Endearing Young Charms Series

by M. C. Beaton

  “The Marquess of Arden is rich, very rich, and also very strong-willed. I do not think the little matter of an absence of dowry would deter him were his affections seriously engaged.”

  At that moment, Mr. Prenderbury looked across the room and, catching Agnes’s eye, smiled.

  “I happen to know,” Agnes went on smoothly after returning the smile, “that Lord Arden has sent invitations to a ball he is to give next week, one for you and one for Miss Harriet. They arrived early yesterday evening by hand.”

  “How splendid!” said Aunt Rebecca. Then her face dropped. “But Cordelia did not mention any invitations. Perhaps she may not tell us.”

  “Oh, now that she is so proud of Miss Harriet, I am sure she will. But, to be diplomatic, one of Lord Arden’s closest friends, Mr. Tommy Gresham, is here. Come with me and I will introduce you. That way you can tell Lady Bentley you learned of the invitations from him. That will jog her memory. She receives so many invitations, it would be quite like her to forget to pass on yours to you.”

  Mr. Gresham was a large, fat, jovial man. With the ease of long practice in social situations, Agnes deftly separated him from a group of friends and introduced him to Aunt Rebecca.

  “I was just telling Miss Clifton about Lord Arden sending invitations to his ball to her and Miss Harriet,” said Agnes. “I know Lord Arden is most anxious that Miss Harriet should attend. What is troubling Miss Clifton is that Lady Bentley has obviously forgotten to give her the invitations and she feels it would be rude to accuse her of a lapse of memory.”

  His small blue eyes twinkling shrewdly in his large face, Mr. Tommy Gresham smiled. “Oh, I’ll remind her,” he said cheerfully. “Leave it to me. I’ll say Arden told me to make sure Miss Harriet was coming.”

  One fat eyelid drooped briefly in a wink before Mr. Gresham sailed off to talk to Cordelia.

  Agnes saw Cordelia’s face turn a delicate pink, and for a brief moment her expression was hard and ugly. Then she said something to Mr. Gresham, laughing and putting her hand on his sleeve.

  Harriet was enjoying herself immensely. It was wonderful to be praised and admired. It was marvelous to be surrounded by people after having spent so much of her young life with only Aunt Rebecca for company.

  She was relieved the Marquess of Arden was not present, or so she told herself. He was an uncomfortable sort of man.

  For Harriet’, the calls were over all too soon, and Cordelia was dismissing Aunt Rebecca and Agnes and demanding to see her alone.

  “Well, sister,” said Cordelia, leaning back in her chair and swinging one dainty foot, “it appears you are the latest rage.” She gave a delicate, catlike yawn. “Of course, it won’t last. Next week it will be some actor or jockey or tattooed lady to take your place. But while it does it seems I must take you about with me. How fatiguing! I detest ingénues. Fortunately, I do not need to worry about your appearance outshining mine.” Cordelia surveyed the demure figure in the gray and black gown opposite, failing to notice the beauty of her sister’s eyes and hair. “Perhaps it will not be such a bad thing after all. Agnes is beginning to bore me. She can stay at home until all the furor about you dies down. You will need some gowns. Nothing too extravagant. I am not made of money. Martha can alter some of my old ones for you. There is just one little thing….”

  “Yes?” To her horror, Harriet felt that she was positively beginning to hate her own sister.

  “There is the matter of Arden,” said Cordelia. “I am hopeful of becoming a marchioness. You have drawn his attention to you in a way that displeases me. Make sure you do not do so again.”

  “On each occasion I met Lord Arden, it was by accident,” said Harriet stiffly. “He called at Pringle House by chance and, also by chance, happened to be in Hanover Square at the time of the fire.”

  “Just make sure there are no other chances,” said Cordelia. “I did not invite you or Aunt Rebecca, but I am prepared to tolerate you for a short length of time, provided you both behave yourselves.”

  “I am your sister,” cried Harriet. “Surely there should be some natural spring of affection between us.”

  “Vastly touching, dear sis, but none on my side, I can assure you. I had to look after myself, and I suggest you learn to do the same.”

  “Marry some old man for his money?”

  “Don’t be impertinent, Harriet, or I shall slap your face. Just behave prettily and modestly, keep yourself in the background, and keep your eyes away from Arden, and we will rub along very well together. You will go to the marquess’s ball. Should he ask you to dance, then you must refuse.”

  “But if I refuse Lord Arden,” said Harriet, aghast, “then that means I cannot dance at all.”

  “Exactly. You and Aunt Rebecca may have the joy of watching the dancers. You expect too much for a little girl so recently come from the country. No, Harriet. You will do as you are bidden or I will send you home immediately.”

  When Harriet reached the seclusion of her bedchamber, she wondered why she had not told Cordelia she would not go to the ball. What was the point in attending if she could not dance?

  The marquess’s face swam before her mind’s eye. She remembered all those delicious feelings she had experienced when he had kissed her. But she had never been kissed before. Therefore it followed she would experience the same sensations with another man.

  Harriet then thought of Pringle House and of what her life had been there. It would be wonderful to be married and have a proper home. Perhaps some gentleman might be attracted to her during the Season, some man who would take all the cares and burdens of looking after herself and Aunt Rebecca from her shoulders.

  Aunt Rebecca came shuffling in as Harriet was climbing into bed.

  “What did Cordelia have to say?” she asked anxiously. “Oh, provided I keep in the background and make sure Lord Arden does not even look at me, we may stay for a little. She suggested I follow her example and entrap some old man.”

  Aunt Rebecca sat down on the edge of the bed. “There is young Mr. Hudson, Harriet.”

  “I fear Lord Arden would have something to say about his young cousin proposing to a penniless girl.” Harriet smiled. “And think how exhausting it would be to be wed to such as Bertram Hudson. One would have to endure Gothic tragedies even at the breakfast table.”

  “It is a pity about Arden,” said Aunt Rebecca cautiously. “I was sure he was not indifferent to you.”

  “He has eyes only for such as Cordelia,” said Harriet, primming her lips. “I fear he regards all women as sluts. He—he kissed me, Aunt Rebecca.”

  “Gracious! Where?”

  “On the lips.”

  “I mean, where did this happen?”

  “On the roof, after he had rescued me and the duchess from the fire.”

  “Well, the peril of the moment must have made him forget himself, for I am determined that Lord Arden is a fine gentleman in both rank and manner. Still, his behavior is very shocking, and had it happened in different circumstances, then he would be obliged to marry you. Perhaps it is my duty to call him to account for his behavior.”

  “Oh, no, please, Aunt. We must have nothing to do with him, or Cordelia will send us packing. Do you think we are behaving like weaklings, enduring her humiliating behavior just for a few balls and parties?”

  “No, we have no choice.” Harriet looked very small and childish as she lay against the pillows. “But you may trust me to see to your future,” said Aunt Rebecca.

  “I will take care of you to make up for all the times you have taken care of me and my poor nerves.”

  “Dear aunt.” Harriet smiled. “Thank you.”

  But after Aunt Rebecca left, Harriet shook her head sadly.

  What on earth could poor old Aunt Rebecca do?

  Chapter 4

  During the six days before the Marquess of Arden’s ball, Harriet attended a few routs, one opera, and one musicale. Anxious for Aunt Rebecca’s welfare and dreading the crise de nerfs that would undoubt
edly be precipitated if they were given their marching orders, Harriet dutifully kept in the background.

  She suspected the clothes that Cordelia had lent her were the most unbecoming her sister could find and that Cordelia had instructed her lady’s maid, Martha, to take off all the becoming flounces, laces, and ornaments.

  Little better dressed than Agnes, meek, and demure, Harriet played her part so well that by the day before the ball, society had largely forgotten about her and even Mr. Hudson no longer sought her company.

  The Marquess of Arden was nowhere in sight, and his absence was making Cordelia dangerously petulant. Her scheme of punishing Agnes by leaving her at home had gone awry, as Cordelia discovered on returning from an afternoon call with Harriet. She was told by Findlater that Mrs. Hurlingham had gone out walking in the park with Mr. Prenderbury.

  Cordelia had thrown a famous tantrum, calling Agnes a slut and forbidding Mr. Prenderbury the house. Harriet heard Agnes weeping during the night and had gone to comfort her, but Agnes had screamed at her to go away, saying she was only making matters worse.

  And that was when Harriet decided that life at Pringle House with all its attendant discomforts was infinitely preferable to life with Cordelia.

  She went back to her room and lit all the candles, opened the wardrobe, and looked at the gown she was meant to wear at the marquess’s ball.

  It was a skimpy affair of white muslin with a round neck higher than was the current fashion and with little puff sleeves. It had one flounce at the hem.

  Behind it, swaying slightly in the draft, were the other gowns Cordelia had lent her.

  Harriet took out the ball gown and then two of the other gowns, fetched her workbasket, and began to work busily through the night.

  The next evening, Agnes, still rather red about the eyes, burst into Harriet’s bedroom. “Lady Bentley is in such a taking,” she said, gasping. “She says you are too late to go with us and must follow in a hack. Oh, my dear, you look beautiful.”

  Harriet turned from the glass and smiled. The white muslin gown now had a floating overdress of green silk. The bosom was fashionably low, and a delicate wreath of green silk flowers was entwined in her glossy black hair. The remains of one of Cordelia’s green silk gowns lay on a chair.

  “Very well,” said Harriet. “Present my apologies to Lady Bentley, Agnes, and tell her I will join her at the ball.”

  Agnes hesitated. “Lady Bentley will not be pleased when she sees you, Harriet. You will outshine her.”

  “I have already decided to return to the country,” said Harriet calmly, “so I do not care what she thinks.”

  “Agnes!” Cordelia screamed from downstairs.

  “I must go,” whispered Agnes. “Good luck!”

  Harriet went into the sitting room, where Aunt Rebecca was patiently waiting for her.

  “The plan worked,” said Harriet. “She has gone off in the most awful miff.”

  “Oh, my dear,” said Aunt Rebecca. “You look so very beautiful. What a pity…”

  “Don’t go on, Aunt. Confess that you yourself will be glad to be quit of here.”

  Aunt Rebecca looked mulish but did not say anything.

  Resplendent in Weston’s tailoring, the Marquess of Arden stood at the top of the graceful staircase in his town house in St. James’s Square to receive his guests. Beside him, looking smaller and less sulky in formal evening wear, was Bertram Hudson.

  The marquess was glad to notice that Bertram’s enthusiasm for Harriet Clifton seemed to be on the wane. The conventional side of his character felt a certain distaste at the thought of any alliance with a family that contained Cordelia, Lady Bentley. The only trouble was that Harriet’s sweetness and innocence had quenched his dishonorable intentions toward Cordelia. Besides, he preferred his mistresses to have no claims to respectability whatsoever.

  He almost regretted his decision, however, as Cordelia floated up the staircase toward him in all the glory of gold tissue and blazing diamonds. She looked ethereally beautiful.

  “Where is your sister, Lady Bentley?” he asked as she curtsied before him.

  “La! She will soon be here, if she comes at all.” Cordelia laughed. “I left her to make her own way. She is such a goose. So vulgar to be late,” said Cordelia, who was rarely on time for anything herself and had only made a special effort because she was worried by the recent coolness of the marquess.

  Agnes made her curtsy as well and followed Cordelia into the ballroom. Agnes saw Mr. Prenderbury’s scholarly figure in the far corner and her heart lightened. “Now, I expect you to see to it that Harriet remains seated,” breathed Cordelia. “I do not need to worry about you making an exhibition of yourself, Agnes. No one ever asks you to dance.” And, with a malicious little laugh, Cordelia floated away.

  Agnes took a seat next to the dowagers and looked down at her hands in her lap. She felt tired and miserable. Her pleasure at seeing Mr. Prenderbury had been destroyed by Cordelia’s cruelty. She sat scowling horribly as dance followed dance, while the marquess surrendered his post at the door to his butler and joined the dancers, and still Harriet did not come.

  And then all at once she was there. Agnes felt a ripple of interest running through the ballroom and looked up.

  Harriet was standing at the entrance with the squat bulk of Aunt Rebecca behind her. She looked very sweet and young and tremulous, her large eyes sparkling in the perfect oval of her face. Candlelight shone in the midnight masses of her black hair. She had all the freshness and beauty of youth and spring and first love.

  Agnes felt the pain and depression inside her lift and she smiled at Mr. Prenderbury, who gave her a startled look and then hurried to her side.

  “My dear Mrs. Hurlingham,” he said, “I have been trying to summon up courage to speak to you, but you looked so fierce.”

  “Not fierce,” said Agnes with a surprisingly charming laugh. “Just rather depressed.”

  He flicked the tails of his coat and sat down beside her. “I called twice to see you, but I was informed you were not at home in such a way as to imply I was no longer welcome.”

  Agnes took another look at the radiant vision of Harriet to give herself courage and then threw the last remaining vestiges of loyalty to Cordelia away.

  “I would like to have seen you,” she said, “but I fear Lady Bentley becomes jealous if anyone other than herself appears to be attracting attention. It was she who told the butler not to admit you.”

  “Monstrous! Can you not leave her household?”

  Agnes shook her head. “I have signed a contract for seven years.”

  “But that is bondage. That is like being treated like a servant in the colonies. Perhaps I could assist you. I have a friend who is a very good lawyer.”

  “The trouble is that I have nowhere else to go,” said Agnes. “I have thought perhaps of offering my services to Miss Harriet and her aunt when they return to the country. I do not eat much, and although they are very poor, I am quite clever with my hands and could perhaps be of help to them. But Lady Bentley would take me to court.”

  “We will talk further of this,” he said gently. “The next dance is a waltz. Pray honor me by partnering me in it.”

  “Oh, I dare not,” said Agnes. “Lady Bentley would be furious.”

  “She is already so furious with her sister she will not even notice us. Look!”

  The Marquess of Arden was holding out his hand to Harriet to lead her in to the waltz. Aunt Rebecca was nodding and smiling. On the other side of the ballroom stood Cordelia with a sort of dreadful stillness about her as she watched her sister.

  Harriet was determined to dance. She had never danced the waltz before. Aunt Rebecca, lumbering and hopping like an elephant around the drawing room at Pringle House, had taught her the steps of various reels and country dances. Harriet had only heard of the waltz, that daring and shocking dance where the man actually put his hand on your waist. She had a brief moment’s panic as the Marquess of Arden led he
r onto the floor. But then he put his hand on her waist and her feet seemed to float over the polished floor.

  The marquess looked down at her with a disturbed expression in his eyes. He seemed to be looking at several Harriets. There was Harriet, naked under the pump; Harriet, with her hair spilling about her shoulders as she sat at the spinet; Harriet, sooty and dazed, clasped in his embrace above the roaring crowd; and now this Harriet, fresh, beautiful, and achingly vulnerable. He was aware of the malice in Cordelia’s eyes, the awakened interest in Bertram’s, and all the nodding, gossiping painted faces. He wanted to protect her, to make sure she never suffered a day’s harm or hurt again.

  He was alarmed at the intensity of his feelings. She was only a woman, after all. If anyone had ever told the marquess that he despised women, he would have been most surprised. But the sad fact was, the only time a woman had not bored him in the past was when she had been flat on her back in his bed. Courted for his title and fortune, toadied to and flattered since the day he was out of short coats, he regarded all of the fair sex with a cynical eye. Romance was for milksops and poets. And yet there had been magic in Harriet’s kiss.

  “You are looking very beautiful tonight. Miss Harriet,” he said.

  “Thank you,” said Harriet, her eyes very bright with pleasure at the compliment.

  “In fact, you are so beautiful I have a great desire to kiss you again.”

  Harriet stumbled. “You should not speak of that,” she said breathlessly. “It was excusable then because of the unnatural circumstances, but it is not the manner of a gentleman to remind me of something I would much rather forget.”

  The marquess felt a stab of pain somewhere in the region of his heart. “Was it so distasteful?” he asked.

  “Well, no… that is… surely all unconventional behavior must be distasteful?”

  “An attraction between the sexes is very normal. You will no doubt marry some fine gentleman before the end of the Season and live happily ever afterward.”