by Amanda Scott
Thorne’s rising temper was checked by the sound of a gasp from the gallery overhead, followed instantly by an indignant voice. “What are you about, Porson, to leave a gentleman waiting in the hall? I do believe you must be inebria—Oh!”
The marquess realized instantly that he had been extremely foolish to think for one moment that he might not recognize the Lady Gillian Carnaby. Had he not instantly known her face, he knew now that he would certainly have recognized her voice. There was a quality in it that was difficult to describe in words. It was lower than most women’s voices, and very pleasant to the ear, even now when she was both annoyed and caught off her guard. But he also remembered her face.
What had been a thick tangle of wet hair the last time he saw her was now a cap of shining curls the color of a raven’s wing, piled artfully atop her head and wisping softly about her piquant, rosy-cheeked face. Her gown was not particularly fashionable, being made of ordinary stuff, but the dusty-blue color suited her, for it very nearly matched her eyes. Realizing that he was staring, he collected himself and made a proper leg.
“Lord Hopwood? It is you, is it not? Oh, dear!”
The butler, straightening his wig and attempting to look up at her without toppling over backward, said in an over-loud voice, “Not Hopewood, m’lady. This gentleman be the Marquess of Thorne, whose lordship I was just ... that is, whose presence I was just going to announce to his lordship.”
“A marquess? Here?” Another female appeared from behind Lady Gillian, this one a voluptuous woman in a mauve silk gown, which, like the turban swathed around her head, was more suitable for evening than for mid-afternoon wear. “The Marquess of Thorne?” she pronounced in haughty accents. “Good gracious, Porson, are you quite sure? I did not know we were acquainted with a Marquess of Thorne. Are you indeed he, sir?” She raised a gold-rimmed lorgnette to her eyes and peered at him through it, stirring both Thorne’s indignation and his sense of humor.
“I am, madam,” he said with a slight bow.
“You are not,” Gillian exclaimed. “You are a baron!”
Lady Marrick snapped, “That will do, Gillian! You cannot know this gentleman. Moreover, I believe you are supposed to be retired to your bedchamber. Show his lordship into the drawing room, Porson. You may send that new footman there up to the green parlor to apprise the master of his lordship’s presence, and I shall come at once to bear him company in the meantime. And tell that lad to powder his hair properly before he shows himself again in my presence,” she added tartly.
Porson blinked at her. “Powder his hair, madam?”
“Yes, powder his hair. I do not know why you question me. I have given strict orders that all our servants are to be powdered. You, too, Porson. That dreadful wig will not do.”
“But, madam—”
“Do not argue. Goodness, what an appearance you make, and before a marquess, for goodness’ sake. His lordship must be wondering about our entire household by now, to be sure.”
“He is not a marquess,” Gillian said. “Porson is drunk, Estrid, as must be perfectly clear even to you, and he has mistaken his lordship’s title. Oh dear, what a coil!”
“I told you to seek your bedchamber, girl, and I will thank you not to be giving orders in this house. I thought we had settled who is mistress here now, and who is not. You there,” she called down to the footman, “what are you waiting for? Fetch your master to the drawing room as I commanded you to do.”
Thorne, sternly repressing an urge to burst into laughter at the look on his man’s face at being thus addressed, said, “I fear, madam, that Ferry does not know the way.”
“What? Nonsense. Of course he knows.”
Gillian, who had ignored the command to seek her bedchamber, was peering over the railing at the footman, and when Thorne’s gaze encountered hers, he detected an unmistakable glint of laughter in her eyes. Without looking away from her, he said, “I fear that you mistake the matter, madam. Ferry is not your servant but mine. His locks are not powdered because I prefer them, like my own, in their natural state. And since he does not know this house, he cannot be expected to fetch your lord, though I would appreciate it if someone would do so.”
Lady Marrick looked much taken aback at these words, and an awkward, though mercifully brief silence fell before Lady Gillian said, “Porson, go and find Mrs. Heathby, and tell her that Lady Marrick desires that she send one footman to fetch his lordship to the drawing room and another to attend us there. Several of them are no doubt lounging about in the kitchen. And, Porson, you are to remain in the kitchen yourself until someone sends for you. Pray, do not stand there gawking at me. Go.”
The man stumbled awkwardly away to the green baize door at the right rear of the hall, and Lady Marrick said grimly, “You overstep yourself, Gillian. Porson is my servant, and I do not know what you think we shall do if he is to remain in the kitchen instead of seeing to his duties here. I suppose you expect his lordship to wait for someone else to take him to the drawing room. Or do you expect me to wait upon him myself.”
“No, ma’am, I will. I know that Porson is your man, but he must not be allowed to answer my father’s door in that disgusting condition. As to his lordship, I have no objection to bearing him company until Papa arrives. You, of course, must do as you please.” She turned toward the stairs.
“Gillian, do not be absurd. I am sure you are mistaken about Porson, and you have no more business to be entertaining gentlemen by yourself than you do to be ordering my servants about. But that is by the way. The plain and unfortunate fact is that you are not dressed for company.” Smiling at Thorne in a coy way that he found perfectly terrifying, Estrid added, “I cannot imagine what you must be thinking of us, sir.”
He did not think any point would be served by confessing that he had suddenly remembered the way Lady Gillian had snapped at him from her precarious perch on the rock, and the way she had retained her dignity even under such conditions as the ones under which they had first met, that therefore he had not been much surprised when she had so quickly recovered her composure after that first brief moment of recognizing him. He noted, too, that she had ignored the older woman’s strictures on her gown and was descending the stairway with as much grace and poise as though she were dressed in the height of fashion. Thorne began to believe that she did think he was a baron.
Lady Marrick was not far behind her. Holding her skirt delicately in her right hand, she came down the stairs with much more stateliness than Lady Gillian. Indeed, Thorne thought, she carried herself with more dignity than the Duchess of Langshire ever displayed. The mental comparison of the lovely but haughty countess with his plump, warm-hearted mother made him smile.
Gillian smiled back at him and held out her hand, saying, “I must say, I am glad you have come, sir. I was at my wit’s end, wondering what to do about this tangle. I had thought at first, you know, that I need only request the newspaper to declare that an error had been made, but I am not certain that that will answer the purpose. There is bound to be such a vast amount of speculation, you know, that will be embarrassing for both of us.”
“Good gracious, Gillian,” exclaimed Lady Marrick, “what nonsense are you talking now? Pray, do not heed her, sir. She has suffered a lack of parental control these past four years since her mama’s death—for I am Marrick’s second, as you may not know, and what with being confined so quickly after our marriage, I have not yet been in command of this household long enough to make my hand felt. You will forgive her, I am sure, for being so forward in her manners. Go back upstairs at once, Gillian.”
“I am sorry to disoblige you, Estrid, but I am not going to leave. You see, this gentleman is no marquess but only Lord Hopwood, the very same Hopwood in whom you all refused to believe. Since he has clearly read that idiotic announcement in the Honiton paper, he must certainly want to speak to me.”
“Hopwood!” Estrid’s eyes narrowed speculatively as she gazed at Thorne. “Well, to be sure, I had not thought you coul
d be a marquess, wearing only a plain dark coat and buckskins to pay an afternoon call at such a place as Carnaby Park. No ruffles to your cravat, and not a single bit of jewelry, either, now I come to notice. Just only that plain signet ring.”
A stifled sound from the direction of his footman caught Thorne’s attention, and he turned. But Ferry was no fool. His gaze was discreetly lowered. Thorne turned back and said, “This is scarcely a proper place for such a discussion as ours must be, madam. May I suggest that we all retire, as you suggested, to your drawing room. My man can certainly tend your door until someone comes to relieve him of the task, after which he can cool his heels here until I have need of him again.” This last was added in a tone pointed enough to redden the footman’s ears.
“Come this way, sir,” Gillian said, leading him to the left rear of the hall, then through an anteroom decorated in pale green with black-and-white details, into a saloon decorated with trompe l’oeil designs of arabesques and other motifs in tones of green on the biscuit-colored walls, ceiling, door panels, and even the chimneypiece. The design was very elaborate, but the subdued tones provided an atmosphere of beauty and peace. From what little he had seen of the present Lady Marrick, Thorne was certain she had had nothing to do with the decoration, a fact that she promptly confirmed.
“A very old-fashioned room,” she said when he paused to look at one design, painted to reflect the view from a window overlooking the Channel. It was so well done that for a moment he had thought there actually was a second prospect. Lady Marrick said, “Pray do not remark unkindly upon our lack of à la modality, my lord. I promise you, things will be altered very soon. I mean to order the very latest furniture for this room just as soon as we repair to London for the Season.”
He made no comment, and a moment later found himself in the drawing room. There was nothing here to attract him, although he was certain that her ladyship must like the room much better than its predecessor, for it had been decorated with an eye to opulence. The predominating color was apple green, but with elaborate white-and-gold details, and the walls were decked with evenly spaced allegorical cameos painted in golden medallions.
“We shall soon have pink silk hung in here, my lord,” Lady Marrick said complacently. “It will be just the thing to brighten the room a bit, as I am sure you will agree.”
Gillian said, “I believe his lordship would prefer to discuss the matter that brought him here, ma’am.”
“Yes, of course,” Lady Marrick said, arranging her skirt with care and taking her seat upon a gilt-legged settee near the marble fireplace. She smiled again at Thorne. “To think we had no idea there really was a romance afoot, my lord. Our dear Gillian has been very quiet about you, you see, very quiet indeed. Perhaps one day she will explain her reasons to us.”
Gillian’s cheeks flamed, but before she could speak, Thorne said, “I should prefer, madam, to wait until Marrick joins us to begin so pointed a conversation, if you have no objection.”
Gillian, still standing, said, “Please, sir, you must not think that—”
“Gillian,” Lady Marrick said sharply, “what are you about to keep his lordship standing? Sit down at once, and do keep silent. He will think that you have no breeding at all.”
“But—”
“Do sit down, Lady Gillian,” Thorne said, smiling at her. “The matter will soon sort itself out, I assure you.”
“Very well, sir,” she said, sitting without further ado on a beechwood chair at the opposite side of the hearth from her stepmother, “but I hope you do not think this was my doing.”
“I did think as much,” he admitted, sitting in a matching chair. “I have had my doubts, however, from the first moment I entered the hall and saw you peering down at me.”
“Very improper of her, to be sure,” Estrid said, “but no doubt she was anxious to see you again. Now do explain, sir, for I have been thinking and thinking, and I do quite plainly recall your declaring yourself a marquess before. Why did you wish to have such a game with us, may I ask?”
“It was no game, madam,” Thorne said, keeping his gaze firmly fixed upon Gillian and drawing pleasure from her dawning awareness and evident dismay. “I am indeed Josiah Hawtrey, Marquess of Thorne, though ’tis only an honorary styling at present, of course. My father is the Duke of Langshire.”
“Merciful heavens,” Gillian said. “Why did you call yourself Hopwood then? An insignificant barony, you said.”
Ruefully he said, “It is a minor title of my father’s, another styling I have used from time to time when I preferred not to use my own. In my position, you see, it is sometimes better to ...” His voice trailed off, for he found himself unnerved by her steady, interested gaze. And when she did not instantly prompt him, as so many young women would have done, but continued to gaze at him with that look of polite interest, he realized that he did not want to explain his reasons to her. They seemed suddenly dubious, even a little distasteful, though he had not thought them so before.
Lady Marrick said with a laugh, “I am sure we understand you very well, sir. In your exalted position, surely you do not want always to be plagued by the attentions of your inferiors. Anyone of sensitivity must understand you.”
Gillian tilted her head to one side. “I think a gentleman ought always to be honest, especially with his inferiors.”
With the laugh that was becoming more irritating to him by the minute, Lady Marrick said, “It must be plain to you, Marquess, that our Gillian has had little experience of the beau monde. She cannot be expected to comprehend the complexities of such a life as yours must be, what with every matchmaking mama in London no doubt urging her daughters on to plague you. Why, I just shudder to think of the parson’s mousetraps that must have been set for such a promising catch as you must be.”
Since this forthright speech made Thorne even more uncomfortable, if that was possible, than Gillian’s pointed statement, he was relieved when Marrick chose that instant to enter the room.
“Could have knocked me over with a feather when the lad said we had a marquess in the house,” he said, coming forward to greet Thorne, who rose instantly to his feet. “I thought Porson must be drunk again and had made the whole thing up. Haven’t met you above two or three times, I think, and could scarcely have expected those meetings to sit long in your memory.”
Thorne shook the hand held out to him, saying, “You are mistaken, sir. I remember you well as a bruising rider to the hounds and an excellent shot with a fowling piece. I believe we both enjoyed the shooting at Longford Hall last year, and if I am not mistaken, we sat at the same dinner table one night during the shearing party at Holkham two summers ago.”
Marrick laughed. “If you remember who sat at your table that night, you were more sober than I thought, lad. It’s true enough, but there must have been two hundred men at that dinner, just as there are for all Coke’s shearing and shooting parties. Never knew such a man for hospitality.”
“He is very kind, indeed,” Thorne said.
Lady Marrick said, “I am certain that you will find the hospitality at Carnaby just as impressive, Marquess, though Mr. Coke’s house is perhaps a trifle larger than ours.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I will not impose on you. The inn at Honiton will do well enough for the one night I mean to stay.”
She said, “But you will displease me very much if you mean to stay at an inn, Marquess, and indeed, you must stay with us. ’Twould be thought very odd if you did not.”
Marrick said, “Damme, Estrid, the man will stay where he likes. Welcome here, of course, but I cannot think why anyone would think it odd of him to stay at an inn. Very decent sort of place, the Lion is. And ain’t you going to Lady Halstead’s?”
“I shall send her our regrets,” Lady Marrick said, casting the marquess another of her arch looks, “for you do not know the whole, my lord. Your foolish daughter’s Baron Hopwood is none other than the dashing young man you see before you.”
“Good God!” M
arrick looked in bewilderment at Gillian. “Is that true, girl?”
“Apparently it is, Papa, though I assure you that I had no more awareness of his true identity than I had of that dreadful announcement. Clearly, the sooner a statement is printed disavowing the whole, the better it will be for all of us.”
Thorne, obeying Marrick’s gesture to take his seat again, said, “It will not be as easy as that, I fear.”
Lady Marrick said quickly, “No, indeed, for it would make our foolish Gillian appear in a most unfortunate light.”
Marrick said testily, “That cannot be helped. Serves the chit right for creating such a coil in the first place.”
“Papa, I did no such—”
Lady Marrick said, “Pray do not continue to deny it, Gillian. It was very bad of you, but I am certain that if you own up to your actions, the marquess will forgive you. And if you must be embarrassed by a second announcement, it is all to the good, for it will teach you never to do such a thing again. I am thankful to say that my own daughters would never have been so indiscreet. You will not be the only sufferer, you know, for we must all be made to look nohow by your naughtiness. Indeed, I tell you now to your head that if Dorinda’s Season in London is spoiled in the least by your wickedness, you will answer to me, and so you had better know from the outset.”
“Good God, Estrid,” the earl snapped, “do not be making such a piece of work about a matter that is easily put right. I will send an announcement to that fool paper, telling them they have got it all wrong.”
“But they will know there is more to the whole matter than that,” Lady Marrick protested. “Did you not say you were told that Gillian had handed in the notice herself?”
Surprised, Thorne looked at Gillian, easily recognizing the glint of anger in her eyes and wondering how she would defend herself. When she said nothing at all, and in fact avoided his gaze altogether, his curiosity was piqued.
