Miss Pymbroke's Rules

by Rosemary Stevens

  “Louisa, you must not say such things,” Verity said faintly.

  The widow took a menacing step toward her. “And you, my meddling Mouse, will keep out of my affairs from this second forward. Do I make myself clear?”

  Verity felt sick. She realized that what Lady Iris had been telling her all along about Louisa was true. “I understand,” she replied sadly.

  Louisa flashed her a look of disdain. “A martyr to the bitter end.”

  At the look on her sister’s face, Verity took a step backward and stumbled. Her arms flailed out at her sides, and she landed in the gravel on her posterior.

  At that moment, the nearby sounds of drunken male laughter floated on the air. Louisa’s stormy gray eyes narrowed. In a second they would be upon them. Without another look toward her sister’s plight, Louisa turned and ran away down the path, just as three very drunk young men, looking for a girl to drag off into the shrubbery, appeared.

  Alarmed, Verity opened her mouth and called for help.

  * * * *

  At almost the same time Verity, Lady Hyacinth, and Lord Davies had first arrived at Vauxhall, the Marquess of Carrisworth had entered the gardens looking satanic. His hellish mood had nothing to do with seeing Miss Pymbroke riding off with Lord Davies. No, he told himself. He was no longer in the grip of jealousy that had sent him to his club to become foxed. That little episode over his frustrating landlady, so out of character for him, he chalked up to his body being unused to sobriety. He was quite himself again—carefree and in absolute control of his emotions.

  Another matter was currently making him feel nettled. He had made the fatal mistake of going to Roxanna after hours of heavy drinking. Nothing had happened, and looking back on it now, he decided it had been simply boredom that had led him to her house.

  In any event, the woman had clung to him like ivy ever since. For some incomprehensible reason, Roxanna had insisted on personally returning him to the house in South Audley Street, and had then remained with him, despite several broad hints to the contrary, once he had regained clear thinking. His temper had been tried beyond measure by the cunning actress’s blatant desire to reestablish herself as his mistress. Finally, he had decided that taking her out would be the only way of eventually ridding himself of her that night.

  “Perry, darling, did you send a servant ahead to reserve a box?” Roxanna’s arm tightened on his and her blue eyes were like sapphires in the dark.

  “Yes, though what Rupert will say if news of this outing reaches his ears, I cannot think. I would not countenance the defection of any lady under my protection,” the marquess answered resolutely, guiding her in the lamplight toward the South Walk. He led her into a large box, which was decorated with paintings, and ordered sliced ham and champagne.

  “I swear I don’t care what the duke knows, darling,” she whispered, reaching across and placing her fingers on top of his. “I am the happiest of women when we are together and long to be joined as we once were.”

  The marquess took his gaze from the invitation in her eyes. And found his friend, Sir Ramsey, at the entrance to his box. “Randy, well met. Do join us,” he said in a relieved voice.

  Roxanna’s lips thinned at this intrusion.

  Sir Ramsey gave the actress a brief bow and entered the box, signaling to a waiter for another glass. He sighed heavily. “I tell you. Perry, I’ve had the most devilish luck this night. I was engaging in a bit of dalliance on the Dark Walk, and right when things were getting interesting, the lady was pulled from my arms by an outraged relative.”

  “You have my sympathy,” the marquess said and grinned wolfishly.

  Sir Ramsey drained his glass, noticing the frustrated expression on Roxanna’s face. “Hey, now, I’m not playing gooseberry here, am I?”

  “Not at all. I’m glad to see you,” Lord Carrisworth answered, ignoring Roxanna’s obvious anger. He sat back in his chair to relax, but immediately leaned forward, staring at the woman who’d appeared in front of them. A quick and disturbing thought presented itself in his brain.

  “Good evening, Lord Carrisworth. How delightful to see you. Randy, I’m ready to leave now.” Louisa patted her pale blonde hair, totally at her ease after leaving her sister alone to be ravaged. She ignored Roxanna, perceiving at once the woman was beneath her notice.

  Sir Ramsey rose. “We’re off then.”

  As if holding a raw emotion in check, the marquess spoke stiffly. “Mrs. Barrington, is your sister here?”

  A chill black silence ensued until Louisa found her voice. “Yes, Mouse, is with, er, a friend.” Looking into Lord Carrisworth’s furious green eyes, she felt as if a hand had closed over her throat. A nervous laugh escaped her.

  “Where is she?” the marquess’s voice was icy.

  Grabbing Sir Ramsey’s arm, Louisa pulled him from the box. “The Dark Walk, my lord,” she babbled, anxious to get away from what she feared might grow into a terrible scene.

  But she need not have worried. At her words, Lord Carrisworth bolted out of the box shouting, “Take Roxanna home, Randy!” and, not waiting to see how Louisa would react to the insult of being conveyed in the same vehicle as an actress, raced down the walkway, deftly avoiding the couples strolling there.

  Meanwhile, Lord Davies, lounging against a tree, had heard Verity’s cry for help. He made a move in her direction and then frowned. Perhaps it was not Miss Pymbroke’s voice he’d heard call out in distress after all. He ran a hand through his wiry red hair and considered the matter. A few seconds later, he decided that, indeed, it was most probably Miss Pymbroke’s voice, but, still, there was no sense risking his boots for any female.

  Then he heard a strong masculine voice coming from somewhere to his right. “Miss Pymbroke! ’Tis I, Carrisworth. Where are you? Miss Pymbroke!”

  Lord Davies’s brain worked quickly. Here was his opportunity to further Roxanna’s plan. Thinking ruefully of his precious boots, he plunged down the path and moments later, came upon the scene.

  The three drunken bloods of the ton were taunting Verity. She had scrambled to her feet, with her back to the shrubbery, and was defending herself by kicking wildly at anyone who came close. One young man was clutching his leg while howling in pain.

  At Lord Davies’s appearance, they apparently decided to look for easier sport, and with a few final suggestions as to what the gentleman could do with the lady, they ran off.

  Lord Davies successfully hid his disgust. His manner all solicitous, he extended a hand to Verity. “Miss Pymbroke, are you all right?”

  Verity accepted his hand and stepped forward shakily. Her eyes were still glazed with fear. “Lord Davies, thank heavens you arrived when you did. I do not know how much longer I could hold them off.” Her words ended with a tiny sob.

  The baron put an arm around her shoulders to support her. Gad, when would Carrisworth find them? “I am all admiration at your bravery, dearest girl.”

  Allowing him to keep his arm about her, Verity looked up at him. “I am not so brave, sir. I confess to feeling a trifle wobbly.”

  Hearing the sounds of footsteps pounding down the walkway, Lord Davies pulled Verity closer and kissed her full on the mouth.

  Sagging against him, Verity could not believe what was happening. Too shocked to move, she remained passive in his arms.

  And that is how the marquess saw her, locked in Lord Davies’s arms, a seemingly willing participant to his lovemaking.

  Chapter Eight

  It was late. Thick bands of fog invaded Vauxhall, casting the scene on the Dark Walk in a murky yellow.

  “Davies, it appears you have won the lady after all. I suppose I should not have warned you off that day in the Green Room,” the Marquess of Carrisworth drawled. His lazy voice was a contradiction to the blazing anger in his eyes.

  Verity was barely aware of Lord Carrisworth’s arrival. She freed herself from the baron by pushing against his chest with all her might. Her eyes filled with tears of frustration and humiliation. “H
ow dare you, sir?”

  Lord Davies looked from Miss Pymbroke’s outraged face to the marquess’s dangerous expression. He evidently viewed the lady as less likely to do injury to his person. “Forgive me, my dear. You led me to believe my attentions would not be unwelcome.” With this whopping great lie, he made a jerking bow and disappeared into the fog.

  Verity stared after him, unable to believe her ears. And only this morning, her trust in him had grown to the point where she accepted his escort on a drive to the Park.

  “How fickle you are, Miss Pymbroke,” Lord Carrisworth said. “And how our roles have reversed. Here I am reminding you of the impropriety of bestowing your kisses haphazardly, while you behave like a light-skirt ... or perhaps I should say like your sister. It must run in the family.”

  Verity stood very still. While she was certain he had not meant to, the marquess’s words made her think of her father. She raised her eyes to him and the tears she had held rigidly in check coursed down her cheeks. “I-I never encouraged Lord Davies. He saved me from th-three odious young men wh-who were ... and then he ... oh!”

  The marquess produced a large handkerchief and handed it to her. The sight of her small figure tormented, and clearly scandalized, gave him pause. But wait. Had not his mother always resorted to tears when his father had grown angry with her?

  Uncertain what to believe, he stood irresolute. Part of him wanted to drag Miss Pymbroke into his arms and comfort her, but the other part did not. Bitterly, he realized it was easy enough for him to draw a female into his arms for seduction, but now under the influence of tender emotions he felt frozen.

  He saw she was drying her eyes and attempting to regain her composure, assuming a saintly mien, which was rather marred by a reddened nose.

  “I had forgot,” she said. “You are too self-absorbed to think of anyone else’s feelings, and you have none yourself,” she declared as one stating a plain truth.

  The marquess felt himself relax. Of course his prim landlady would not have permitted Lord Davies to kiss her. Nor would she lie. He would have something to say to the baron on the morrow. The dastard.

  He reached out and tenderly smoothed a curl from her face. “You amaze me, my avenging angel,” he told her and pressed his hand to his heart. “I am all feeling. In truth, it would please me to show you, but, with what you have been through tonight, if I did so I would prove a coarse creature indeed.”

  “Thank you! You are all that is kind.” To further her irritation, he suddenly chuckled. She longed to hit him. “If you would be so good to help me, my lord, I must find Lady Hyacinth.”

  Lord Carrisworth raised a dark eyebrow. “Why was Lady Hyacinth not with you?”

  Verity looked down at her slippers as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. In a low voice she explained. “The servants told me Louisa had gone to Vauxhall with Sir Ramsey. I felt I needed to find her, and Lady Hyacinth offered to come with me. Lord Davies escorted us. When we arrived, I saw Louisa with Sir Ramsey and I followed them. That is when I was separated from Lady Hyacinth.”

  The marquess felt he could imagine Mrs. Barrington’s anger at the interruption. But to leave her sister alone on the notorious Dark Walk—strumpet!

  “Come, Miss Pymbroke,” he said, adjusting the black gauze mantle about her shoulders and then offering her his arm. “We shall no doubt find Lady Hyacinth indulging in some of Vauxhall’s famous ham and their rack punch.”

  She accepted his arm and smiled up at him.

  Lord Carrisworth’s heart swelled with an emotion he had not thought himself capable. He brutally pushed the feeling aside.

  They searched for Lady Hyacinth for almost half an hour, the increasingly thick fog hampering their efforts. Finally, they came upon her ladyship, seated in a box with Lord Killigrew, tucking into a large helping of ham. The elderly lord’s bulldog face was sulky because he had been unable to budge Lady Hyacinth away from her food so he might steal a kiss.

  Lady Hyacinth waved her fork at them. “There you are, Verity, dear child. Oh, you are with Lord Carrisworth. That’s all right and tight then.”

  They took their leave of Lord Killigrew, and her ladyship babbled on about Vauxhall all the way home in the marquess’s Town coach, never once questioning the whereabouts of Lord Davies.

  Both Lord Carrisworth and Verity were quiet.

  Verity was tired and upset over the events of the evening. Upon arriving home, she was relieved to find Lady Iris had not yet returned from the Grahams’ musicale.

  Betty helped her mistress into a scanty lace shift, informing her anxiously that she had somehow lost one of miss’s red silk garters. Verity dismissed her concern with a yawn. Exhaustion overcame her and she was asleep the minute her head rested upon the pillow.

  Next door, lying in Verity’s bed under her pink coverlet, the marquess was not so fortunate. He stared up at the pink and white bed hangings, unable to sleep.

  Mr. Wetherall had been frosty upon his return. The servant’s eye twitched convulsively as he reminded his master of the indiscretion he had committed by bringing Roxanna Hollings into the house. Furthermore, when he had taken his lordship’s morning coat belowstairs to be brushed, he had been shocked to find a lady’s red silk garter in the pocket.

  The marquess had snatched the scrap of silk from the valet’s fingers and tossed it onto the dressing table, curtly dismissing the servant for the night.

  Only after he was alone did he allow his thoughts to return to his feelings for Miss Pymbroke. No, it would not do. He was not the man for her, even though he judged she was not indifferent to him. She was too innocent, too good to align herself with such as him. Besides, he reminded himself firmly, he would never marry and subject himself to the random whims of a woman’s heart.

  * * * *

  The morning of the Tremaines’ ball, Verity stood in the hall of Lady Iris and Lady Hyacinth’s house. The dressmaker had just delivered her ball gown, the one Lady Iris had commissioned in gold silk.

  “Oh, my lady, thank you. It is the most beautiful dress I have ever owned.” Verity was struck with awe. The material shimmered like liquid gold. Gold silk roses, embroidered in gold thread, adorned the bodice, the tiny puffed sleeves, and the full hem.

  Lady Iris eyed the gown critically and finally pronounced it acceptable. “Have you any jewelry to go with it, gel?’

  Verity’s eyes opened wide in delight. “Mama’s hair combs, the ones set with yellow topaz stones, will be the very thing.” Then, she frowned. “Only I am quite certain I left them in my dressing table next door. I suppose the marquess would not mind the intrusion if I sent Betty—

  A crafty look came into Lady Iris’s eyes. “Betty is busy helping Beecham repair one of my gowns. Run next door yourself. You needn’t worry about Carrisworth. I saw him ride off earlier.” Lady Iris felt no need to tell her young friend she had also seen his lordship return some fifteen minutes ago. The two needed a bit of prodding, she thought impatiently. Lawks, it was already May. They should be announcing their betrothal by now!

  Verity folded the gown and replaced it in the box. “I had better be quick then, before the marquess returns.”

  Placing the box on a nearby table, she went out the front door.

  Lady Iris’s face creased into a smile. She began climbing the stairs on her way to the drawing room when she saw Empress standing at the top of the stairs, gazing down at her. The cat’s tail swayed back and forth sinuously, and the expression on her face was one of a coconspirator.

  Reaching her pet, Lady Iris bent down and scratched Empress’s crowned head. “Not quite as drastic as burning down his townhouse, but with any luck, it might prove interesting.”

  Had Lady Iris but known it, she had yet another cohort in her plans for the marquess and Verity. Mr. Wetherall happened to be passing through the hall when Verity knocked. He opened the door wide and recognized her at once. “Good morning, Miss Pymbroke. I am Mr. Wetherall, Lord Carrisworth’s valet. May I be of assi
stance?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wetherall,” Verity said, entering the house. “I do not wish to disturb anyone. It is only that I have left something in my dressing table I wish to retrieve. I understand his lordship is away from home, so I thought I might just run up and get it.”

  A good servant knew how to keep his expression a perfect blank. “Of course, miss. Please go ahead.”

  Verity smiled at the old man and then hurried up the stairs.

  Mr. Wetherall raised a shaking, veined hand to his brow. Never had he been so blind to the conventions. But, he told himself, the circumstance of seeing that actress Roxanna Hollings in the house yesterday had driven him to extreme measures. He staggered under the weight of his duplicity down to the butler’s sitting room, where he was sure a glass of wine would restore his equanimity.

  Upstairs, after throwing open the door to her old bedchamber, Verity quickly crossed the room to the dressing table. Abruptly, she stopped short, staring down at her missing red silk garter resting on the smooth surface. “How on earth—

  “So, Empress was correct. It is yours,” a lazy voice drawled.

  Verity whirled around. The Marquess of Carrisworth lounged in a bath situated in a corner not ten feet away. His manner did not indicate any uneasiness at finding himself stark naked in the presence of a lady. Instead, his face held an expression of unholy amusement.

  Verity’s breath caught in her lungs. She stared, saucer-eyed, and tried to speak, but could not. How muscular his chest and shoulders were! Oh! She must not look. But, unbelievably, she could not stop herself.

  “I must say, Miss Pymbroke,” he said casually, ignoring her confusion and discomfort, “my imagination ran rampant when Empress brought me your garter. Tell me, why does such a proper young lady possess such an enticing piece of silk?” His green eyes sparkled.

  Ooooh! Empress and her ribbon fetish. How dare the marquess mention . . . this was insupportable. Verity made as if to move toward the door.