A soft glow came into Verity’s dark brown eyes. Louisa needed her help.
And if Verity had to accept the Marquess of Carrisworth’s escort in order to help her sister, she simply would have to make the sacrifice.
* * * *
The next morning, Lady Iris stood by the pantry in the kitchen. She held a very large reticule, more like a poacher’s sack, into which she was stuffing the small bottles of liquid she’d spent the previous evening preparing.
When finished with her task, Lady Iris pulled the hood of a drab cloak down low over her veiled head, which— for once—was not adorned with her customary white wig.
She slipped out the servants’ entrance in the rear of the house and into the crisp morning air.
Next door, the Marquess of Carrisworth, having returned from an unaccustomed but refreshing morning ride, had just finished changing his coat. He was standing at an upstairs window contemplating how he would amuse himself this day, when he glanced down and spied the furtive figure of Lady Iris.
Now what is she up to? He thought. He turned away from the pink curtains and picked up a pair of York tan gloves.
Mr. Wetherall, who was neatly stacking foot-wide, newly laundered cravats into an armoire, said, “My lord, I must say this bedchamber is most unsuitable.”
“Nonsense, man,” his lordship replied, rapidly pulling on the gloves. “My hat and stick, if you please.”
Wetherall handed the requested items over to his master, his left eye twitching with disapproval. “But this is a lady’s room, my lord. It is not appropriate for one of your consequence to sleep on a bed topped with a pink coverlet.”
The marquess’s lips twisted in a grin. “On the contrary, I often frequent beds sporting pink coverlets, as you well know.”
When his master reached the door, Mr. Wetherall called out, “My lord! Do you not wish me to call a groom or footman to accompany you?”
But Lord Carrisworth was already out of earshot, leaving his long-suffering valet to cluck his tongue in disapproval. Mr. Wetherall consoled himself with the thought that his lordship had not come home in his cups last night. It had been the first such occurrence in quite some time. Mayhap the puppy would finally be done with what Mr. Wetherall charitably termed his lordship’s youthful frolics and settle down.
Meanwhile, the marquess followed Lady Iris at a careful distance through the Mayfair streets until he saw her step into an apothecary and herb shop. He waited outside, pretending an interest in the colorful bottles displayed in the window.
A few minutes later, when Lady Iris stomped out of the shop, still clutching her heavy bag, the marquess casually strolled inside and faced the proprietor.
This shrewd merchant, recognizing a member of the Nobility, bowed low. “How my I serve yer honor?”
“You may tell me what business you conducted with the veiled lady just here.”
The fat shop owner grimaced and said, “That one! Thinks I don’t know who she is, but ye can’t fool ole Jack Millweed. Trying to clear her sister’s account by sellin’ me some home-brewed potion she called ‘Love’s Helping Hand.’ Imagine that, milord! Why, I’d be in a mort o’ trouble selling them bottles without the proper tax stamp, no less not knowin’ what’s in the stuff.”
Mr. Millweed then winked lewdly. “She did say the elixir would cause the most unloverlike person to become energetic, but. . .”
The marquess was making a heroic attempt at concealing his amusement. Love’s Helping Hand? Lady Iris was concocting some sort of aphrodisiac? By God, the woman was a Trojan.
Then his lordship’s thoughts grew solemn. Lady Iris must truly be in need of money to go to such lengths.
He produced a roll of coins and instructed the shopkeeper. “You are to send a discreet note round to the lady’s house. You are to apologize and say you will buy whatever she can supply you with. Send me word when she delivers the potions. I expect you to give the lady half this amount, you may keep the rest.”
The marquess scribbled a generous figure on the back of one of his cards, and then passed it and several of the coins to the stunned Mr. Millweed. “Here is something for your trouble today.”
Confident his orders would be obeyed without question, he turned and left the shop.
* * * *
At precisely three of the clock, Verity stood in the drawing room awaiting the sisters. After a morning of diligent cutting and sewing, Beecham had triumphantly produced one of Louisa’s gowns, worked over to fit Verity.
The dress was of peach blossom-colored muslin. Matching ribbon had been used for banding around the high waist and the deep, square-cut neck. The skirt was full, and the sleeves were long and tight-fitting.
Beecham, who’d been itching to get her hands on Verity’s hair, with Betty’s help had finally succeeded in cajoling the girl into allowing a softer style, the front being snipped and curled round her face. Peach-colored ribbon had been worked through the curls that fell from a topknot. The maids had fussed over their charge until both beamed with the becoming results of their efforts.
Now that Verity was downstairs, she grew uncomfortable with her more modish appearance. She moved to stand in front of a large gilt-trimmed pier glass. She had found a lace fichu and was fidgeting with it, feeling her gown was cut too low.
Tying the material ineffectually around her neck, she was caught off guard when she saw the tall figure of Lord Carrisworth reflected in the mirror. She whirled round, her hands holding the fichu against her breasts in a protective manner, and stared with wide brown eyes at his elegant appearance.
He raised his quizzing glass and studied her boldly. “No, no, Miss Pymbroke, that ugly piece of lace quite spoils the lines of your fetching gown.”
Before she knew what he intended, he crossed the room and removed the offending material. Her hands fell to her sides, and he stared down in evident satisfaction at her creamy neck and the just-visible rise of her bosom.
The heavy lids of his green eyes closed halfway and he murmured, “Better. Much better.”
His long, white fingers had brushed Verity’s sensitive skin when he removed the fichu. At his touch, she felt her pulse beat erratically in her throat. His deep voice and his closeness completely unnerved her. She felt the invisible web of attraction building between them and could not find her voice.
Lord Carrisworth’s gaze remained fixed on the enticing expanse of flesh before him. He experienced a moment of sheer lust.
He lowered his dark head toward her soft shoulder.
Verity drew in a breath and closed her eyes.
Bingwood’s strident voice rang out in the quiet room. “Sir Ramsey Bertrand.”
Verity’s eyes flew open, and a tide of red rose to her face. She saw the marquess had moved and was standing at his ease, pouring out a measure of claret.
He handed the glass to her, and while she made it a rule never to drink anything stronger than lemonade. Verity found herself sipping the wine gratefully.
“Sir Ramsey,” she said somewhat shakily when she was able, and curtsied. Her initial impression of the baronet had not been favorable, and she had marked him down as one of the marquess’s rakish friends.
The Ladies Iris and Hyacinth walked into the room at that moment followed by Louisa, sophisticated in pale green. Verity used the ensuing exchange of introductions and greetings to regain her composure.
Her flush had receded, leaving two red spots on her white cheeks. What had she done? She had been about to yield to Lord Carrisworth’s advances!
She was assailed by a wave of humiliation and regret. To become enamored of him was unthinkable. Had not her mother shown her the pain a rake could inflict upon those who loved him? And what about those two French girls he had under his protection?
Stealing a glance at his lordship’s calm demeanor, Verity thought he was, no doubt, laughing inwardly at her behavior. Shifting her gaze to Louisa, who was flirting with Sir Ramsey to a nicety with her fan, Verity viewed the need to correct he
r sister as crucial. No more of her time could be wasted on considering her feelings for the marquess.
The issue of who was to ride with whom to the Foxworths’ villa in Kensington arose. Sir Ramsey had brought an open carriage.
Lady Hyacinth declared, “Never shall I be brought to ride in such a vehicle. Why, the wind rushing through one’s ears to one’s very brain—it is unthinkable. Not to mention the numerous diseases floating in the air one might be subjected to when traveling through Town.”
Verity said quickly, “I shall go with Louisa and Sir Ramsey.” She ignored Louisa’s disgruntled look and, with her chin raised, swept past Lord Carrisworth, judging he was past all bearing when she heard him chuckle.
* * * *
The Foxworths took the first syllable of their title name quite seriously and had made the fox their family emblem. Therefore, foxes peered out at visitors from the cloth covering the settee and matching chairs, foxes looked down from the gilt-ornamented frieze, and their eyes watched from the painted ceiling.
Lady Foxworth was a country girl at heart, and as her one concern in entertaining was her guests’ comfort, she was a popular hostess.
Cloth-covered tables, laden with meats, fruits, breads, and pastries, had been set out in the garden beyond the saloon. The day was chilly and a bit breezy. The ladies’ gauzy draperies fluttered, and the liveried servants had to keep adjusting the cloths on the table which were wont to fly up and cover the food.
Inside, a large fire blazed cheerfully in the huge stone fireplace, jealously guarded by the iron foxes on the andirons. People were standing in groups chatting.
Entering the room, Verity was startled when she discovered Mr. Cecil Sedgewick talking to a rather plain girl with a frightfully long, thin nose. It was unlike the Mr. Sedgewick whom Verity knew to attend Society functions. But what was most disturbing was the light-hearted air that characterized the gentleman’s normally staid features.
Perceiving her scrutiny, Mr. Sedgewick met her gaze with no less surprise at her presence than Verity had been with his. He bowed and she moved to his side.
“Miss Pymbroke, how delightful to see you,” he babbled somewhat guiltily.
Mr. Cecil Sedgewick was fully aware of Verity’s hopes in his direction regarding marriage. While her admiration fueled his pride, and he approved of her rules and principles and appreciated her beauty, he had no intention of making such an unprofitable alliance.
The aspiring cleric was in need of a living, and should he be fortunate enough to attract a wealthy peer’s daughter, he would jump at the chance of securing his future, if not by marriage, then by ingratiating himself with the family. Hence his flattering interest in the antidote standing next to him. “Lady Althea, may I present Miss Verity Pymbroke? Miss Pymbroke, Lady Althea is Lord and Lady Foxworth’s daughter.”
Verity curtsied.
After merely giving a nod in return, Lady Althea studied Verity down the great length of her nose. She listlessly plied her fan. “Pymbroke? Oh, yes, the late Viscount Eldon, of course. How unfortunate.” The fan flicked in dismissal.
Verity’s bosom swelled with indignation at this slur, however justified, at her father’s name. She turned to Mr. Sedgewick, but she would get no help from that quarter as he had edged away slightly and was studying a tapestry of foxes with unparalleled interest.
At that moment, the Marquess of Carrisworth appeared at her side. He bowed to Lady Althea, who simpered and snapped open her fan, flirting in what she thought a killing way over its top.
“Would you excuse us, Lady Althea,” Lord Carrisworth said in such a regretful tone that Lady Althea must have been certain he could hardly bear to leave her side. “I promised Lady Iris I would look after Miss Pymbroke, and I am persuaded she would appreciate a little something to eat.”
Before Verity could denounce this plan, Mr. Sedgewick turned round, all affronted dignity, saying, “I shall bring Miss Pymbroke a plate of her favorites.”
“No, you will not,” Lord Carrisworth said mildly, and taking Verity’s arm, led her away.
They reached the table outside before Verity said, “High-handed! And I shall have you know I am not hungry.”
Lord Carrisworth filled a plate and passed it to her. For himself, he took only some champagne. He found a little bench, and they sat down.
“You must eat something to fortify yourself for the lecture you are about to read me.” His lordship sighed and took a sip of the bubbling liquid. “I fear I am not always a gentleman.”
“Not always a gentleman?” she echoed hotly. “I have yet to see you behave as you should. You inveigled your way into leasing my house when you knew I did not want you as a tenant. Then you tricked me into going with you to the theater, not to mention the unwanted assault you almost made on my person—when, had not Bingwood interrupted, you w-would . . .” Her voice died away, and she turned her head from him in obvious embarrassment.
The marquess gazed at her profile. What was it about this beautiful, but serious, girl that made him want to keep her by his side? She amused him, that was it, he reminded himself firmly and took another sip of champagne.
“Let us forget all that for a moment, Miss Pymbroke. I shall play the part of a gentleman, for once, and refrain from suggesting that, earlier today in the drawing room at Lady Iris’s, you did not do anything to deter me, such as slap my face.”
Her head swung round, the breeze ruffling her curls, and she glared at him.
“That is better. It is so troublesome for me to talk seriously with you when your face is averted. Now, I noticed you are nursing a tendre for Mr. Sedgewick—Begad, Miss Pymbroke, I am certain Lady Hyacinth would have something to say about the injuries you will sustain if your blood continues rushing to your face in that manner. In any event, to show you my appreciation for all your kindness to me, I shall help you catch Mr. Sedgewick.”
He ended this speech with a confident smile.
She gripped her plate, her knuckles whitening. “Catch Mr. Sedgewick? How dare you speak to me thus?”
“Though I believe you, as a viscount’s daughter, might look higher than a mere mister,” he mused aloud, ignoring her question.
Miss Pymbroke’s back stiffened. “There can be no gentleman with a higher tone of mind than Mr. Sedgewick.”
“No? There I believe you are out. If I do not mistake the matter, your Mr. Sedgewick is toadying quite dreadfully to Lady Althea and her mother in the hopes of obtaining a living. They have a snug little parish in Derbyshire.”
He saw a flicker of doubt cross her face.
She pursed her lips, then spoke in a low voice, “If I become affianced to Mr. Sedgewick, I should consider myself blessed. He is kind and trustworthy. One cannot expect more from marriage.”
The marquess raised a dark eyebrow. “It would not be a love-match? You surprise me. I should have thought a romantic such as yourself to be head and ears, heart and soul in love to contemplate marriage.”
“As I told you at the theater, I am not a romantic!”
He lifted a languid hand and wound one of her golden-brown curls around his finger. By God, this new hairstyle was enchanting. His gaze dropped to her rose-pink lips, and he said, “I do not believe you.”
She drew in her breath sharply.
He released the strand of hair. “No matter. I have made up my mind to assist you, and I am well qualified to do so. After all, I know what a man finds attractive in a woman. And, with my help, you could be far more appealing to Mr. Sedgewick than even that snug church.”
“Thank you,” she said dryly and frowned at him.
“There you are! How can you expect to lead any gentleman to the altar when you ruin your beautiful face by scowling like that?” he pointed out reasonably.
The heavy lashes that shadowed her cheeks flew up. “I am not the beauty of the family. Louisa is.”
Faith! Was it possible the chit did not know her looks were superior? Well, she would soon learn if she continued to go about in
Society. All the young bucks would be after the angelic Miss Pymbroke.
The marquess suddenly glowered into his empty champagne glass. “Mrs. Barrington looks well enough in her way,” he said at last.
But he saw Miss Pymbroke’s attention had been caught by the sight of her sister standing at the refreshment table in the company of none other than Lord Davies. The widow’s tinkling laugh floated across the garden.
Lord Carrisworth sensed Miss Pymbroke was ready to jump up and rescue her sister from the gentleman who had rudely accosted her in the Green Room at the Theatre Royal. He twisted around in his seat to face her, reached out his hand, and grasped the arm of the bench, effectively trapping her between it and his body.
“No, Miss Pymbroke, you must not. To accuse Lord Davies in public of being less than a gentleman would only bring censure down upon your own head.”
She stared into his eyes, her breath coming rapidly. “But why? Why would a man of his ilk even be included in a genteel entertainment such as this? No, my lord, I must tell Louisa at once what a scurrilous dog Lord Davies is.”
“My dear landlady, you are an intelligent girl, but naive when it comes to the ways of Society. Lord Davies comes from an excellent family. He is a baron. He desires to be considered a Dandy, true, but he has brought no scandal to his name yet. Therefore, he is accepted.”
She appeared to consider this. “Very well, I shall speak to my sister later this evening.” Her voice trembled slightly as she said, “I love her, you see, and it is my duty to lead her mind down a virtuous path. Now, please, your position on this bench is indecorous.”
The marquess grinned mischievously. More than ever, he wished to further their association. Kissing her would achieve this aim. “Do you agree to be guided by me in your quest to bring Mr. Sedgewick up to scratch?”
“Am I to understand you will not release me until I give you what you want?”
Lord Carrisworth’s voice dropped to a husky whisper. “You could hardly do that on this uncomfortable bench in the middle of a party.”
Miss Pymbroke's Rules Page 7
