“You wish to know about my dress?” Panic traipsed her spine, gripping her in an invisible but nonetheless potent veil of fear, because she knew not how to reply. “Well—”
“I believe she purchased the item in Kent, at a boutique that has since closed its doors, after the proprietor passed away.” Barrington glanced at Henrietta and winked. “And where are Rylan and Weston? I still owe them a brandy, after the service they provided to my wife and I, during our difficult courtship. The debt remains, and I should settle my account.”
“Posh, Lord Ravenwood.” The duchess of Weston caught Henrietta’s attention, because the noblewoman was missing an arm, as evidenced by the empty sleeve pinned to her bodice. “We were glad to be of service, and His Grace benefits from a bit of mischief, every now and then, as he is quite the stodgy character, but I am working on him.”
“And that reminds me, we are late.” The duchess of Rylan turned and almost bumped into Agnes Dudley. “I beg your pardon, madam.”
“Oh, Your Grace, it was entirely my fault, as I wanted to compliment you on your sense of style and refined taste. Agnes Dudley, of the Derbyshire Dudleys, at your service.” Mrs. Dudley stared down her nose at the duchess of Weston. “And it is wonderful to see you, too, Your Grace. I could not help but overhear your conversation, and I share your appreciation of Miss Graham’s attire.”
Henrietta almost fell from her chair.
“Thank you.” The duchess of Weston compressed her lips. “If you will excuse us, we were just leaving.”
“As were we, and I am tired.” Florence stood, made a none-too-subtle point to ignore the Dudleys, and Barrington drew her to his side. “My lord, will you summon our carriage?”
“At once.” Barrington shuffled through the crowd.
Ernest snapped his fingers and a server responded. After a brief, quiet conversation, he settled the bill and motioned for Henrietta to join Florence, and together they exited the tearoom.
Wringing her fingers, Henrietta feared she might be ill, and her mind raced, as she wondered what breach in decorum she committed. By the time the rig arrived, her knees buckled, and she shuddered, uncontrollably. When Ernest handed her into the squabs, she tripped and almost fell, face first, onto the pavement, but his quick thinking and unshakable support saved her from further embarrassment.
Ensconced in the privacy of the Ravenwood coach, Florence huffed. “Grasping, vulgar woman.”
“I am sorry.” Tears welled and spilled down Henrietta’s cheeks, and she tried but failed to discern her mistake. “While I know not what I did, I apologize and beg your forbearance.”
“You think me angry with you?” Florence pressed a fist to her chest. “Oh, no. Dear Henrietta, you were superb.”
“Darling, you did nothing wrong. In fact, I thought you performed brilliantly, given the unanticipated questions regarding your clothes.” Ernest cupped Henrietta’s chin and brought her gaze to his. “Sweetheart.” With his handkerchief, he dried her face. “Florence remarks on Mrs. Dudley’s gross break in etiquette, which required her to wait until the Duchess of Rylan first addressed her lesser.”
“Indeed.” Florence leaned on Barrington’s shoulder, and he kissed her forehead. “I almost fainted, when Lenore inquired after your gown, but my handsome husband saved the day, and I shall express my gratitude, this evening, as we have no engagements tonight.”
“And I will let you.” Barrington shifted and draped his arm about her. “Because I love you.”
As the charming scene played on one side of the coach, Henrietta remained locked in a hellish prison, and she could not stop shaking. “I sincerely believed I embarrassed you.”
In a singular fragment in time, everything she worked toward, everything she planned with Ernest could have come crashing down, despite their best intentions and diligence, because so much of society and it’s myriad norms remained a mystery. And the worst part was she would not have known of impending disaster until it was too late.
When they arrived at Howe House, Barrington exited the carriage and handed Florence down. Ernest stepped to the sidewalk, turned, and lifted Henrietta into his arms. Shuffling her in his grasp, he carried her into the foyer, and she buried her face into the curve of his neck as she wept.
“Crawford, have a hot bath prepared for Miss Graham, and send for her lady’s maid.” Before the butler could respond, Ernest continued upstairs. At the landing, he veered down the hall that led to her chamber, and he did not halt until he eased her to the bed. “Have Maisy undress you, dismiss her for the night, and then get into the tub. I will return and tend you, myself.”
Henrietta wanted to answer him, but she could not stop crying long enough to form a response, so she merely nodded.
“My little bird, please, calm yourself, because I comprehend what lies at the heart of your distress, and I believe I have a solution that will suit us.” In an achingly tender expression, which encouraged a fresh spate of tears, because she would go to her grave before disappointing him, he bestowed upon her a gentle kiss. “Now, do as I say, and do not fret, because we will not be long apart, and I will work until dawn to ease your distress.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Maisy loomed in the entry and averted her stare. “But Crawford bade me report to Miss Graham.”
“That is all right, Maisy.” With a sly smile Henrietta did not quite understand, Ernest stretched tall but never broke their connection. “You may be the first to wish us merry, because Miss Graham has just consented to be my wife.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A fortnight had passed, and so much had changed, much to Ernest’s delight, and he was so close to victory he could taste it. In the aftermath of the unpleasant scene at Gunter’s, and Henrietta’s misguided distress born of genuine fear, he realized she was not so keen on his plan as she originally conveyed, despite claims to the contrary, so he altered his tack. After a heated discussion, arguing various solutions, his brother sent a missive to The Times, announcing the marriage of Henrietta Katherine Graham, of Tunbridge Wells, Kent, to Lord Ernest Cornelius Frederick Howe, with the wedding to take place on June sixth at St. George’s, Hanover Square, at the height of the Season.
Given the banns had been posted, Ernest followed proper decorum and observed all strictures—outside her bedchamber. But within the walls of her sanctuary, between the soft sheets where they came together and joined their bodies, again and again, they found beautiful, mutual acceptance, unshakeable, as if forged in iron. The attachment, the devotion, and the love he thought he harbored for her grew by seemingly endless bounds, beyond the limits of emotion of which he thought himself capable, and he would let nothing stand in their way.
So all they had to do was dance across the ton’s ballrooms, smile, and do the pretty for society, for a few more weeks, and they were free. They had already decided to immediately retire to Whitstone, which remained under renovation since he completed the purchase, to avoid further mishaps and spare his provincial lady untoward chagrin, until Florence could school Henrietta in the tangled web known as etiquette, and his bride regained her confidence. Then she would take her rightful place, where she always belonged. Although she was not to the manor born, she was born to be his, just as he belonged to her. That was why they ventured to the Hogart’s musicale that evening.
The unparalleled experience, and that was a vast deal more than generous description, offered Henrietta an opportunity to mix and mingle in a relatively safe environment. Given the talent, and that was another far too kind depiction of the Hogart’s abilities, which were without equal to say the least, he doubted anyone would be paying attention to his future wife. Thus she could gain a measure of practice with not much required on her part.
It was with that thought in mind that he waited in the foyer for his fiancée. Just as he checked his timepiece, she appeared on the landing, and a shudder of awareness rocked his frame, because he had never beheld such a vision.
“Good evening, my lord.” Gowned in a c
ream masterpiece trimmed in old gold, with clusters of multi-colored flowers painted about the bodice, the only thing she lacked was a pair of wings to complete her angelic profile. “Am I late?”
“You are right on time.” In that moment, he envisioned her as she looked that afternoon, when he made love to her, with her brown hair splayed across her pillow, and her sweet breasts jostling in time with his thrusts, and it was all he could do not to throw her over his shoulder and haul her back to her suite. Instead, he met her at the final step, which brought them nose to nose, and he kissed her in a lengthy sashay that barely satisfied his appetite. “Ah, my darling, you are so beautiful I could cry.”
“Ernest, I do love you.” As she brushed aside the hair from his forehead, she smiled, and his heart skipped a beat. “We are going to make it, are we not?”
“I love you, too, my little bird.” He rested his palms to her hips and nipped at her nose. “And, yes, we shall triumph, just as I predict our wedding will be the fête to end all fêtes this Season.”
“I am so glad to hear you say that.” Shimmering, she skipped down the final step, wound her arm in his, and they departed Howe House, with Barrington and Florence.
After a brief carriage ride, they strolled into the Mayfair townhouse, where Beryl Hogart, a portly woman with salt and pepper hair, waited to greet them.
“Lord Ernest and Miss Graham, welcome to my humble abode. Permit me to congratulate you on your impending nuptials, which is the talk of the town.” Wearing a bright purple turban and a matching dress, Mrs. Hogart, known for her charitable soul inasmuch as her less than graceful daughters, gushed. “Imagine my delight when I learned the most notable couple in London deigned to attend our musicale, and you are in for a real treat, because my girls have something very special planned for your entertainment.”
“Nonsense, Mrs. Hogart.” Oh, Ernest knew it would be entertaining, and he swallowed a snort of laughter. “But Miss Graham and I were honored to receive your invitation, given I have told her so much about the Misses Hogart and their inimitable prowess on the violin and the pianoforte, not to mention Miranda’s singular vocals, thus nothing could keep her from it. And who am I to refuse my bride-to-be?”
In that instant, Henrietta tensed at his side, and she flexed her fingers, belying her composure.
“Miss Graham, you are too kind.” Mrs. Hogart retreated and scrutinized Henrietta from top to toe. “And you are wearing one of your unusual fashions, which I have heard much about, but the rumors do not do you justice. I beg you, you must tell me the name of your designer, because my Miranda expects to make her own happy announcement with Sir Archibald Kleinfeld, at the end of the Season. You know he has two-thousand a year.”
“How wonderful, Mrs. Hogart.” Henrietta dipped her chin. “Felicitations, to you and your family. And I am so pleased to at last make the acquaintance of one of the ton’s grand dames, such that I am a tad intimidated, and I pray you forgive me.”
“Upon my word.” Mrs. Hogart pressed a hand to her chest. “But you are a woman of discriminating taste and uncommon judgment, for your age, and I knew the moment I saw you that we would get on famously.”
“Now, if you will excuse us, we should secure seats for the performance.” Ernest bowed and drew Henrietta into the hall, so Barrington and Florence could enter the line of fire. As they cleared the foyer, he bent his head and whispered, “That was inspiring.”
“I am fortunate she presented no great mystery, but she strikes me as harmless.” Henrietta nodded to a few notables. “What I do not fathom is how many people showed up for what you described as a violent abuse of the ears and a murderous affront to composers, everywhere.”
“That is because the Hogart’s reputation precedes them, and this really is the best show in town, although not as they intend.” Ernest ushered her to two seats at the end of the back row. “Shall I fetch you a cup of lemonade, before the torture commences?”
“Oh, do not leave me.” Panic invested her gaze, and she grabbed his wrist. “I am fine.”
“Sweetheart, you must not be afraid.” When she yanked him again, he relented and sat. “Really, Hen, you cannot live in fear of what might happen, and this is the most innocuous of engagements. Please, relax and enjoy the night, because I so looked forward to spending time with you.”
“You spend plenty of time with me, in my bedchamber, my lord.” She giggled, and he knew exactly to what she referred. “In fact, Florence says you and I live in each other’s pockets. Is it bad that I prefer it that way?”
“I think, for us, it is very good, and I plan to bury my face between your sumptuous breasts, later.” He waggled his brows, when she gasped, and waved, as Barrington and Florence entered the room. “And Flo is one to talk, given she occupies the marquess’s suite, and I doubt she has ever slept in her own apartment.”
“It is rather warm in here.” Florence fanned herself, as she took the seat beside Henrietta. “And I hope this does not go on too late.”
“Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” Barrington inquired, as he plopped next to her. “Because your wish is my command.”
“You could take me home.” Florence drew a handkerchief from her reticule and daubed her temples. “Of course, I am joking, because we are here to support Hen, but we do so under very hard terms, and I will not be held responsible if I revisit my dinner, once the trauma begins.”
“Is it truly that foul?” Hen asked, in a soft voice, just as the twins assumed their positions.
“You are about to find out for yourself.” Indeed, Ernest hoped what could best be described as a comedy of errors would provide a bit of levity during an otherwise stressful time for his lady. “Brace yourself, darling.”
The crowd settled, and a hush fell upon the gathering, as the sisters took up their instruments of destruction. Tension weighed heavy in the air, and then the agony commenced.
On the violin, Miranda Hogart scratched something akin to the shrill noises emitted by two cats rather fond of each other, while Margaret pummeled the ivories as if she were killing flies. Barrington compressed his lips, even as his shoulders trembled, Florence bowed her head and failed to stifle a telltale gurgle of mirth, and Henrietta, wide-eyed and mouth agape, flinched and stared at Ernest, and it was all he could do not to laugh aloud at her reaction.
As the second movement played, Barrington winced, Florence gazed at the floor and wiped a stray tear, and Henrietta grimaced, as she dug her fingers into his arm. At last, mercifully, the first of two scheduled intermissions provided a moment of relief.
“My lord, I owe you an apology.” Henrietta shifted her weight, and he admired her bosom, which always distracted him. “I thought you exaggerated, but I see now you underestimated the Hogarts’…skills, and I use the term lightly. Had I known—”
“Good evening, Lord and Lady Ravenwood.” A painfully familiar voice intruded on the otherwise charming exchange, and Ernest cursed under his breath, as he stood to greet the pest. “Hello, Lord Ernest and Miss Graham. I was surprised to read the news of your wedding, and I would offer my sincere congratulations, along with a member of my family.” Agnes Dudley lifted her chin, in an unmistakable air of superiority that grated his last nerve, and turned to another woman. “Permit me to introduce my sister, Bertha Bland of Tunbridge Wells.”
Before he could acknowledge the unwelcomed interlopers, Bertha stuck out her finger and pointed at Henrietta. “I know that fashion.” Then Ms. Bland wrinkled her nose and squinted through her spectacles. “You are no lady of quality. Why, you are a seamstress from Kent, and I remember your aunt.” She sneered and then glanced about the room, as if preparing to impart a dirty little secret. “Miss Graham is in trade.”
“Madam, control yourself.” Ernest charged the fore, as Henrietta slowly rose from her chair.
The crowd quieted, and a chorus of whispers pervaded the assembly.
One by one, all gazes focused on the unfortunate altercation, which threatened to b
ring down his fiancée, and he sought the nearest escape but found none. Indeed, all he could do was watch the ensuing confrontation.
“She is an imposter.” Bertha shrieked, as if Henrietta were some sort of criminal. “And I wager she made that dress she wears, because she cannot possibly afford the work of a better designer.”
“How dare you, as I am no imposter.” Henrietta squared her shoulders, ignoring his pleas for forbearance, and he suspected he knew what would happen next, based on her demeanor. When he clutched her by the wrist, she wrenched free. “Yes, I made my gown, and I am quite proud of it. And, yes, I made an honest living, working for my dearly departed aunt, in her boutique. But if you think that beneath you, then you will be further troubled by the fact that I am also a stablemaster’s daughter, and I would match my character against yours, any day of the week and twice on Sunday.”
~
It was late when Henrietta stirred in the quiet solitude of her bedchamber. Rolling to the side, she realized she remained fully clothed, and she swung her legs over the side of the mattress and stood.
After the scene that spoiled the Hogart’s musicale, Ernest and Henrietta, along with Barrington and Florence, made a less than elegant exit, to a noticeable symphony of murmurs, from the event. As so many violent emotions thrashed and swirled within her, the rest of the family remained stoic, and for her the silence functioned as a death knell to her short-lived courtship and introduction to London society, although no one said as much.
In the long mirror, she studied her reflection and the delicate garment she created.
No matter what Agnes Dudley and Bertha Bland said, Henrietta took enormous pride in the unique items she fashioned, and no one could shame her for that. But her actions, however unfairly motivated, reflected negatively on Ernest, and she vowed never to embarrass him. Given she revealed the truth of her birth, and his desire to live in society, she doubted he would marry her, especially as he had not come to her, and that spoke volumes.
The Stablemaster's Daughter (Regency Rendezvous Book 11) Page 13
