by Joan Smith
Stornaway never actually asked me in so many words to marry him, so it was impossible to say yes. Somehow, the news was known amongst those whose business it was to be au courant with the latest gossip. The ugly lady in purple I had overheard earlier came prancing up to us. She was introduced by Stornaway as the Russian ambassador’s wife, the Countess Lieven, a social lioness.
“Which of you is Stornaway’s young lady?” she demanded. Perdita sat with us at the time. “It must be you, Miss Greenwood. He keeps ranting on about emerald eyes, so it cannot be this blonde. My congratulations upon weaning him away from Sarnia’s gel. She has got all the liveliness of a garden slug, and the same complexion too, muddy pink. You look a sensible dame. Tether him tight, but not too tight.”
“Hush, milady,” Stornaway said, teasing her.
“What a brash fellow it is, but we will always take commands from a handsome young fellow, if only he will tease us a little.”
“I don’t want you giving Miss Greenwood the notion I am not to be trusted.”
“Rubbish! Who wants a man she can trust, eh, Miss Greenwood? I would as lief trust Stornaway with a woman as I would an eagle in a dovecote. But he ain’t all bad. He is amusing, at least. The Prince has been prosing on till my ears hum about his new diet, or maybe it was some book he is trying to read. I fell asleep with my eyes open. A trick we ambassadors’ wives learn early on in the game. It would take an insomniac to hear him to the end without a snooze. He sets us all to snoring. It is only your mama’s damped gowns that keep the gentlemen awake these evenings, Stornaway. She’ll take rheumatism, certainly, and has grown too stout to look well in the latest craze, too, but she ain’t quite a caricature yet.”
“She will be flattered to hear it, ma'am."
“Devil a bit of it. She’ll scratch my eyes out. It is true for all that. They are saying she plans to marry Blinker. Tell me it is all a hum!”
“No, it is true.”
“The best joke I have heard all night. ‘Twill be the makings of her. He’ll preach her into propriety, or she will smile him into fashion. We shall see who is the stronger. My money is on Sir Scawen. I must run and hide. Here comes Prinney, with another old on-dit or new diet to pester me with. We shall see you at Almack’s, I hope?”
She was gone, with the portly Prince in hot pursuit.
Aunt Maude was in no hurry to leave the Pavilion, once she got out of the card room and into the thick of the infamy. Even after the Prince departed, our party was by no means the first to leave. Stornaway buttered Maude up as best he could by being polite to her, getting her a tray of food, and keeping the more reprehensible company at bay. The last effort was by no means appreciated.
"May I call on you tomorrow, ma’am?” he asked, as we stood awaiting our carriage.
It was difficult to say no, after having accepted half an hour’s courtesy from him. She agreed, with no lack of enthusiasm. I tried to give her some inkling of his errand, as we drove home, by pointing out his superiority to the others encountered that evening, and how well it would be for him to be removed from that set. But she was paying me little heed, so at last I just blurted it out.
"Marriage? Are you sure it is marriage he has in mind, Moira?” she asked.
"Quite sure.”
"Pray do not feel you must have him. I will always be happy for your company.”
"I want to marry him.”
I could not see, in the darkness of the carriage, but felt she was staring at me. "His mama’s such a scatterbrain!” she exclaimed, for she had been presented to the countess. "But Sir Scawen at least seemed a decent man,” was the nature of her congratulations to me. Perdita was hardly more enthusiastic. “You mustn’t!” was her advice.
“Why, you always spoke of the felicity of taming a rake,” I reminded her.
“Yes, but I didn’t know what I was talking about then. So you will be a countess, Moira?” she said a moment later, a little piqued. I knew what her expression was too. Petulant, the chin up.
“Yes, shocking, is it not?”
"It is unbelievable. I daresay I may look forward to marrying a duke, when I am presented.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“We shall see a good deal of each other in London,” Aunt Maude said, quite happily. "He will not take up much of your time. I know how his sort go on, but of course it is a match with much to recommend it. A lady in your position is not looking for a love match. You must introduce us to all the fine gentlemen, Moira. My, princes and countesses, what a night it has been! The Prince so very taken with you, Perdita. There was a tear in his eye. I met two ambassadors and a Cabinet minister’s wife. There is something to be said for the Prince’s Pavilion after all, though he keeps it too hot by far.”
“I nearly fainted,” Perdita said, with a yawn.
"The Cabinet minister’s wife said she would call on us tomorrow,” Maude continued happily.
“I danced with a baron,” Perdita said.
“I wonder if she will bring her husband with her. She mentioned the countess might come. What ought one to serve a countess to drink or eat, Moira?”
“I don’t know. I have not learned the rules yet,” I replied.
Aunt Maude continued to comment in a blatantly impressed manner about the social conquests she had made; Perdita answered quite at random with conquests of her own, and I sat like a cat in the cream, smiling softly in the darkness, knowing I had made the best success of all.
* * *
Chapter 21
When Stornaway came to call next morning, Aunt Maude already had her saloon cluttered up with the Cabinet minister’s wife and one countess. I sat awaiting Stornaway in the study. He asked my cousin, between the hall and the study, whether she had any objection to the match, and if he is to be believed, she asked him what she ought to serve her guests. She told him with some alacrity that she would be happy to have him for a connection, while he told her that Lady Hetherston, he believed, liked tea and biscuits on a morning call, whereas the Cabinet minister’s wife was said to have no objection to a glass of wine at any time of day, but after dinner she preferred brandy.
"Thank God she came in the morning! I have not a drop of brandy in the house. Where should I get some?” she said, standing in a fit of abstraction at the door, till she remembered why her latest guest had come. She said, “I suppose you will want this door closed,” before walking away and leaving it wide open.
Stornaway looked after her. He closed the door and advanced to the sofa where I sat, trembling like a blancmange.
“I wish I had someone to advise me on the proper procedure expected of me. Do I go down on my knees, or what?” he asked uncertainly.
“I cannot help you. This is my first time.”
“I feel I should be grovelling on all fours.”
“Three will be enough. We don’t want to subject your clipped wing to such harsh usage.”
“You are a world too good for me.” He sat beside me, and smiled rather shyly. “You know why I am here. After rehearsing half the night, I have forgotten my lines. Miss Greenwood,” he said, straightening his shoulders, “I am come to ask if you will do me the honor . . . that is . . . I know I am not at all . . . I have no right to expect . . . Oh damme, Molly, will you marry me?”
I was better prepared. “Yes,” I said, loud and clear.
“You won’t be sorry. You won’t ever be sorry. I am going to make you the best husband you ever had.”
Foolishness is easily forgiven an ardent lover, especially when his actions are so much more speaking than his words. There was none of that tentative quality in his embrace. It was exquisitely appropriate to the occasion—tender, yet not without passion. In fact, with so much of passion that I feared for his recovering wound, and my own sanity. I felt deliriously happy. “I mean to be a good wife too, Storn,” I said, when I had the opportunity.
“You couldn’t be a bad one if you tried, Molly. Moira—I love you both.” He kissed
my nose, and both eyes.
“I was rather fond of Mr. Brown, too.”
“He is at your disposal, any time you feel the urge for a change of partner.”
“I won’t feel any such urge for a long, long time.”
Perdita had the first word, and she shall have the last, as she chose that inopportune moment to invade our privacy. She had come to read him a lecture, if you please, to issue some dire and mostly incomprehensible threats regarding what she would do if I were mistreated.
“Miss Greenwood is not without friends, friends in high places,” she warned. “If I ever hear of your abusing her in any way, Lord Stornaway, you may expect to deal with me.”
“Sufficient threat to tame a tiger. I would not deal with you again for any consideration."
She looked, wondering if this was a compliment. “You are always welcome back as my chaperone, Moira,” she added, with a wonderfully noble countenance, the one usually reserved for high heroism in the dramatic academy. With just such a raised chin did Cordelia proclaim her love for King Lear, according to her duty.
“You are very kind,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I know it.”
“Also very much de trop,” Stornaway told her, arising to show her the door.
“I shall be right outside, if you need me,” was her parting speech.
He drew out his handkerchief, stuck the end of it into the keyhole, and turned back to me, with an anticipatory smile on his face. “Now, Molly, where were we?”
About the Author
Joan Smith is a graduate of Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario, and the Ontario College of Education. She has taught French and English in high school and English in college. When she began writing, her interest in Jane Austen and Lord Byron led to her first choice of genre, the Regency, which she especially liked for its wit and humor.
She is the author of over a hundred books, including Regencies, many with a background of mystery, for Fawcett and Walker, contemporary mysteries for Berkley, historical mysteries for Fawcett and St. Martin's, romances for Silhouette, along with a few historicals and gothics. She has had books in the Doubleday Book Club and the Literary Guild, had one book condensed in a magazine, and has been on Walden's Bestseller list.
Her favorite travel destination is England, where she researches her books. Her hobbies are gardening, painting, sculpture and reading. She is married and has three children. A prolific writer, she is currently working on Regencies and various mysteries at her home in Georgetown, Ontario.
Publishing Information
Copyright © 1981 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Crest in April, 1981
Electronically published in 2004 by Belgrave House
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.belgravehouse.com
Electronic sales: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
