Miss Pymbroke's Rules

by Rosemary Stevens

  Lord Carrisworth placed both hands on the sides of the huge copper basin and slowly began to rise. “If you try to leave before you have answered my question, I shall stand up.”

  Verity froze. Averting her head, she answered him in a stilted voice. “If you must know, I enjoy feminine undergarments, my lord. Please, I merely came here for some combs I left in my dressing table. I thought you were out riding.”

  The marquess waved a hand negligently, causing some water to splash on the floor, but his gaze never left her. “Ah, red silk. I knew all along you were a romantic. But, please, do not let me distract you from your task.”

  A naked gentleman a distraction? Verity felt a nervous giggle rise in her throat. Suppressing it, she turned around awkwardly. While doing so, her treacherous gaze rested for a moment on the light covering of dark hair across his lordship’s chest. A new and unexpected warmth surged through her. Confused and shaking, she turned away. Snatching the garter from the table, she jerked open the drawer and grabbed the combs.

  Clutching the articles in a trembling hand, she averted her gaze from his lordship and dashed for the door. Racing down the hallway, her cheeks burning, she heard the marquess’s laughter. There was no sign of Mr. Wetherall downstairs—never again would she place the slightest confidence in him—and, so, she let herself out, mercifully unnoticed.

  Bursting into the hall of Lady Iris and Lady Hyacinth’s, Verity came face to face with Gloria, Countess of Northbridge, who was handing Bingwood her card. The butler said, “There you are, miss. I was just going to say you were not at home. Lady Iris informed me you had gone next door to the Marquess of Carrisworth’s house.”

  The countess raised an elegant eyebrow and gazed speculatively at her new friend. “Why, Verity, you are looking overset. Have I called at an inopportune time?”

  Verity gathered her shaken wits. She crammed the combs and the garter in her pocket. Dismissing the butler, she held out both hands to her guest saying, “Not at all, Gloria. In fact, I had hoped to see you yesterday.”

  “Do forgive me,” the countess begged, accepting Verity’s outstretched hands and giving them an affectionate squeeze. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I hope you are not offended by plain speaking. You see, I was with the physician, hoping he would confirm my suspicions that I might soon be providing Charles with the heir he longs for. But, alas, the doctor said he did not believe me to be with child.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry.”

  The countess shook her head and smiled. “Do not be. It is my experience that women know more about these things than even the doctors. It is early days and I still have hope. Now, I did not come here to talk of myself. I hear Perry is to escort you and the Ladies Iris and Hyacinth to the Tremaines’ ball this evening. Charles and I are going as well. We shall have such fun.”

  Verity tried to hide her dismay from Gloria’s intelligent gaze. How could she face the marquess again so soon after this morning’s embarrassing episode? Putting a smile on her face, she said, “I am glad to hear you will be attending. But, you must think me rag-mannered, indeed. Let us go up to the drawing room for some tea. We can discuss the ball there.”

  “Yes, and I shall show you the steps of the waltz. It is most romantic,” Gloria assured her.

  The two women linked arms and climbed the stairs. Each was busy with her own thoughts.

  At Gloria’s offer, Verity’s mind flashed back to the night of the Lexhams’ turtle dinner when the marquess had “waltzed” with her in the hall. Really, he had done no more than hold her in his arms, so Gloria’s instruction would be welcome. What was not welcome was the memory of the warm feelings Lord Carrisworth had roused in her that night... as well as only moments ago.

  After seeing his lordship in his bath, Verity could not banish the vision of the marquess’s bare chest from her brain. It seemed every encounter with him left her dizzy with an emotion she could not name. Well, that was not exactly true. Certainly she could name annoyance and frustration. But underneath them was this other feeling. The one that frightened her. The one she closed her mind to as she led the countess upstairs.

  The Countess of Northbridge was thinking that if Verity had really, as the butler had indicated, come from Perry’s house, it was fascinating intelligence indeed. The girl’s cheeks had been quite pink. What could be going on?

  While Perry liked to give the impression he was a rattle, Gloria had long ago determined he had a code of honor as strict as any gentleman. Never would he seduce a young innocent like Verity. Which meant his interest in her must be serious. How wonderful it would be for Charles’s best friend to finally settle down. She could hardly wait to see them together tonight so she might judge for herself.

  * * * *

  Impeccably garbed in a dark brown evening coat over a white waistcoat and cream-colored knee breeches, the Marquess of Carrisworth stood in Lady Iris’s drawing room waiting for Miss Pymbroke.

  He had greeted the ladies warmly, with the exception of Mrs. Barrington, to whom he gave only a chilly nod. The widow, striking in a ruby-colored gown with ruby stones at her ears and neck, had ground her teeth at the slight.

  Lady Hyacinth, wrapped in a colorful cashmere shawl, was sipping wine and munching a biscuit.

  Lady Iris was clad in an old-fashioned hooped gown of dark green. Beneath her high white wig, her face was covered in its usual white paint, and she wore a heart-shaped patch by her mouth. “I don’t know what’s keeping Verity,” she fibbed. For Lady Iris had given strict instructions to Beecham to delay the girl’s arrival downstairs so she might make an entrance in front of Carrisworth.

  Then, Bingwood opened the double doors and Verity stood framed in the doorway. As Lady Iris had known it would, the gold-colored gown set off Verity’s figure and coloring to perfection. Her hair had been fashioned into an elegant style with curls falling from her mother’s jeweled combs. Long white gloves encased her arms, and a gold chain encircled her neck. Her velvet-brown eyes shone with excitement, the preparations for the ball pushing aside her fears of meeting the marquess again. “I do apologize for keeping everyone waiting. Beecham would not stop fussing over my hair.”

  When she entered the room, Lord Carrisworth thought he had never seen her more beautiful. He deliberately let his gaze travel down her body. “Miss Pymbroke—” he began, but broke off as an arrested expression came over his face.

  Bowing to the ladies, he said, “Excuse me for just one moment, please.”

  He walked quickly out the door while everyone looked at one another in confusion. In a few short minutes he returned, and walked directly to Verity.

  Standing close to her, he could smell her rose perfume. “For this one night, you must forget Society’s rule regarding the nature of a gift a gentleman may give a lady. When I saw these, I knew they were meant for only you.”

  Paying no attention to the bewildered expression on Verity’s face, he reached out and clasped a yellow topaz eardrop on first one ear, then the other. Staring into her startled eyes, he whispered, “You truly are an angel, my landlady.”

  Seeming to recall where he was, he stepped back and moved away rather quickly. He poured himself a glass of wine.

  “Oh,” gasped Lady Hyacinth. “Dear child, the yellow topaz matches your Mama’s combs and is ideal with your hair and gown.” She and Lady Iris exchanged optimistic glances.

  Verity stood too emotion-filled to speak. The touch of Lord Carrisworth’s firm fingers against the softness of her neck and ears had caused an intense craving to fill her body. She wanted him to pull her into his arms then and there. That he had thought of her, had purchased something simply because he judged it would compliment her, sent her spirits soaring. For a moment her strict observation of the rules of Society battled with her growing feelings for the marquess.

  Her heart won. She walked over to the mirror and viewed the beautiful eardrops. “Thank you, my lord. I shall agree to forgo the conventions for tonight.”

  “What a relief f
or us all, I’m sure,” Louisa said derisively.

  Verity’s happiness crumbled. She turned away from the glass and stared at the carpet. Her sister had avoided her assiduously since Vauxhall, giving the impression she wanted nothing further to do with her. Verity felt the loss acutely.

  Lord Carrisworth eyed the widow with dislike.

  Suddenly, Louisa let out a shrill cry. “The monster! Look what that horrible animal has done to my gown!”

  All eyes turned to where Empress, with a length of ruby-colored ribbon dangling from her mouth, sat wearing an expression that defied anyone to challenge her royal catliness. She had obviously unwound the ribbon from the hem of Louisa’s gown.

  Lady Iris barked a laugh. She bent and, from long experience, retrieved the ribbon easily. “Empress, what are we to do with you,” she scolded halfheartedly.

  “I can tell you,” Louisa said, her gray eyes like granite. “A trip to the river with a stone tied around its neck is what that cat needs.”

  As one, the company glared at Louisa in disapproval. The marquess raised his quizzing glass and studied her. “You know, Mrs. Barrington, in ancient Egypt the penalty for killing a cat was death.”

  “Makes good sense to me,” Lady Iris responded roundly. “And what’s more, I’m not going to wait while Beecham repairs that gown or you decide to change. You can send a message to one of your flirts to escort you to the Tremaines’. Come along, Carrisworth, let us take our leave.”

  Verity hesitated but a moment before following the others.

  Empress trailed after them downstairs. Lady Iris left orders for her pet to be given a dish of cream in the kitchens and kept there until she returned from the ball. “Not that Louisa would dare harm a hair on Empress, but the servants tend to coddle the cat and she’ll be better off there than alone while I’m gone.”

  The marquess and Verity exchanged a look behind Lady Iris’s back which clearly expressed the view in both their minds that Lady Iris herself had spoiled Empress. They shared a smile.

  Despite the unpleasantness with Louisa, it was a jovial party that rode in the utmost luxury in Lord Carrisworth’s traveling coach. The Duke and Duchess of Tremaine were holding their party at their manor house, which was a few miles outside of London, and the marquess believed the distance was best covered in comfort. He served the ladies wine from a sort of cupboard fixed in one side of the coach and amused them with the latest on dits.

  In the dim light inside the coach, Verity thought it wickedly unjust that the marquess should appear so handsome. Her fingers moved to caress the eardrops he had given—no, lent—her. While she had agreed to ignore the conventions for this night, she would return the jewelry in the morning. With a sigh she realized she would do so with no small amount of regret.

  A short time later, the coach wound its way down a long, curving drive. The large, sprawling manor house built in the Elizabethan style that sprang into view was an impressive reflection of power and prestige.

  Lady Iris peered out of the coach window. “By George, this promises to be the greatest possible fun. The Duchess of Tremaine is holding the party on the roof!”

  Verity gasped in delight. “What a wonderful idea.”

  “Bless me,” Lady Hyacinth moaned, her plump hands flying to her cheeks. “I have the most dreadful fear of heights.”

  “For God’s sake then, Hyacinth, don’t look over the edge,” her sister instructed her crossly.

  A footman accompanied them when they made their way through the grand house and up the stairs, lit by torches.

  The duchess had ordered thick Oriental carpets to be laid on the rooftop. Stands of hothouse flowers were spread about, and cloth-covered tables held mountains of

  refreshments. A small orchestra played near a larger area that was being used for dancing. Bordering the roof were large stone pillars, turrets, and gargoyles. Above it all, the black sky presented a brilliant backdrop of glowing stars and a full moon.

  Lady Hyacinth looked around her wide-eyed. Lord Carrisworth placed an affectionate arm about her shoulders and said, “You see, my lady, there are footmen stationed two feet apart, like guards, around the perimeter of the roof so you may be secure.”

  Lady Hyacinth nodded. Gentlemen were so reassuring. “I suspect they are there to prevent tipsy guests from stumbling to their deaths. It does provide one with a great sense of safety.”

  Lady Iris grabbed her arm. “Come on. Let’s find the duke and duchess.”

  As they made their way over to where the Tremaines were greeting guests, Verity gazed up at the handsome marquess and smiled. He had handled Lady Hyacinth’s fears gallantly. Indeed, his lordship seemed full of consideration for others this night. Could it be he was not the care-for-nobody she had originally judged him?

  The Duke of Tremaine was a crabby old man of at least seventy years. In contrast, his wife was a thirtyish, vibrant woman with auburn hair who gazed at Lord Carrisworth with hungry eyes. Introductions were performed, and Verity curtsied low. She watched gloomily while the marquess flirted expertly with the duchess.

  The musicians struck up a waltz. Verity turned and found Beau Brummell, faultlessly attired in evening dress, at her side. He bowed to the ladies and nodded at Lord Carrisworth. “Miss Pymbroke, I have obtained permission for you to waltz from Lady Cowper, one of the patronesses of Almack’s. And you did promise me a dance.” He held out his arm expectantly.

  Verity accepted him with a backward glance at the marquess. Why could it not be Lord Carrisworth to twirl her about the floor? She then flushed, realizing the marquess was watching her with that teasing twinkle in his green eyes.

  Firmly pushing thoughts of Lord Carrisworth from her mind, she devoted herself to her conversation with Mr. Brummell and their dance. They exchanged pleasantries and then he said, “The duchess has a marvelous sense of style. When she realized the unusually warm weather was perfect for an outdoor party, she immediately ordered everything moved to the roof. Charming, is it not?”

  “Yes,” Verity replied distractedly. Her disobedient gaze had returned to the marquess who was leading the duchess out onto the floor. Verity felt her stomach knot when Lord Carrisworth placed a gloved hand at the lady’s waist.

  Mr. Brummell was not aware he had less than a captive audience. “Our dear duchess is a romantic, and what could be more suitable for intrigue and stolen kisses than a night under the stars?”

  Verity bit her lip as the lady laughed at something Lord Carrisworth had whispered into her ear. “Indeed,” she replied faintly.

  “There was already a bit of excitement before you arrived. Lady Althea announced her engagement.”

  Mr. Brummell had Verity’s attention now. In the most casual way she glanced around the company searching for the long-nosed Lady Althea. Although she knew the answer, she asked, “Pray, to who is the lady engaged?”

  “Cecil Sedgewick, an aspiring cleric. The Foxworths have given him a living. Lady Althea appears happy with her choice, and I believe it will be best for her. She is rather a domineering sort and Sedgewick seems willing enough to be under the cat’s paw.”

  Verity spotted the couple in question. Mr. Sedgewick was solicitously adjusting a shawl around his fiancée’s shoulders. For the first time, Verity realized that Cecil Sedgewick was a hypocrite. Oh, how he had pontificated on the evils of Society and the uncaring members of the Nobility! Yet here he was, engaged to one of its most pampered daughters. Lord Carrisworth had been correct regarding Mr. Sedgewick’s motivations. Well, Mr. Sedgewick had what he wanted now, and Verity wished Lady Althea the joy of him. That she had ever considered him desirable as a husband made her shudder.

  “You are not cold, are you, Miss Pymbroke?” Mr. Brummell inquired. The dance had ended and they were strolling toward Lady Iris.

  “No, thank you for asking, Mr. Brummell.”

  The Beau left her with a bow. Lady Iris tapped a closed fan against the palm of her hand while gazing about the gathering. “There is your slut of a sis
ter. She got Sir Ramsey to bring her here. Pah! She’s wasting her time on him. There’s no hope in that direction. The man’s too smart for her. You know, I can’t seem to find Hyacinth.”

  Verity took note of Louisa, hanging on Sir Ramsey’s arm, and then looked at Lady Iris in surprise. “My lady, could Lady Hyacinth have not simply, er, retired to the ladies withdrawing room for a moment?”

  “Perhaps. But she was with Lord Killigrew and I don’t like him. He looks like a dog on the hunt for a bone.” Her ladyship raised her fan and pointed it at Lord Carrisworth commandingly.

  The marquess bowed lo the duchess and came to their side, a brow raised in inquiry.

  “Carrisworth, Hyacinth’s missing. I want you to find her.”

  The marquess gazed at Lady Iris limpidly. “Missing? Did you look over the edge of the house?”

  Lady Iris bridled. “This is no time for funning. Killigrew is with her, and I suspect while my back was turned the dirty dog whisked her away downstairs.”

  “Very well. Come, Miss Pymbroke, I may need your help.” Before Verity could protest, he led her away without the slightest protest from Lady Iris.

  They made their way back down the torch-lit stairs. When they reached the bottom, Lord Carrisworth paused for a moment to study her. “Have you heard the news about your Mr. Sedgewick? Is your heart broken, Miss Pymbroke?”

  Verity pursed her lips. Her brown eyes sparkled when she replied. “I wish them happy.” Seeing the amused expression on his face she went on in a rush. “What do you want? For me to admit I was wrong about him and you were right?”

  The marquess grinned wolfishly. “That would be pleasant. But I owe you an apology. I did not live up to my part of our bargain when we agreed I should help you catch Mr. Sedgewick for yourself. I do most humbly beg your pardon.”

  “Fudge! You are not in the slightest bit sorry,” she told him.

  He acknowledged the truth of this with a nod of his head. “He was not the man for you, my landlady. You have too much spirit for a dull cleric. And one who does not live up to his principles.”