by Amanda Scott
“I should think so.”
“Then the parlor will do nicely.” Urging her through the anteroom, he paused briefly on the threshold to look around the pleasant parlor, which was pale blue and gold with dark blue velvet curtains and white moldings. He said, “Now perhaps you will explain to me why your mind is so filled with household business that you cannot even be depended upon to see that your visitors are not kept standing in the hall.”
She tilted her head. “Are you vexed, sir? I cannot think why you should be. You do not appear to be the sort of man who takes offense at being kept standing for a few moments.”
“We will leave my ‘sort’ out of this discussion, if you please. Do you intend to answer my question?”
She sat down in an armchair upholstered in blue-and-silver brocade near the tall windows overlooking the terrace garden, and gestured to him to take its twin. “I suppose my head is stuffed with household matters just now,” she admitted. “It was always my mother who looked after everything, you see, and after her death, before Papa married Estrid, I became accustomed to doing so—in Devon, at least. Indeed, I have retained a good deal of control there, for it was my heritage, after all, and Estrid is not at all consistent in her wish to take the reins, but does so in fits and starts. Of course, she was in the family way soon after their marriage and was often ill, so she did not care about anything much. And when she was confined, she left it all to me. I know I should not be talking about her this way—”
“Don’t be foolish,” he said.
She smiled at him. “I daresay you do think it foolish—men don’t concern themselves with such things, in my experience.”
“Nor, in mine, do women concern themselves with estate matters,” he said with a wry grimace. “And sons do not either. I think I envy you your father’s lack of interest. Whenever I have the temerity to offer a suggestion, it gets short shrift.”
“Oh, that is too bad, for you ought to know everything about what will one day be yours. Mama always insisted—” Breaking off at the sight of his frown, she added quickly, “But of course it was different with us, for Papa took no interest, but I am in a quandary now, I can tell you, for Estrid insists that she means to hire the new servants herself, and she cannot have a notion of what that will entail. She did say she would put it all in the hands of her late husband’s man of affairs, but I daresay that will annoy Papa just as much as if she were to parade all the applicants through his hall. And to be perfectly frank, I do not care for the notion of my servants being hired by a stranger.”
Gently he said, “I do not think you can have much to say about it, however, so why do you not go upstairs, put on your hat and gloves, and let me take you for a drive in the park? The rain has stopped, and the whole of London is sparkling clean.”
She wanted to explain how much she did have to say, but she knew he most likely took no more interest in her problems than her father or any other man would have taken, so she grinned at him and said, “You can have less notion of females than I thought you had, sir, if you think that a hat and gloves will prepare me for my first appearance in public. Not when there must be many persons as anxious to see me, after that scandalous announcement, as your friends were. I hope you don’t mind kicking your heels for at least twenty minutes. I intend to make a stir.”
He smiled. “I can wait.”
“Perhaps you would prefer now to go upstairs.”
“Not at all. I shall sit quietly here and contemplate your garden. Someone has taken excellent care of it.”
“That would be Mrs. Parish, I expect. She says she has naturally green fingers and cannot help potting about. It is very pretty, though, isn’t it?”
He gestured toward the door. “Go. My patience is not inexhaustible, I assure you.”
Grinning, she turned and fled.
Upstairs, she rang for Meggie, changed her clothes quickly, then took a few moments to dash off a short letter. Giving it to Meggie, she said, “Ask Parish to take that ’round to Mr. Squires’s office in Clifford Street at once, will you? And warn Mrs. Parish that there might be a gentleman staying to dine. I’m driving out with Lord Thorne, and if he wishes to dine with us later, I want her to be prepared for him.”
“I’ll attend to it, Miss Gillian. I’ve already told her I’d give her a hand with the cooking if she needs it, and I told her it was quite all right if she wants to have her niece in to act as scullery maid. But if there’s to be gentlemen for dinner, we shall have to have a savory and a sweet. Now, I’m a fair hand with pastry, but we will want a couple of lads to help with the washing up, I’m thinking.”
“Meggie, you do whatever you think right,” Gillian said. “I am very grateful to you for offering to help Mrs. Parish. It is none of your affair, I know, but it is ever so comfortable to know I can rely upon you. I am trying very hard not to step on Lady Marrick’s toes, but this situation is intolerable and must not be allowed to continue. It would be dreadful if word of it got out, and Dorinda made her come-out only to be tormented by every jokesmith in town, or worse, thought ineligible simply because we were known to be making shift for proper help. I have informed Mr. Squires of the exact nature of the problem and have asked him to deal with the late Sir Cedric Ponderby’s man if that is possible. If we can manage it neatly enough, her ladyship need never know she did not make all the decisions.”
“She don’t know the true facts, Miss Gillian. ’Tis as plain as the nose on your face that she don’t.”
Gillian sighed. “I know, Meggie, and that is what makes the business so hard to put right. How I wish Papa were a forthright man and not the sort who prefers peace at any price, for it makes things very difficult for the rest of us. First there was all the nonsense about the castle, merely because he never bothered to explain beforehand what condition it was in, and now this.”
“Well, to my mind, it’s going to set the cat amongst the pigeons, right enough, when her ladyship finds out.”
Snaking out her skirts, Gillian said briskly, “We will not fret about that now, however. Lord Thorne warned me that he is not a man of infinite patience. Not,” she added with a chuckle, “that I needed any such warning. Do what you must, Meggie, to see that a proper dinner is put on the table tonight, and leave me to deal with the rest.”
Downstairs, she found the marquess in rapt contemplation of the garden. He had opened one of the tall French doors and now sat sprawling in the same chair drawn up to the open doorway. He seemed to be listening contentedly to a pair of birds chirping from an apple tree. The sun was shining brightly now, and lazy clouds of steam rose from the damp leaves of the shrubs. Gillian could smell moist-earth odors mixed with the scent of new blossoms on a potted rose bush on the terrace.
Thorne turned, saw her, and got to his feet. “You will certainly make a stir,” he said appreciatively. “I like that rig. Red becomes you.”
She turned around, giving him the full effect of her white dress and coquelicot spencer. Her wide-brimmed chip-straw bonnet was likewise trimmed with flowers and ribbons in the fiery color, and her gloves and the silk cords of her indispensable were as well. “And red kid half boots,” she said, putting one foot forward so that he might admire them.
He was staring at her face, however. “Your eyes are gray,” he said. “I thought they were blue the first time I saw you, but they change with whatever you wear, don’t they?”
She nodded, staring back at him, trying to decipher his expression.
He was silent, still looking into her eyes, much as if he expected them to turn color while he watched, and Gillian stood very still, feeling his gaze as though he touched her, feeling her body respond to it as though the touch were a caress. She was suddenly very much aware of the fact that there was no one else in the room. The whole house was oddly silent. She could hear his breathing, and she knew suddenly that if she did not break the silence, he would kiss her. She tried to think of something to say, but no words would come.
When he bent toward her, she
licked her lips nervously but made no effort to evade him. He put one hand behind her head, pulling her gently toward him, watching her, his expression challenging her, seeming to mock her inability to resist him. His face came nearer, nearer, until his lips touched hers. In that instant a shock of electricity leapt between them, shooting through her body to her fingers and toes, before he pulled her tightly against him and his mouth took possession of hers. He kissed her hard, then set her back on her heels and smiled.
That smile seemed to her to mock the ease with which she had yielded to him, and without thought she slapped him as hard as she could, leaving a fiery imprint on his cheek.
With what she suspected was a deplorable lack of sensitivity to her outrage, Thorne caught the offending hand, smiled wickedly at her again, and pulled her back into his arms. He moved the hand he held behind her, holding it gently against her waist and pressing her closer. “Naughty,” he murmured, kissing her again. This time his tongue touched the line between her lips, soliciting entrance, and her mouth gave way, opening, allowing his tongue to enter and explore. Never had Gillian done such a thing or experienced such feelings as she was feeling now. She knew she ought to struggle to free herself—and did not doubt for a minute that he would let her go if she did—but she seemed to have no command over her baser instincts. Her breasts swelled, tingling, yearning to be touched. Her lips responded to his, and her breathing came in near sobs. He still held her hand behind her, and when his other hand moved to her waist, then lower, teasing her senses as it moved up again, easing around to the side of her breast, she knew she was allowing liberties that ought never to be allowed a man to whom she was not married, but she could not seem to stop him. She shivered, trembling, when his fingertips brushed against the tip of her right breast.
Thorne kissed the tip of her nose and released her. “Want to slap me again?” he asked gently.
Feeling heat suffuse her face, Gillian forced herself not to look away and said, “I cannot think what induced me to strike you, sir. I have never done such a thing to anyone before.”
Thorne had the grace to look a little ashamed of himself, but before he could speak, Clemmie said from the doorway, “Oh, there you are, Gilly! Dorinda said to find you and discover how we are expected to amuse ourselves before dinner. Hello, sir,” she added, making a hasty curtsy. “I did not know Gilly had a visitor. I hope you will forgive me dashing in like this. Why are you so red, Gilly? Are you feeling quite the thing?”
“How do you do, Miss Clementina?” Thorne said, recovering himself. “You run up and tell Miss Ponderby I have come to take her and the Lady Gillian for a drive in Hyde Park. She may have fifteen minutes to find her hat and gloves and meet us in the hall. I would offer to take you as well,” he added kindly, “but my curricle will be crowded as it is. Another day, perhaps.”
“Oh, you needn’t take me, sir,” Clementina said. “Mama says I may do as I please in London, so I mean to ask Step-papa to provide me with a tutor who knows all about the city. I want to see everything, of course, but I needn’t trouble anyone else.”
“You terrify me,” Thorne said.
When the child had gone, he looked sternly at Gillian. “Surely that woman does not really intend for her child to look after herself or to be looked after by a male! It mustn’t be thought of. Not here in London at all events.”
“No, sir,” Gillian said demurely. “One never knows how disrespectfully a young lady might be treated once she steps outside the safety of her own parlor.”
“Now, see here, my girl, you asked for that!”
“Did I, sir?” She opened her eyes wide, much the way she had frequently seen Dorinda do.
To her surprise, Thorne chuckled. “You did and you know it, but I admit in all fairness that a true gentleman would not have taken advantage. The difficulty is, of course, that I am not a gentleman. Moreover, my reputation is well known to you now, and so you ought to have taken greater care.”
“Very true,” Gillian agreed, “but I had not expected to be so easily affected by your methods. I know it comes of your having so much practice that you know exactly how to take the trick, but still it is the most astonishing thing! No doubt I shall recognize the symptoms next time, and in any case, I can safely promise that I will not slap you again, sir.”
“See that you don’t,” he retorted a little gruffly. “I cannot be held accountable for my actions when violence is employed against me.” There was a small silence before he added in a quite different tone, “I am sorry about inviting Miss Ponderby to go with us. I don’t know what got into me.”
Gillian was certain she knew precisely what had gotten into him, but she had more pride than to admit, even to herself, that she did not welcome Dorinda’s company. And so it was that fifteen minutes later, the three of them set off for Hyde Park in the marquess’s curricle. Most of the beau monde had turned out to enjoy the change in the weather, and numbers of people strolled, walked, or drove in the park at that fashionable hour. Thorne pointed out young Lord Petersham in his chocolate-colored carriage with its chocolate-colored horses, and the Countess of Jersey in her barouche, and a host of other members of the elite of London society. And in turn the young ladies with the marquess drew more than their share of attention.
They drove along the carriage drive beside Rotten Row, and Gillian soon discovered that the word had gone around that she was Thorne’s intended bride. Some people waved, others stared rudely at her, and still others drew alongside to engage them in conversation. Since the sole purpose of such conversations seemed to be to discover just how she had managed to entrap one of the greatest prizes on the Marriage Mart, she was never so glad to be interrupted in all her life as when lords Crawley and Corbin rode up beside the carriage, and Lord Crawley rather abruptly cut off a simpering miss and her mama to inquire if the young ladies had had a pleasant journey to London.
The woman, who had been coyly attempting to discover the details of Gillian’s antecedents, lifted a tortoiseshell-rimmed lorgnette to protuberant eyes and glared terrifyingly at Crawley, but he was oblivious.
“Thought you said you were coming up to town in a week,” he said. “Must be a fortnight by now.”
Gillian looked at Thorne. “His lordship knew when we expected to arrive,” she said. “We were on the road for quite a time, because my stepmother dislikes long days of traveling.”
Crawley turned to Thorne accusingly. “Trying to keep them all to yourself, Josh? A fine way to treat your friends!”
“Had I known you were so interested, Crawler, I’d have sent you a detailed accounting,” the marquess said. “Must you drive on, Lady Sudeley? Ah, yes, there is another carriage trying to pass us. Dreadful woman,” he added when Lady Sudeley and her daughter had driven on. Then, to Gillian, he said, “If that cursed announcement has spared me more of that sort of thing, it’s the one thing about it that can make me damned grateful.”
Gillian glanced at Dorinda, who had been chatting amiably with Lord Corbin and apparently had not heard Thorne, which, Gillian thought, was just as well. She turned the subject, deciding once more that the sooner her unexpected betrothal was ended, the better it would be for them all.
8
THE LONDON SOCIAL SEASON WAS in full swing, and Gillian soon learned that Almack’s Assembly Rooms were to open the following Wednesday night for the first subscription ball. She received a graceful note from the Duchess of Langshire two days after their arrival, apologizing for not being immediately at hand to meet her, due to the fact that she and the duke had been invited to Oatlands, and providing assembly vouchers for Gillian and Dorinda, and for Lady Marrick as their chaperon. Without such vouchers, Gillian knew, no young lady—or gentleman, for that matter—could enter Almack’s sacred precincts. Of more interest to her, however, was the second part of the duchess’s note, informing her that invitations would soon be dispatched for a ball at Langshire House in honor of her betrothal to Thorne.
Reading the missive, Gillian began to
feel as she thought a fly must feel once it had been caught in a web, when the spider began to spin more silk to entwine it. Struggle though she might, she could not seem to stop the process that had begun. But she was no fly, she told herself. Something would have to be done. She began by looking for Dorinda.
“Look,” she said, handing Dorinda the duchess’s note when she found her in the sunny morning room on the second floor.
Dorinda looked up when she finished reading the note. “On Friday next? But what is wrong? Had we some other engagement that evening? Surely nothing can be so important as this? Do you think Corbin will call today? He is amusing, is he not?”
“Never mind Corbin, Dorinda. I cannot let this charade continue. I am not betrothed to Thorne, and it is wrong to pretend that I am.”
“But of course you are betrothed to him. He said so himself. I am quite certain that he did.”
“It’s your doing, you wretched girl. You know perfectly well that this mad arrangement is entirely your fault.”
Dorinda hunched a shoulder pettishly. “Well, so what if it is? It has all worked out for the best, has it not? You will be a duchess one day, Gillian, which is not at all what I intended, so I do not know why you persist in flinging it in my face. Do you like this bonnet?” she asked, holding up a fetching leghorn hat with lavender ribbons. “I purchased it yesterday because I thought it the very thing to wear with my purple silk pelisse, but Corbin said the pink one I had on the day before was prettier and that I ought not to have wasted my money. He said—”
“Dorinda, I do not care a fig what Corbin said. Will you pay attention to what I am telling you? I have no wish to become a duchess, and I wish you would stop pretending that you have done something wonderful by putting me in this dreadful predicament.”
“Oh, pooh, Gillian, there is no predicament. To be sure, if Thorne had made a fuss, things might have got out of hand, but he did not. And since you did not tell him at once that it was any of my doing, you can scarcely tell him so now. Goodness, if he likes you, thinking you were the one who put the notice in the paper, I cannot think what you have to trouble yourself about.”
