The Love and Temptation Series

by M. C. Beaton

  For Miss Worthy had worked long and hard to bring Lord Andrew up to the mark. She had diligently studied reports of the war and of politics in the newspapers, although she was completely uninterested in either. She had paid several guineas of her pin money to a Latin scholar to write a little Latin poem for her and coach her in pronunciation so that she could startle the handsome lord with her erudition and wit. Although she preferred to wear all the latest extravagances of dress from damped and near-transparent muslin to headdresses of fifteen feathers all dyed different colors, she had, on the advice of a top dressmaker, modified her dress to suit her years and status, although she felt sure it did not become her in the least. But Lord Andrew, she knew, was a martinet with very precise ideas of what ladies should wear and how ladies should behave. She had made a study of him before she had actually been introduced to him.

  Now the “exams” were over. She had won her lord. An engagement between two such well-bred members of society was just about as binding as a wedding.

  Flushed with triumph and being possessed of a good deal of personal vanity, Miss Worthy quite forgot that she had not appeared to be very attractive to men before her engagement and became convinced she was a diamond of the first water.

  The weather, which had turned fine just after Miss Mortimer’s arrival in town, stayed that way. London was a pretty sight with all the fine clothes and jewelry on show and windows of ballrooms open to let in the balmy air.

  While Penelope Mortimer endured being pinned and fitted for gown after gown, Lord Andrew squired his fiancée to various events. He considered her dress was becoming most unflattering but felt it impolite to say so. In the past, when a lady’s attire or manner had displeased him, he had simply made a point of steering away from her. But he was engaged to Miss Worthy, and so he decided to indulge her odd tastes until they were married, by which time she would have promised before God and man to obey him.

  It was the way she had begun to ogle other men and then claim that they were smitten with her that grated more than anything else.

  At the opera ball or at Almack’s Assembly rooms she would flash bold glances in the direction of some newcomer to society and then whisper to Lord Andrew, “Only see how that dreadful man stares at me! I wish he would not. I declare the gentlemen never realize how their bold looks terrify us weak females so!”

  Had Lord Andrew had any high opinion of women, then a week of this would have been enough to give him a violent disgust of his fiancée, but he rated the fair sex as low, weak-minded, clinging creatures who only needed a firm hand.

  But no doubt had Miss Worthy gone on behaving in this way for much longer, then even Lord Andrew might have seriously begun to consider ways to break the engagement. Help was to come from an unexpected quarter. After a week, Penelope’s new gowns, slaved over into the night by a row of seamstresses, were ready, and she made her debut. Penelope Mortimer was the one who was going to send Miss Worthy back to her studies.

  Lord Andrew had considered removing himself from his parents’ home, for his mother’s odd behavior had given him a resentment of her which clung in his mind like a burr. But for all her faults, the duchess knew how to run a beautiful, charming home, and so he was reluctant to leave, particularly as accommodation was hard to find at any price once the Season had begun.

  The duchess was expert at flower arrangements and at the clever use of colors and fabrics. Having no feeling for servants at all, she treated them like pieces of machinery and saw that they were well oiled with plenty of good food and were kept in tiptop running condition.

  And so he continued to stay. He did not see Penelope at all during that week after the disastrous visit to the Tower of London.

  Then his mother summoned him. He eyed her rather warily now, hoping she would not do any of those strange things like scream at him or faint.

  “Andrew,” said the duchess, “tonight is Penelope’s debut.”

  He mentally checked his own social calendar. “The Dempseys’ ball, I presume?”

  “Yes. You attend, of course. Shall you be fetching Miss Worthy?”

  “Not tonight. Miss Worthy said she might be late, and I agreed to meet her there.”

  “Good. In that case little Penelope and myself will be glad of your escort.”

  “So long as you do not expect me to dance attendance on Miss Mortimer once we are there.”

  “Well, you know, Andrew, I do think you might stand up with her for two dances. Your engagement has been announced in the newspapers, and so everyone knows you are shackled to Miss Worthy.”

  “Are you sure,” said Lord Andrew, “that Miss Mortimer knows how to go on in society? Has she had any training?”

  “She does not need any. She looks so beautiful.”

  Lord Andrew only remembered Penelope as being pretty.

  “I hope,” he said cautiously, “that you are not going to force me to entertain Miss Mortimer during the Season?”

  “No. After tonight she will have beaux aplenty and will have no need of you.”

  Lord Andrew took particular pains over his dress that evening. He felt he was putting on armor to protect him from the social gaffes he felt sure Miss Mortimer was bound to commit. His black hair was brushed and pomaded until it shone with blue lights. The white sculpture of his cravat rose above the trim line of a green and gold striped waistcoat. His coat of raven black and his black silk knee breeches and white stockings with gold clocks all appeared molded to his tall, athletic body.

  He dabbed some perfume behind his ears, picked up his bicorne, his gloves, and his fan, and made his way downstairs, grateful that the fashion for men carrying enormous muffs had been “exploded”—the cant for out of fashion.

  He had drunk several glasses of wine before his mother creaked into the drawing room over an hour late, her little crumpled face flushed with a high color caused by the wicked constriction of her corsets. She looked like one of those nests of Russian wooden dolls where the head of one has been removed, leaving the thick outer body of the first doll with the smaller head of the second doll poking out of it.

  He glanced pointedly at the clock on the mantel and asked, “Where is Miss Mortimer?”

  “Penelope should just be descending the stairs. Let us go.”

  Mother and son went out into the hall. Lord Andrew looked up. Penelope was indeed just descending the staircase.

  Her fair, silvery hair was crowned with a coronet of pink and white roses. Her gown was of rose pink, criss-crossed with threads of gold to make a diamond pattern. The neckline was low. The sleeves had been slashed like a Renaissance gown.

  He thought in a dazed way that she looked like an illustration to one of the stories by the Brothers Grimm.

  It was almost a relief when the new fairy-tale Penelope said in a practical voice, “I was dressed an hour ago, but I gather it is the fashion to be deliberately late and so make an appearance.”

  “You look so very beautiful, Miss Mortimer,” he said gallantly, “that you do not need to do anything to attract attention to yourself.”

  “Thank you,” said Penelope. He took her cloak from her arm and put it about her shoulders.

  The butler hurried to open the street door.

  Lord Andrew frowned as he saw his mother’s landau waiting outside. “An open carriage!” he exclaimed.

  “Yes, an open carriage,” said the duchess. “Everyone will see us.”

  “Are you not afraid the mob might spit on you?” asked Lord Andrew.

  There had not been a revolution in England as there had been in France, but members of the proletariat often roamed the streets of the West End and would jeer and catcall at the aristocracy as they went out for the evening’s amusements.

  “We have two outriders,” said the duchess placidly, “and you, dear Andrew, will protect us.”

  But Penelope’s beauty, Lord Andrew discovered, was not the kind to excite envy in the bosom of the ordinary people. Rather it drew gasps of wonder and admiration. When
their carriage stopped for a moment in the press of traffic, passersby stood on the pavement and stared open-mouthed with pleased smiles on their faces, rather like so many poor children looking at a beautiful doll in a toy shop window.

  Penelope appeared very calm, but inside she was frightened to death. She was now appalled at the amount of money that had been spent on her clothes. What if she was not a success? The duchess would be furious. Oh, beautiful cottage in Lower Bexham, where she planned to improve the garden during the lazy summer days—where she could be her own mistress!

  She gazed down unseeingly into the admiring eyes of the populace and wished she could spring down from the carriage and run away.

  Lord and Lady Dempsey’s house had a deceptively narrow frontage which led to enormous rooms once you were inside. It was all glittering and bewildering to Penelope as they passed between a line of footmen in red and gold livery with gold dress swords lining either side of the staircase which soared from the hall of black and gold tiles. The most enormous chandelier Penelope had ever seen blazed overhead—and she could see it, the chandelier being far enough away.

  Miss Worthy had made a late arrival, but Penelope’s entrance came half an hour after her own.

  Until that moment, Miss Worthy had been feeling very well satisfied with her own appearance. She had not been asked to dance but had assumed that every man in the room longed for her company but respected the fact that she was now Lord Andrew’s property. Her near-transparent white muslin was worn over an invisible petticoat. She was wearing fifteen multicolored plumes as a headdress.

  Her eyes dropped from the tall figure of her fiancé to the smaller figure of Penelope at his side—Penelope, who was causing a ripple of admiring comment to run along the row of chaperones. Her dress was nothing out of the way, thought Miss Worthy, staring at the rose pink gown embroidered with gold. The duchess led Penelope over to where Mrs. Blenkinsop was seated. Lord Andrew looked about the room, saw Miss Worthy, and crossed the floor, bowed to her mother, who was seated next to her, and sat down on Miss Worthy’s other side.

  “Who is that odd female with the dyed hair who came in with you?” asked Miss Worthy.

  “Miss Penelope Mortimer, a protégée of my mother. She is but lately come to town, and she does not dye her hair.”

  “Indeed!” said Miss Worthy. “Such an odd, unfashionable color. Do you not think so, Mama?”

  And Mrs. Worthy, who on seeing Penelope had sent up a prayer of thanks that her daughter was engaged to Lord Andrew, and that there was therefore nothing to fear from this dazzler, said stoutly, “Yes, it looks false. Quite like spun glass.”

  “I am surprised the dear duchess could not persuade the chit to wear white,” said Miss Worthy, waving a large fan of osprey feathers.

  “The dress was my mother’s choice,” said Lord Andrew. “I think it a delightful creation, simple and modest.”

  “It is cut too low for such a young girl. She is showing too much neck,” said Miss Worthy. Her fan tickled his nose, and he turned his head away in irritation. He looked across to where Penelope was now sitting with his mother. The neckline of her dress just exposed the tops of two firm white breasts.

  “Perhaps,” he said, for he was suddenly out of charity with Miss Mortimer for looking so seductive when his fiancée seemed hell-bent on appearing as the female of some barbaric tribe.

  Miss Worthy smiled. “I am glad you are come, for that terrible rake, Mr. Barcourt, is here, and no woman is safe with him.”

  Lord Andrew looked across to where Mr. John Barcourt was standing with a group of friends. Barcourt was a fine figure of a man with hair almost as fair as Penelope’s own. He had a dreamy, romantic expression. Lord Andrew did not think him a rake but only a highly susceptible man who fell violently in love at least three times during the Season.

  “Has he been troubling you?” he asked.

  “He has not dared come near, for all the world knows I am engaged to you,” said Miss Worthy. “But such scorching looks as he has sent in this direction! Is that not so, Mama?”

  “Yes, my love,” said Mrs. Worthy dutifully.

  Penelope was glad the ballroom was so large. Although the people near her were little more than a colored blur, she could clearly make out the faces and dress of the guests on the other side of the ballroom. Her wide blue gaze fell on Mr. Barcourt. She looked at the London Season’s famous heartbreaker and thought he reminded her of that desperately handsome boy who worked in the butcher’s shop in Lower Bexham: handsome but weak.

  The duchess meanwhile was narrowly watching the progression of her friend, Mrs. Blenkinsop, round the ballroom. Mrs. Blenkinsop was gossiping busily, and eyes were turned in Penelope’s direction.

  Fiddle, thought the duchess angrily. She is out to sabotage me. She is telling them all that Penelope is merely another of my lame ducks and has no dowry whatsoever. Her gaze shifted to the young lady who sat next to her on the other side from Penelope. Miss Amy Tilney was Mrs. Blenkinsop’s niece, a plain, shy wisp of a thing. But Maria Blenkinsop had already let it be known the girl was possessed of a comfortable dowry. Her eyes took on a hard, stubborn look. She would not be defeated by Mrs. Blenkinsop.

  “Do change places with me, Miss Tilney,” said the duchess, “and chat to Penelope. I am desirous to talk to Mrs. Partridge.” Amy changed places and sat next to Penelope while the duchess smiled sweetly on Mrs. Partridge, London’s biggest gossip.

  “And how is the world with you?” asked Mrs. Partridge.

  “The world goes very badly,” sighed the duchess. “But I shall not live to see much more of it.”

  Mrs. Partridge nearly fell off her chair with excitement. “My dear duchess,” she cried, “never tell me you are ill.”

  “Gravely ill,” said the duchess. “I do not think I shall live much beyond the end of the Season. Do you know Mr. Anderson, the royal doctor? He tells me I have the Blasted Wasting.”

  “Gracious! What is that?” asked Mrs. Partridge, eyeing the duchess’s well-upholstered figure.

  “A rare disease brought from the Indies,” said the duchess with a dismissive wave of her hand.

  “Then you should be home in bed.”

  “My duty lies with little Penelope here. It must be well known that I am to leave my vast personal fortune to her, and I would see her safely launched and protected from adventurers before I… die.”

  “Is this your first Season?” Amy was asking Penelope timidly.

  “Yes, and I hope my last,” said Penelope gloomily.

  “Oh, yes, it will be your last,” said Amy simply. “You are so very pretty, you will be wed quite soon.”

  “I do not want to be wed at all,” said Penelope, taking a liking to this girl although she could not quite see her, but warming to the friendly interest in her voice. “I want to be left alone.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Amy in a low voice, “but it is not possible for such as we. We have no free will.”

  “Oh, yes we have,” said Penelope. “No one can stop us thinking what we want to think. And it is always possible to plot and plan a way out of any predicament.”

  “Here is Mr. Barcourt approaching us,” said Amy with a hint of longing in her voice. “He is so very handsome.”

  “May I have the pleasure of this dance?” said Mr. Barcourt, bowing low before Penelope. But as Penelope could not quite make him out and assumed somehow that he and Amy were acquainted, she also assumed he was asking Amy to dance. So she smiled and said to Amy, “There you are, and off you go, Miss Tilney. Your first dance of the evening.”

  Somehow there was nothing Mr. Barcourt could do but take Amy onto the floor. At his invitation, Penelope had not looked at him once but had immediately turned to Amy Tilney.

  Then Penelope suddenly found herself being besieged on all sides to dance. She picked the first one who had asked her and went out to join a set being made up for a country dance.

  She found that dance a great strain, for her weak eyesight
put her constantly in danger of losing her partner. She hoped once the dance was over that she would be allowed to go back to her chair and sit quietly. But no sooner had it finished and no sooner had she dropped gracefully down into a curtsy than she was besieged again by a group of gentlemen.

  In another part of the ballroom, Lord Andrew was being hailed by his closest friend, a Scotsman called Mr. Ian Macdonald. Mr. Macdonald was as messy and careless as Lord Andrew was precise and correct. Where Lord Andrew’s tailored clothes flattered his athletic figure, Mr. Macdonald’s were either too tight or too loose. He had a huge, beefy face, small, clever brown eyes like a bear, and a mop of glossy brown curls.

  “My good friend,” Mr. Macdonald hailed Lord Andrew. “Why did you not tell me the dreadful news? Perhaps I could have been of some comfort.”

  “What terrible news?” demanded Lord Andrew acidly, for he feared his friend might be referring to his engagement. Lord Andrew glanced to where his fiancée was now dancing with a thin young army captain. One of her feathers was dropping down her back, and a good part of the revelation of her charms which should have been saved for the marriage bed was being displayed through damped muslin at a London ball. He felt, nonetheless, that his distaste at her appearance was overly severe. Many of the ladies were wearing just as little, and it was an age when they stopped posting guards at the opera to keep the prostitutes out, for the guards kept arresting ladies of the ton, not being able to tell the difference.

  “Come over here and sit down,” said Mr. Macdonald. He led the way behind a potted palm to where a sofa had been placed against the wall.

  “I lost my own mother last year, as you know,” began Mr. Macdonald in a low voice. “I cried for weeks, I can tell you. Still miss her.” He gave a hiccuping sort of sob and pulled a large handkerchief from the pocket in his tails and dabbed his eyes.

  “I know your grief must still bite deep, Ian,” said Lord Andrew, who had long envied his friend his closeness with his family. He rose and stepped behind the palms and told a footman to fetch them two glasses of wine, and then returned to his friend.