not expose her employer to any criticism for his choice of a chaperone for his exquisite daughter, or it would all fall on her own head. She had quickly assessed the duke, once he had shown his true colors, and realized that he would never ever admit that his own precipitate actions could be misguided or wrong, and would always find someone else to blame. In this case that someone would be her.

  At least since she had met Mrs. Bower and accepted that woman’s tutelage, she felt much more at home in the ballrooms of the elite. Knowledge was power. “I am Lady Rowena’s chaperone,” she said, straightening her shoulders, happy for the reminder of her position. It would never do to be seen mooning over Lord Pierson. “His Grace hired me just after Christmas.”

  “You are so young,” the viscount said with wonder. “You look barely twenty yourself.”

  Stiffening, Amy replied, “I am almost twenty-five, my lord, and it is not my first such position. I am certainly old enough to guide Lady Rowena.”

  At the name of her charge, Lord Pierson’s gaze slewed out to the ballroom floor again. He sighed. “She is lovely.” His gaze swiveled back around to Amy. “Excuse me, ma’am, I know bloody . . . er, I know well that I should not be commenting on Lady Rowena’s appearance; not the done thing. But difficult not to think, at least, when one sees her. She is magnificent.”

  Amy followed his gaze once more as Rowena whirled past them in the arms of her partner. “She is,” she murmured. But instead of keeping her eye on Rowena, she watched the viscount, the shifting emotions on his handsome, hard-lined face, the flickering expression of his golden eyes, now clouded, now clear. She thought of all that Lady Rowena had told her of this man and wondered what it meant, in light of his attraction to the duke’s daughter. As the girl’s chaperone, should she be alarmed? He was dismissed as a rake and a reckless, dissolute wastrel. And yet, there was certainly no indication he was a despoiler of innocents, for he would not be allowed in this ballroom if that was the case.

  Or did his title blot out a multitude of sins? Again, she was cursed by her lack of knowledge of tonnish ways. She would need to consult with Mrs. Bower. Why, of all the young men in love with her, did Rowena have to express interest in an acknowledged rake and scoundrel?

  As Rowena disappeared from sight again, Lord Pierson turned back to her.

  “Have you done this sort of thing before, Miss Corbett?”

  Amy sighed, having already told him she had. “I was last in Ireland, but not exactly as chaperone. I was a governess.”

  “Ireland! That is quite the journey from being a governess in Ireland to a chaperone of a duke’s daughter in London during the Season! How did that come about?”

  Fearing she had already said too much, for her dignity as a chaperone lay partially in the belief others must have that she knew her profession, and yet realizing how small a circle the ton was, and that she would not deceive anyone who chose to ask the right questions, Amy paused. Did he ask the question to find fault? Should she beware?

  “Pardon my prying, ma’am.” His golden eyes changed, the gleam softer. “But you do seem so different from what one thinks of as a chaperone. It cannot help but make one curious about your story. Shall we speak, instead, of your family?”

  If it were anyone else Amy would have suspected that he was trying to find out just how unsuitable she was for the post she held, but the viscount’s expression was so open and amiable. “I have no family to speak of. I was born and raised not that far from London, really,” she said, and named her home village in Kent. “I still have an aunt living there, and I hope to return there soon.”

  The viscount’s expression clouded. “That is only a hundred miles from my own estate,” he said.

  “Really?” His downcast expression made her pause, but then she said, “It is a very pretty part of England. We were quite near the shore, and I think I miss most the salt mist rolling in over the meadows.”

  “Yes. The mist.”

  “Lord Pierson?”

  Pierson, his name catching his attention, shook himself. “Yes, Miss Corbett?”

  She was silent, and he stared into her gray-blue eyes for a long moment. He still couldn’t fathom how such a delicate, youthful-looking creature had become a chaperone. In his limited experience—limited because he was not much one for attending tonnish balls—chaperones were elderly dragons with more hair on their chins than the young men they intimidated could grow in a month. But Miss Corbett was a slight young lady, slim and girlish, with golden hair, a pointed chin and inquisitive, bright eyes. She was dwarfed by the potted palm which they stood near, she was so slender and wraith-like.

  “We were speaking of our home county,” she said. “Do you miss your home when you are in London?”

  He took in a long breath and regarded the pointed toe of his shoe. He amended his opinion of her to include the fact that when she caught hold of a subject, she worried at it like a terrier. Perhaps she made a better chaperone than he would have thought, for inquisitiveness was surely a valuable attribute for that breed of lady. “Miss my home? Well, I haven’t . . . uh . . . spent much time there, really.”

  “You haven’t?”

  Her tone was startled and he could hardly blame her. “I went to school young and spent holidays with friends. My mother died when I was just a baby.” He suppressed a bitter exclamation, for he had always suspected his mother died of a broken heart; his father’s treatment of her was legendary in its cruelty. “So, I spent little time at home, in short.”

  “But when the Season is over, do you not go home?”

  Her bright eyes, the blue-gray color like the sky over the channel, he thought, absently staring into their depths, were almost challenging. How to explain himself? “It’s a very large house and lonely. I have little incentive when there are so many other places to see, so many other things to do.” He had forced a very merry inflection into his words, wishing to convince her of his claim, that he had too many friends and activities to spend much time at his country estate. “And I am always invited here and there during the hunting season and the Christmas season. Wouldn’t do to disappoint friends, would it?”

  And it appeared that he had been successful in appearing carefree, but the effect was to disappoint her. “I see.”

  He could see in her worried frow
n that she was thinking of all of the work there would be to run a large estate. Somehow he knew how she thought, and he felt a spurt of anger that she would judge him and find him lacking. “I have a very competent estate manager and he assures me that everything is run smoothly in my absence.” Why he lied he was not sure, but if it would wipe away those worried lines between her eyes he would do it again.

  She looked startled at his addition. “I am sure you do, my lord, have a competent manager.”

  Too late he wondered if this exchange would hurt his reputation with her, and therefore with Lady Rowena. He had only been considering Miss Corbett’s disapproval, when he should have been thinking of his fair divinity, and how her chaperone would view his suit when he made it. The duke must trust her judgment, even if she did appear as young and naïve as her charge. He wished he had taken pains to appear steady and sober instead of frivolous and pleasure-seeking. It was important, as the lady closest to Lady Rowena and the one with the most influence on her, that she had a favorable impression of him.

  That same moment the music ended and his companion scoured the crowd for her charge, who was now returning to her on the arm of her first partner. His curiosity piqued, Pierson watched Miss Corbett rather than Lady Rowena. What was the duke thinking to put such a sweet-faced young lady in such a position? It could not be easy for her. It was a pity a girl of such grace and simple beauty should be required to work for her living at all, instead of happily married to some gentleman and raising a troupe of sweet-faced towheaded children.

  Wouldn’t his wastrel friends laugh to hear such maudlin musings from a rake of his renown! He should not be paying attention to the companion anyway, for the duke’s daughter was his object, and he must focus all his efforts on gaining her heart.

  • • •

  Amy watched Rowena, smiling up at her dance partner and gaily laughing at some witticism as they strolled back to her. She then glanced over at Lord Pierson to see his gaze fixed, of course, on Lady Rowena, too. She thought back to her and the viscount’s conversation. There had been something in his tone when he spoke of his estate, some . . . what was it? If she knew him better she could say for sure, but it had certainly sounded like desperation, or anxiety. It had concerned her, for his joviality had seemed forced. He would have her believe he was carefree, but there was something that worried him deeply. Or was she just reading things into his expression when she did not know him well enough to do so?