Miss Pymbroke's Rules

by Rosemary Stevens

  Verity raised her chin, but kept her voice low. “I displayed a criminal lack of sense by getting into a closed carriage with you, my lord. I suppose, knowing what you are, I can hardly blame you for taking advantage of me.”

  Lord Carrisworth had been watching her with half-closed eyes. At these last words, however, his lids snapped open. He suddenly wished to shock her into betraying her feelings. Into telling him she had been plagued with memories of their kiss all day, just as he had been. “From your passionate response I could only conclude you welcomed my embrace.”

  Verity seethed with anger and humiliation. Impossible man! How dare he remind her of her behavior? “You are mistaken, my lord,” she lied. “Ladies do not have the same lusts and passions as men do.”

  The marquess dropped his lids back down over his eyes to conceal his irritation. Little baggage, denying the truth in that scornful way. He had a mind to prove to her right then and there how her lips would respond under his.

  Fortunately for the inflamed pair, a footman appeared at Verity’s elbow, carrying a silver tureen in the shape of a large clam shell. The shell stood above three silver seahorses rising from a triangular base worked in imitation of waves. The footman raised the cover, its handle shaped like a merman, to reveal the turtle soup, which looked unremarkable despite the fact Molly had laced it with Love’s Helping Hand.

  Verity wrinkled her nose. When she was a little girl, her mother employed a cook who liked to display the skulls of turtles she had used for turtle soup on the walls of the kitchen. Exploring the kitchens at the tender age of four. Verity had been sufficiently frightened by the skulls to conceive a permanent dislike of turtle soup. Many years later when the cook had been pensioned off, Verity had immediately given the order for the skulls to be taken down.

  Now, she shook her head at the waiting footman who then offered the soup to Lord Carrisworth. The marquess also denied him, wishing to continue his conversation with the infuriating Miss Pymbroke unencumbered by food.

  But in this he was thwarted as Verity turned to speak to Mr. Sedgewick. Draining his wineglass in frustration, the marquess decided he would not help Miss Pymbroke win the cleric’s affection after all.

  Verity gave Mr. Sedgewick a friendly smile. “I am glad of this opportunity to speak to you. I have not seen you of late and miss our conversations.”

  Cecil Sedgewick’s owl-like eyes peered at her above his glasses. “I understand you dropped your work with the actresses,” he replied with a hint of accusation.

  “Well, yes. My sister has returned from Spain—”

  Mr. Sedgewick interrupted her, saying, “Yes, I imagined your efforts would be taken up with her.”

  Verity paused. For a moment it had almost seemed as if Mr. Sedgewick were sneering at Louisa. But no, he would never be unkind. She tried for a change in subject. “You may be interested to know Lord Davies came to me only this morning asking for instruction. I was very flattered that he thought of me. Is it not wonderful when a man can admit his character can be improved?”

  Mr. Sedgewick’s spoon clattered into his bowl of soup. Shaking his balding head, he said, “Worse and worse. First the Marquess of Carrisworth, now Lord Davies. Miss Pymbroke, you poor misguided female, how does a lady I had always thought of as having a superior sense of the proprieties become involved with such low fellows?”

  Before Verity had a chance to answer this insulting question, Mr. Sedgewick continued. “I am most disappointed in you, Miss Pymbroke. Rumor has it you have gone so far as to appear at a masked ball. Tsk! It is indeed a shame.”

  With these words of condemnation, he turned firmly away to Lady Althea.

  Verity sat through the rest of the courses, plagued with doubts. Toying with her food, she wondered at the severity of Mr. Sedgewick’s displeasure. He had not even given her a chance to explain.

  Had he formed a tendre for the long-nosed Lady Althea? Unbidden, the marquess’s words came back to her. Your Mr. Sedgewick is toadying quite dreadfully to Lady Althea and her mother in the hopes of obtaining a living. Naturally, Verity thought bitterly, if this were true it would not do for Mr. Sedgewick to be seen continuing a friendship with another lady. Perhaps he simply wished to cut their connection.

  She glanced at Lord Carrisworth. He was speaking to Louisa, seated on his other side. Verity’s brows came together abruptly. Was not Louisa leaning awfully close to the marquess?

  In fact, as Verity glanced around the table, it suddenly seemed as if several couples were brushing hands or exchanging speaking looks. Voices grew louder and giddy laughter filled the room. How singular.

  Eventually the meal ended and, as one, the gentlemen decided to forgo their port. Everyone retired to the gold drawing room, where due to a miracle wrought by a horde of servants, the furniture had been removed so there might be dancing.

  Louisa entered the room, clinging to Lord Peter’s arm. He shouted to the musicians, “A waltz!” Immediately, the floor was filled with swaying couples. Lord Peter grabbed Louisa in what he thought was a masterful way and led her onto the floor. Since he secretly thought of himself as a blond Lord Byron, he stared morosely down at Louisa while they danced.

  Verity’s mouth dropped open as she watched Louisa gazing up at the young man seductively.

  Suddenly, Gloria was at Verity’s side with her husband. “My dear Verity, Charles and I must leave. I shall call on you.”

  “I should like that, Gloria,” Verity replied.

  “Let us go now, Excellent,” Lord Northbridge commanded and led his unprotesting wife quickly out of the room.

  Lady Althea was dancing with Mr. Sedgewick. Every moment or so, she let out a scream of laughter that filled the room with its intensity. Verity was shocked down to her soul to see Mr. Sedgewick holding Lady Althea much more closely than was proper.

  Verity was not the only one noticing the change in the guests. Lord Carrisworth leaned against the fireplace, taking in the scene with an amused expression on his handsome face. One would almost think some of Lady Iris’s potion had been served the assembly, he thought.

  A look of alarm crossed his features. Then, he relaxed. No, he distinctly remembered ordering Millweed to dispose of the stuff. In any case, it would not do for the innocent Miss Pymbroke to remain in this company. He determined to find Lady Iris.

  In an unprecedented move, Lady Hyacinth had thrown off her shawls and was dancing with Lord Killigrew, who had lost his sour bulldog expression and was, instead, gazing at Lady Hyacinth like a young puppy.

  Verity pressed her fingers to her temples and decided everyone had gone mad.

  In a strange twist of circumstance, Lady Iris had not partaken of the turtle soup. She came up to Verity, saying loudly, “Hyacinth never could leave anything in breeches alone. And just look at your sister. Once a slut, always a slut.”

  Verity looked in the direction Lady Iris indicated and gasped. Louisa and Lord Peter had stolen behind a potted plant, not quite out of view, and were locked in each other’s arms.

  Lady Iris snorted and banged her cane on the floor. “Dash my wig! This affair is turning into a disgrace. I’m going to fetch our cloaks and get us out of here. Oh, good. Carrisworth, stand guard over Verity until I return. Great bunch of people here acting mad. I don’t know what’s gotten into ’em.”

  Verity fought to control her swirling emotions. Her eyes had taken on the blank look of one in shock. The marquess gently led her out into the empty hall. “If you concentrate, Miss Pymbroke, you can hear the music out here.” He bowed formally and whispered, “May I have this dance?”

  Numbly, Verity stepped toward him, and then stopped, glancing nervously around her. Her voice weak, she said, “My lord, the rules of proper behavior state a lady would never dance with a partner alone in a deserted hall.”

  Paying no attention to this protest, Lord Carrisworth placed one arm about her waist and grasped her gloved hand in his. The effect of being so close to him caused a delicious shudder of heat to race th
rough her veins and made her frozen blood thaw.

  A hot ache grew in her throat.

  The marquess’s hand tightened on the small of her back. They stared at each other, both suddenly having difficulty breathing.

  From the drawing room. Lady Lexham’s voice rang out. “Peter! Take your hands off that trollop!”

  Verity blinked her eyes rapidly and broke away from his arms. “My lord, my sister... I must take her away.”

  Damn! Always her sister or Cecil Sedgewick or her bloody principles!

  “Yes, the discreet Mrs. Barrington,” he ground out. “Now there is an example of your earlier assertions. What was it again? Ah yes, ladies do not have the same lusts and passions as men.” Turning on his heel, he strode back into the drawing room.

  Verity watched him go, her eyes wide, her heart pounding furiously in her chest. “I believe they do after all,” she whispered with dawning realization to the uncaring balustrade.

  Chapter Seven

  Clad in a lawn nightdress with ribbons at the ruffled neck, Verity sat in bed drinking her morning chocolate.

  Hearing the sound of paws scratching on the bedside table, she turned her head and saw Empress standing on her hind legs. The cat stretched a dainty paw out in an effort to capture the ribbon tied on the miniature Verity had found in her father’s room.

  “Empress! No!” Placing the breakfast tray aside, Verity reached over and picked up the miniature.

  The silver-colored cat leaped across the table, upending a thankfully unlit candle, and onto the bed. She jumped across Verity’s lap to chase the dangling ribbon. The dishes on the breakfast tray rattled noisily, threatening to spill across the olive green coverlet.

  “You may not have it,” Verity said and chuckled. She quickly opened the drawer of the table and popped the miniature inside, slamming the compartment shut in front of the frustrated cat’s face. There followed a five-minute session of patting, stroking, and complimenting before she could restore Empress’s equanimity.

  During this time, Verity pondered over the lady of the miniature, their father’s mistress. Louisa had said she was Mary Jennings, the actress. Had her father loved

  the woman? Or had he simply been running away from the responsibilities of his family?

  Verity leaned back against her pillows and closed her eyes, still stroking Empress. For some inexplicable reason her thoughts veered sharply to the marquess. Had it been kindness that motivated him to try to shield her from the scandalous goings-on in the Lexhams’ drawing room by taking her in his arms for that waltz in the hall?

  Despite all her resolutions to keep her distance from him, she seemed destined to cross his path. And what was worse, she was not as adverse to his company as her sensible side felt she ought to be.

  Was it possible he cared about her? His actions at the Lexhams, as well as that dreadful masked ball, seemed to indicate he did.

  But of course, a little voice sneered in her brain, a rake knew just how to manage his victim. After the masked ball, while in his carriage, had he not extracted a price for his services in the form of that never-to-be-forgotten kiss?

  “I’ve pressed the white-striped muslin gown, miss,” Betty said, entering the room. “Are you ready to dress for Lord Davies’s visit?”

  Opening her eyes, Verity threw off the bedcover and said, “Yes, thank you, Betty. I had almost forgotten Lord Davies will be here at ten.”

  The maid removed the breakfast tray while her mistress washed and then helped her dress. “You’ll need to wear the pink garters today, miss. The red silk ones need mending.”

  “Very well,” Verity said. Her mind was already on what she would discuss with Lord Davies. She hoped he would be receptive to her thoughts on how Society could help fallen women.

  Finished dressing, Verity walked out of the room to go downstairs. Betty gathered her mistress’s clothing for laundering. She didn’t notice when one red silk garter slid to the floor.

  Empress, ever alert, sprang from the bed where she’d been watching the proceedings and pounced on the frilly garter. Holding it in her mouth by one of its ribbons, the cat paraded from the room.

  * * * *

  The Marquess of Carrisworth sat alone on a marble bench in Verity’s garden reading the Times. He had just come in from his now customary early morning ride in the Park, and after changing clothes had found himself drawn back to the sunny outdoors. Amazing, he thought, how keeping a clear head the night before resulted in feeling fit in the morning.

  “My lord,” an elderly voice croaked from the doorway, “I thought I understood it to be one of Miss Pymbroke’s rules that you not use her back garden.”

  His lordship lowered the newspaper and turned to scowl at Mr. Wetherall. “Miss Pymbroke has too many rules. Besides, what harm can there be in sitting out among these beautiful roses?”

  The old valet’s left eye twitched, and he came outside to stand over the marquess like a stern father. “The flowers are pretty. They’ve been raised well. Just like the young lady. Tempting she is, like being out here when you’re not supposed to.”

  Lord Carrisworth’s expression grew chilly. “I always do just as I please, and you know it.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Mr. Wetherall agreed. “Anyhow, what I hear from the servants about Miss Pymbroke tells me she’s a right one, good-hearted, too. Cared for her Mama

  until the end and never complained about not attending balls and parties and such.”

  The marquess took his gaze from the valet’s piercing eyes and examined a rose close to the bench where he was seated. Putting the newspaper aside, he reached out, pulled the flower to him, and drew in its potent fragrance. He suddenly recalled Miss Pymbroke wore a light rose-scented perfume. “What is your point, man? You are wasting your breath if you think to tell me the lady is not to be toyed with. I already know it.”

  Mr. Wetherall’s wrinkled face was expressionless. “Of course, my lord. Miss Pymbroke is, as you say, the type you would marry.”

  “I never said that, you old devil!” Lord Carrisworth responded in a fit of acute aggravation. “I shall never marry.” But he spoke to the valet’s retreating back.

  “By God, was ever a man so plagued? My own servant has turned matchmaker.” The marquess jerked the flower, pulling it from its stem. “Damn me,” he said through gritted teeth. A particularly large thorn had objected to his treatment of the blossom, resulting in a line of blood across Lord Carrisworth’s palm.

  Using his handkerchief to clean his hand, he was reminded of the day he first met the angelic Miss Pymbroke and her adorably outraged reaction when he had acted as if he would kiss her thorn-pricked finger. How prim and proper she had been. Such a contrast to the way she had behaved in his carriage. His lordship groaned in frustration at the memory.

  As if to underline Verity’s passionate side, Empress appeared balancing on the wall of the garden, the red silk garter clamped in her jaws. Spying the marquess, she made a magnificent jump down to the ground and padded gracefully over to where he sat, dragging the garter with her. Reaching him, she stood on her delicate hind legs and deposited the red silk garter in his lap.

  “Good God, first a matchmaking servant and now a matchmaking cat.” Lord Carrisworth rolled his eyes. “I assume this belongs to Mrs. Barrington?”

  Empress’s whiskers turned down. She removed her front paws from where they had been resting on his lordship’s buff pantaloons. Standing on the ground, she glared at him and, as if in extreme distaste, she shook her right front paw.

  The marquess observed these actions and interpreted them as a negative. “You mean to tell me this belongs to Miss Pymbroke?”

  “Miaow,” Empress promptly answered, her fluffy tail swaying sinuously.

  “Yes, now that I think on it, as unlikely as it might at first seem, I believe you.”

  Hastily, the marquess rose to his feet and balled up the piece of silk, thrusting it into his pocket. Irrationally, he felt it would scorch his hand if he continue
d holding it. Intent on returning the lacy scrap to its owner, he strode through the glass doors, across the cheerful yellow morning room, into the hall, and out the front door. Just in time to see a smiling Miss Pymbroke being driven away by Lord Davies in his high-perch phaeton in the direction of the Park.

  Lord Carrisworth retreated into the house and slammed the front door, startling the butler. “Have my carriage brought round, Digby,” he barked out.

  The marquess paced the black-and-white tiled hallway, slapping his gloves against his thigh. He would drive after them and discover what Miss Pymbroke was about, allowing herself to be escorted by the dandified baron. She was such an innocent. Evidently she had not learned her lesson regarding Lord Davies that day at the theater. How the man could even see Verity over his ridiculously high shirt points was beyond imagination, he reflected in disgust.

  A few minutes passed while he waited for his vehicle, during which time his temper gradually cooled. Reason asked him what he was doing storming after the chit tike a jealous lover. Her activities were nothing to do with him. He had no right. He had nothing to offer her.

  Well, that wasn’t precisely true. He had something he was aching to offer her. But it wasn’t marriage, the only proposition he could respectably make.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered. Seeing his tiger outside with the carriage at last, he made up his mind. “White’s,” he shouted, climbing into the vehicle.

  An afternoon of drinking and gaming at his club was what he needed. Imagine, a man of the town like himself growing maudlin over a proper young miss. Ridiculous!

  Watching from the landing above, Mr. Wetherall thought he’d never seen his normally languid lordship so agitated. He rubbed his wrinkled old hands together gleefully, cackling with laughter as he turned to make his way down the corridor.

  * * * *