Her aunt’s affection for her late husband touched Fiona’s heart. In turn, Fiona told Honore of Lord Wesmont’s visit to the lake. She remained modestly obscure about the length and depth of his kisses.
Honore chuckled. “I cut my eye teeth some years ago, child. A simple scrutiny of your face speaks volumes where your words do not. He became passionate with you, did he not?”
Fiona nodded and exhaled slowly, some of her hidden anguish and humiliation flowed out as she did.
“And then?”
“Then his passion turned to anger.” Fiona recounted Tyrell’s scornful words as he galloped away. When she finished telling it, some of the shame left her. It no longer clawed at her like a hateful secret trapped in the dark pit of her stomach.
Honore cast a knowing eye over her niece. “I daresay, Lord Wesmont acted very badly.”
“Oh, but Aunt, don’t you see?” Fiona held out her hands, entreating her aunt to forgive him. “It was entirely my fault. I behaved improperly. I goaded him. I slapped him. When he kissed me, I ought to have resisted. But I didn’t. On the contrary, I wanted him to keep kissing me. Indeed, I hoped he would never stop, even though I knew it was wrong to indulge in such—such wanton behavior.”
Fiona’s cheeks flamed red and she feared a fresh bout of tears might overtake her. “I utterly failed to discipline my emotions, and now, not only must I bear this dreadful curse, but I have compromised myself as well.”
Honore’s lips clamped together into two stiff lines. Her eyelids lowered over dark boiling eyes. Then her face erupted and flamed majestically. “Oh for pity sake!” Her aunt’s voice boomed around the carriage as if thunder had just exploded right inside the coach. Fiona pressed her back against the cushions and held her breath.
“I refuse to hear any more about this wretched curse! Only ignorant Hottentots believe in curses. Do not speak of it again.”
Fiona squeaked out an answer. “Yes, my lady, I mean... no, my lady.”
“You will not utter another word about this curse nonsense! Have I made myself clear?”
Fiona nodded.
An invisible wind blew Honore’s features back into those of a concerned aunt. In silent astonishment, Fiona watched her aunt’s mercurial countenance transform.
“Now,” Honore’s voice softened back to normal. “You’ve misunderstood the situation, my dear. I didn’t say there was anything wrong with Wesmont kissing you. Indeed, under the circumstances, I should have thought him half dead had he not done so.”
Honore reached over and patted Fiona’s hand. “You certainly aren’t compromised, my dear. Believe me, there is far more to it than that.” She laughed gaily.
“But, he—”
“Good gracious child, if I’d married every man who’d kissed me, heavens, I’d have nearly two hundred husbands. What ridiculous rot.”
Fiona looked up at her aunt in confusion, then down at her folded hands. “As I understand it, my lady, society allows widows far more latitude in that respect, do they not?”
“Undoubtedly, and what a great wagonload of hypocrites they are. A flock of bleating sheep in wolves’ underclothes–that’s society for you.”
“Do you mean wolves in sheep’s clothing?”
“Yes, wolves. Ever eager to tear apart the first lamb what missteps. Ignore the lot of them.” Honore waved her hand dismissing the invisible offenders. “That’s what I do.”
Fiona shook her head. “Then, I confess, I am at a loss. You said Lord Wesmont acted badly. How? In what respect did he disappoint you?”
“The cowardly way he made his escape.” Countess Alameda stared out of the carriage at the dismal landscape. She leaned closer to the window and blew a cloud of vapor over the glass.
A moment passed before she spoke again, almost to herself. “His wretched morals got the better of him. He couldn’t bear the guilt, so he blamed you for the liberties he took and then ran away.” Honore touched the steamy glass with her finger and scrawled a jagged line cutting across the condensation. “Stoopid man, he should have known you wouldn’t have forced him into marriage.”
Honore threw back her head and laughed. Then she leaned over and startled Fiona by grasping her hand. “No doubt, by now he has come to his senses and realizes that he acted like the veriest cur, running away as he did, barking insults. It was completely without honor. Oh, my dear—the poor man. His precious honor, Fiona, just think of it.”
Honore pulled Fiona’s hand to her satin covered bosom and, striking a pose like a saint in prayer, she prophesied. “Take heart, Fiona, my child. Without a doubt he is even more miserable than you are.”
Chapter 5
Chasing Regrets
The Earl of Wesmont sat brooding in his library, every bit as miserable as Lady Alameda had predicted. Raindrops streaked down the long windows. He stared blindly outside, not seeing the trees of his park, nor the birds playing in the wet grass. Instead, he saw Fiona’s wet hair splayed out on the sand and her dark exotic eyes looking up at him. She haunted him. Her laughing specter teased him as she floated in yesterday’s shimmering sunlight and water. He could not escape the image of her face flushed from his kisses as she lay unresisting in his arms. Equally haunting was the image of her stricken face after he had rebuffed her.
Tyrell rubbed his fingers against his temples and forehead and looked away from the window. He remembered Fiona’s face when she was a young girl twirling in her party frock, looking up at him with those bewitching eyes of hers. It had been a Yule party. He’d come home on holiday from Eaton. At twelve years old, he was too old for the children but still too young to be truly interested in his parents’ conversation.
The children gathered at the far end of the ballroom to play together and practice dancing. Tyrell remembered wandering between the two groups and finally sitting down near the children. Fiona stood tall for her age, a handsome child, not fussy and frilly like the other girls, but natural and athletic. She had caught him watching her, and giggled. Without missing a step, she had skipped merrily along, changing hands and dancing vivaciously to a country dance. He had laughed back at her.
When that dance finished he’d bowed with great ceremony before the little imp, and asked her for the next set. She, with equal flourish, executed a deep curtsy and rose with a teasingly solemn expression on her face. He partnered her for a minuet and while stepping around her during the dignified turns, he teased her about the time she had forced her pony to jump the creek in his father’s pasture and landed both horse and rider in the drink. She ignored his jibe and retorted, with considerable heat, that her horse was not a pony. Her mare was smallish perhaps, but most assuredly not a pony. She’d been an adorable minx even then.
That seemed like a lifetime ago. Now, Fiona was a woman. The only human being who seemed capable of making him laugh or smile. For a few moments, in her company, he had actually forgotten about the hellish battlefields of Spain. When he was with her, life did not seem like one endless nightmare. And he had thanked her by humiliating her.
The Earl of Wesmont slammed his fist down on his desk. “Damn me for a coward!”
He yanked the bell cord, and paced impatiently. Finally, he flung open the door of his study and yelled at the servants. “Get me that blasted valet my mother hired! Tell him to bring me something to keep this infernal rain from soaking me to the bone. I’m riding out. Now!”
* * *
The world smelled of fresh mud as he headed Perseus toward the upper meadow lake. A broad brim hat and an oilcloth kept out most of the moisture, but Tyrell felt confined and hot in it. With any luck at all, Fiona would be in her boathouse reading a book, or painting a picture of her precious lake enshrouded in clouds. He had to find her alone to apologize. It wouldn’t do at all to sit down to tea in Lady Hawthorn’s drawing room and say, “Thousand pardons, Miss Hawthorn, for attempting to seduce you the other day.”
He grimaced to himself. He had to find her alone. Fiona might not force him into marriage, but L
ady Hawthorn certainly wouldn’t hesitate to make him see his duty. Marriage was out of the question. He’d suffocate altogether if anyone added one more ounce of responsibility onto his shoulders. He couldn’t do it, no matter how badly his mother wanted him to produce an heir. No matter how far he’d crossed the line with Fiona, marriage was unthinkable. He had no heart left to give.
He found the boathouse deserted. There was no sign that she’d been there that day, no bread, nor cheese on the table, no clothes hanging in the corner, just the blue swimming dress, and the dreary smell of dampness. Only rain had entered the old boathouse that day. Tyrell shut the door and climbed back onto Perseus. The big white horse bowed his head in the drizzle, and sniffed at the steamy air. They trudged dismally home together.
Tyrell did not give up. He circuited the upper meadow lake later that day, and twice again the next day. Finding the lake perpetually bereft of Fiona’s presence he decided he must make a call to Lady Hawthorn’s stuffy drawing room. After his abominable behavior, Fiona may have decided it was dangerous to visit her beloved lake alone. Or perhaps she had drowned herself in a fit of shame. Hang it all! Where was that dratted girl?
He perched on the edge of Lady Hawthorn’s hot yellow sofa, suffocating in a conflagration of garish paisley draperies, and several Chinese vases filled with gigantic, pink, ant-infested Peonies. On the sofa next to him, Emeline coyly batted her eyelashes. It was a grotesque circus calculated to smother a man past all reason.
“Where is Miss Hawthorn?” he asked, unable to circumvent any longer. When Lady Hawthorn answered him, he stared at her in disbelief.
Fiona was gone. Gone to Brighton with her aunt, Lady Alameda.
For the love of all the saints! Even he’d heard of the notorious Countess Alameda. What was Lady Hawthorn thinking, allowing Fiona to go away with a woman like that? And for a stay of an indefinite length.
Gone!
Tyrell thought that his cravat might strangle him. He ran his finger around his collar. Tiny beads of perspiration trickled down his chest, mixing with the starch from his shirt, producing a hot, itchy, irritating concoction.
Emeline twittered on like an annoying parakeet. “They’re staying at the Pavilion. Wouldn’t that be lovely this time of year? To be near the sea and surrounded by all the Prince Regent’s distinguished guests.”
“A rackety crowd,” he mumbled and stared at the vase of peonies on the tea table. The flowers oozed sticky sweet sap, and if one more ant crawled out of one more big pink blossom he was going to grab the whole disgusting mess of flowers and beat them to pieces on Lady Hawthorn’s yellow couch.
Tyrell rose suddenly. “Must go.”
At their startled expressions, he looked wildly around the room. “I’ve urgent business elsewhere.”
He scarcely remembered to bow before stalking out of the room. He did have business, and he was fairly certain that business was somewhere near the seashore.
Chapter 6
Sea Air Makes You Blind
Fiona gazed in amazement at the exotic minarets and domes of the Brighton Pavilion. Her aunt whispered in her ear, “Wait until you see the inside. It’s the greatest collection of Chinese pandemonium in the kingdom. Most amusing.”
Amusing perhaps, but that night, as Fiona lay in bed her head ached terribly. Could it be that she was overwhelmed by the gold-gilded pagodas, the brightly colored peacocks, the red and blue silks, satins, and the elaborate Chinese wallpapers? During her Season, she’d heard an older matron warn a group of debutantes, “Too much stimulus will give a young lady the megrims.” Fiona had thought it all a hum until now.
Now, her head throbbed, and a dull ache persisted in her chest. But when she closed her eyes to sleep, it was not oriental carpets or bamboo furniture she saw. The strong lines of Tyrell’s face and a flurry of remembered kisses assaulted her dreams. These dreams sent her soaring up to heaven, but inevitably his warm blue eyes turned to jagged ice and his stinging words sent her hurtling down into a black pit of despair.
The next morning, she rose, as one does from a restless sleep, having found no comfort in either waking or sleeping. She walked quietly into Honore’s room.
“Good morning, dearest.” Honore drew back in alarm. “Heaven help us, child! What is that monstrosity you’re wearing?”
Her aunt looked her up and down, and grimaced as if Fiona was a leper draped in crusty rags.
“This? This is my best morning gown from my Season. Since we’re at the palace I assumed you would want me to wear my finest.”
“Lorraine!” Honore screamed for her abigail. “Lorraine!”
Her lady’s maid, a buxom woman, no taller than a twelve-year-old girl, bustled into the room. Her frizzled brown topknot bobbed up and down as she dipped a quick curtsy. “Yes, m’lady?”
Honore pointed dramatically at Fiona. “Get that abomination off my niece! Rip it to shreds. If I ever see that hideous thing again I’ll set fire to her. Do you hear me?”
She whirled on Fiona. “Lawks girl! What do you think you are? A marzipan cake? All decorated up with layers of sugar and sprinkled with ribbons and gewgaws?”
Fiona shook her head and tried to back away.
“Mark me on this, white don’t become you.” She stopped railing and moved close to Fiona, squinting as if she were inspecting a painting. “Good gracious child, what happened to your face? A horse trample you in your sleep? Gadfrey. You look positively bruised around the eyes. Don’t tell me you’ve been crying again.”
“No.” Fiona protested. “Of course not.” That lie was her undoing. She had no strength to protest anything else. She meekly held out her arms while the dwarf-sized lady’s maid circled around her, undoing tapes, and removing the offending gown.
Lorraine held the garment out at arm’s length as if it had a stench and without a word she tore the dress in half. The ripping sound startled Fiona. “I’m sorry, Miss, but m’lady has the right of it. It were an awful concoction, it were.”
“Of course I’m right.” Honore snatched the torn dress from Lorraine’s hand and threw it out the open window. “Lorraine, you take the dressing of her. Mind you, no more revolting debutante frills. Find her something suitable from my wardrobe. Do it quickly. I wish to take the air along the Steine. Later, see what you can purchase for her on North Street. Otherwise, we’ll just have to make do until we get back to London.”
Honore sighed and sagged against the wall, and her arms drooped to her side. She resembled a sad child rather than the imperious tyrant of a moment ago. “Gad, I miss Mattie. I’ve been gone too long this time.” This last was said to no one in particular. She drifted to the window and watched the tattered remains of Fiona’s dress flutter along the grounds below.
Lorraine clucked her tongue and bustled her charge into the adjoining room. The minute she shut the door, Fiona asked, “Who is this Mattie?”
“She’s yer aunt’s cook, miss.”
“A cook? My aunt pines for her cook?”
“Aye, miss. You see, long afore Mattie became the cook, she were m’lady’s nursemaid, and then she served as her nanny. Mattie is her ladyship’s favorite. Like kin, they are, except not really, because, of course, your aunt is a grand lady.”
The maid babbled on as she held up a pastel blue gown next to Fiona’s face, shook her head and tossed it onto the bed. “A fine Scottish cook, she is, too. These days, with all them Frenchie cooks making rich sauces with snails and whatnot, it’s a rare treat to have Mattie’s cooking. Mind you, she keeps her finger on everything what goes on in yer aunt’s house. That’s how the land lays at Alison Hall.”
Lorraine rambled on until at last she held up a lemon-yellow muslin with lace at the neck. “Ah, here’s just the thing.” She pulled the gown over Fiona’s head and tied the tapes.
Fiona’s stared in shock at the expanse of bosom staring back at her in the oval looking glass. She put her hand over her breast. “Surely, this gown is too daring. This lace is nearly transparent and the bod
ice is cut too low. I don’t think—”
“Now, miss, mayhaps her ladyship’s dresses are a bit more daring than a young lady like yourself is accustomed, but this gown is perfectly respectable.” She tugged the bodice up and looked at Fiona in the mirror.
“You are a wee bit fuller in the figure than her ladyship is at present, but bless me if you ain’t a stunner. Yes, miss, you look a picture, you do. An’ here is a perfectly lovely pair of lace mittens to match the gown.”
Lorraine slipped the fingerless lace gloves onto Fiona’s hands. They were made of the same sheer lace covering the bodice. Fiona looked into the mirror and cringed. The entire ensemble gave the illusion of clothing but revealed far more of her than it concealed.
Fiona cleared her throat. “Lorraine, is there, perchance, a shawl to go with this gown?”
“Yes, miss, as a matter of fact there is.” Lorraine rummaged through a trunk at her feet and produced the desired garment. She held up a shawl sewn out of the same vaporous lace as the gloves and the bodice of the gown.
Fiona lifted her eyes heavenward. “Lovely,” she murmured, certain her father would horsewhip her if he ever saw her dressed so wantonly.
Honore opened the door and looked at her maid’s handiwork. “Quite presentable,” she declared. “Well done Lorraine. I daresay even Prinny would be favorably impressed. Too bad he is indisposed today. Now, let us walk down to the sea.”
* * *
The haute ton gathered for their morning ritual in Brighton, a stroll along the Steine in their finery. They waved and nodded to one another, sized each other up, gossiped behind their gloves, and all the while the breeze coated them with briny moisture. Fiona licked her lips and tasted the sea air. A small droplet of salt water trickled into her eye. She blinked and touched it gently but it stung. She stopped walking as tears temporarily blinded her.
“It’s this ocean air.” Honore commiserated. “Burns the eyes. Have you a handkerchief in your reticule?”
Lady Fiasco, A Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt) Page 5
