Endearing Young Charms Series

by M. C. Beaton

  The taste of Londoners had progressed without improving, and they were no longer satisfied with the placid joys that had delighted earlier generations.

  There was a firework platform erected at the eastern end of the grounds, a firework tower, and a mast sixty feet high from which the “ethereal Saqui” descended the tightrope in a blaze of blue flame and Chinese fire. The ethereal Saqui was in fact, a very solid-looking lady of masculine appearance who was dressed in a Roman helmet surmounted by enormous plumes, a tunic of classic cut, and white linen trousers tied around the ankles and who descended the tightrope on one toe.

  A great many of the trees had been cut down, and a large part of the Grand Walk was covered by a colonnade with cast-iron pillars. There were orchestras playing lilting music and singers singing sentimental ballads. There was even a hermit enshrined in one of the groves.

  All classes came to Vauxhall, and although society enjoyed the privilege of dining in boxes in the rotunda, the rest mixed freely on the walks, and highly painted, raucous prostitutes hawked their wares and startled the shy Harriet by even producing business cards, which they pressed on the marquess and Lord Struthers.

  There was a restless, nervous atmosphere. Old Lord Struthers seemed to enjoy it all immensely.

  As they approached the boxes down on the Grand Walk, a party of young bloods, led by Mr. Postlethwaite, came whooping along. Harriet was jostled to one side, and when the party rearranged themselves, she found Cordelia was walking on ahead, clinging to the marquess’s arm, while she herself was left to follow with Lord Struthers.

  “Aye,” said Lord Struthers, sighing and gazing after Cordelia, “yon bonny bird has stolen ma hert awa’.”

  “Indeed?” said Harriet politely, not having the faintest idea what he was talking about.

  A frown creased Harriet’s smooth brow as they sat around the table in the box and watched the jostling throng below. The marquess and Cordelia seemed comfortably ensconced on one side of the round table, and she and Lord Struthers on the other. Cordelia flirted lightly and expertly with the marquess, claiming Harriet had stolen Lord Struthers away, to which Lord Struthers replied gallantly with something that sounded like “Och, ach, ech, uch.”

  Lord Struthers consumed a large amount of Vauxhall’s famous rack punch very quickly, lolled back in his chair, and began to snore. Cordelia was whispering something in the marquess’s ear, and he gave a slow smile.

  Color flamed in Harriet’s cheeks and she turned her head away.

  Perhaps he had only become engaged to her to secure Cordelia as his mistress! But that was ridiculous. If the marquess was bent on marrying someone, then he could always marry Cordelia if he wanted her that badly.

  There was a grating of chairs. Harriet looked up. The marquess had moved his chair around next to hers and was leaning over her to shake Lord Struthers awake.

  “Rouse yourself, Struthers,” said the marquess. “I am going to take my fiancée for a promenade and you cannot neglect Lady Bentley.”

  As she left the box, Harriet turned around to say good-bye to her sister. Cordelia’s eyes were as hard and as blue as the marquess’s sapphires.

  Harriet began to long for the old narrow life of Pringle House, where the discomfort was caused by hard work and poverty rather than people.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “To watch the fireworks.”

  “You did not ask me if I wanted to watch them.” And, to Harriet’s horror, her voice sounded pettish to her own ears. Still hurt by his behavior with Cordelia, she added, “You are very kind, my lord. But there was no need to leave the box for my sake. I was under the impression you were enjoying yourself very well where you were.”

  He looked down at her with a mocking glint in his eye. “I was only being polite to my future sister-in-law,” he said. “Do not be at odds with me. Look! Spring is here at last.”

  But she trudged along beside him like an unwilling child, her lips set in a mutinous line.

  They were jostled and pushed along by the throng. A boozy buck turned and leered at Harriet, and the marquess glared at him, then put a protective arm around Harriet’s waist.

  He felt a tingling sensation go up his arm; he steered Harriet, to the side of the walk and then, tightening his grip, pulled her away from the crowds into the quiet darkness of a thick stand of trees.

  The chattering, moving, shifting, colorful, motley throng continued on their way along the path toward the fireworks display.

  He turned her about to face him and stood, looking down at her.

  “What are we doing here?” asked Harriet.

  “We are alone,” he said huskily. “We are never alone, you know.”

  “But we are not married yet,” pleaded Harriet, “and it is not at all the thing for me to be alone with you without a chaperone.”

  “Do I frighten you, Harriet?” He put his hand under her chin and tilted her face up to his.

  “N-no,” she faltered.

  He bent his mouth to hers, ignoring her faint murmur of protest.

  His lips were firm and cool, and Harriet stayed unresisting in the circle of his arms, accepting the embrace stoically, waiting for it to end.

  But his lips grew warmer and more insistent and began to move against hers, and all at once, she felt that dizzying sweetness starting somewhere in the pit of her stomach and spreading throughout her whole body. He pressed her tightly against him until she could not tell where his body began and hers ended.

  He finally drew back and she looked up at him and saw a great cloud of golden stars bursting in the night sky far above his head.

  “Are they really there?” asked Harriet, dazed. “The stars.”

  “Yes, they are really there, Harriet…. Oh, Harriet, my love.”

  He bent his mouth to hers again as burst upon burst of fireworks exploded against the sky.

  Cordelia, tugging Lord Struthers in her wake, hurried along the walk toward the fireworks display. She happened to glance to the side just as the climax of the display lit up the whole of Vauxhall Gardens, and saw the couple in the middle of the stand of trees, closely entwined, aware only of each other.

  “The display is over,” snapped Cordelia to Lord Struthers, who was standing, blinking like an owl in the middle of the path. “I am sure Harriet is somewhere near. Harriet!”

  “Damn,” said the marquess softly. “We had better join them.”

  Laughing shrilly, Cordelia ran forward and put an arm about Harriet’s waist. “Naughty puss,” she cried. “And you, my lord, are a wicked seducer, as we all know.”

  On the way back to the box, Cordelia complained of having the headache and said they must go home.

  As he left them outside the house on Hill Street, the marquess said, “I must go to the country for a few days to see my parents.”

  “Your parents?” asked Harriet, surprised.

  “The Duke and Duchess of Derwood,” said Cordelia with a brittle laugh.

  “I am sorry,” said Harriet. “I did not think to ask.”

  “It does not matter,” said the marquess. “I would take you to meet them, but I am afraid my father is unwell. I trust he will be better in time for our wedding. If I think he will still be in bad health in a month’s time, then I fear we must be married from my home.”

  Harriet desperately wished that he were not leaving. She wanted the warmth and closeness of his lovemaking. She sensed the hate coming in waves from Cordelia, and she was afraid.

  He kissed her hand, and then he was gone.

  To Harriet’s relief, Cordelia seemed as affectionate as ever over the tea tray, although she did flirt with old Lord Struthers to an alarming degree.

  At last, Lord Struthers took his leave and Harriet went up to join Aunt Rebecca and to tell her about the evening.

  “I did not know he was the son of the Duke of Derwood,” said Harriet.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” exclaimed Aunt Rebecca. She settled herself more comfortably among her
shawls, two of them new. “Yes, indeed, and Arden inherits the dukedom when his father dies, which will make you, dear Harriet, a duchess.”

  Cordelia stood for a long moment with her hand on the door of Agnes’s room. She remembered the fun and gossip she and Harriet had shared. Then she thought of Harriet becoming the Duchess of Derwood and her pretty face hardened.

  She turned the handle and opened the door.

  “Wake up, Agnes,” she cooed. “Your new duties are about to begin.”

  Bertram Hudson arrived back in town and went straight to his cousin’s, only to learn that the Marquess of Arden had taken off for the country.

  He chewed his nails and debated whether to follow him, but on learning he was to return in a few days, Bertram decided to wait.

  He had had a harrowing time with his mother. Mrs. Hudson had been in tears. Those scheming Clifton sisters had snatched Bertram’s inheritance away from him. After asking patiently to be enlightened, Bertram learned that he was the main beneficiary in the marquess’s will. No one had expected Arden to marry, least of all Arden himself.

  Despite his sulky ways, Bertram was fond of his tall cousin and had stated hotly that he, Bertram, had a mind above worldly goods and that the marquess could marry whom he pleased and leave his money where he wanted.

  But as he sat in the gloomy splendor of the town house in St. James’s Square, he could not help thinking that all this, plus the extensive Arden estates and fortune, could have been his.

  The fact that the marquess was extremely sound in wind and limb and not likely to pop off for years and years did not cross Bertram’s mind. Arden went in for a great deal of sport. His carriage could overturn; he could bring on a heart attack by his visits to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon: Anything could happen.

  Influenza, typhoid, and cholera stalked the streets of London. Smallpox was rampant. Why, the man could die tomorrow!

  And then there was the matter of Harriet Clifton herself. Bertram remembered every shaming moment in the garden.

  Miss Harriet would not have rebuffed him were he a titled, moneyed lord, thought Bertram cynically. Harriet was no better than her sister and infinitely more cunning. For the marquess had not intended to marry Cordelia, and Harriet had undoubtedly succeeded by strange wiles to enmesh the marquess in her toils. So ran Bertram’s Gothic thoughts.

  He dashed off a poem—“Oh, Eve! ‘Tis thou who art the serpent!”—and felt considerably better.

  He decided to call on Harriet the following day. He would be resigned, dignified, and slightly pitying. He would flash her a few shrewd looks to show her he was wise to her plots and schemes. All this was very comforting, and Bertram was in an almost cheerful frame of mind when he presented himself at Hill Street.

  Harriet was not present, and it seemed a shame that all of his darting, shrewd looks should be wasted on a company that consisted of Lady Jenkins, Mr. Prenderbury, Agnes Hurlingham, and Lord Struthers.

  He was planning to cut his visit short when Cordelia drew him aside and begged him to wait until the others had left.

  Scenting intrigue and mystery, Bertram brightened and tried to pass the time by talking to Agnes. Agnes was looking very fine in a brand-new gown of India muslin or, rather, would have looked very fine if her brooding gaze had been lit with anything other than flashes of pure misery.

  At last, the company left and Agnes was sent to her room.

  “It looks as if you might soon lose your companion,” said Bertram. “Mrs. Hurlingham and Mr. Prenderbury seem much attached to each other.”

  “Dreary Agnes is rapidly killing whatever feeling Prenderbury may have for her.” Cordelia yawned. “Since she persists in glooming and dooming about the place. But let us not talk of them. I asked you to stay, Mr. Hudson, because I am in sore need of your advice.”

  Bertram brightened magically. No one had ever asked his advice before. Until that moment, he had considered Cordelia a poor sort of creature, his youthful puritan soul damning her as a woman of loose morals. Now, for the first time, he realized how very beautiful and how very feminine she was.

  “My problem concerns Harriet and her forthcoming marriage,” said Cordelia. “You must help me, Mr. Hudson.”

  A cynical look marred Mr. Bertram Hudson’s young features. Oho! Lady Bentley wanted Arden for herself.

  “I am thinking of marrying Lord Struthers,” said Cordelia, “and I would like to do so with an easy conscience. Harriet’s poverty has made me look like a monster, but the fact is that I have very little money left. You will not repeat this?”

  “I swear by—”

  “Good. I encouraged Harriet to marry Arden, and I fear I have done a monstrous thing. Harriet is a good and gentle girl, too innocent and countrified in her ways for the likes of Arden. Oh, believe me, your cousin is a gentleman, but he is not of Harriet’s world, and he is much too old for her.”

  “But you and Lord Struthers…”

  “That is another matter. I respect Lord Struthers. I sacrificed myself once for the family by marrying Lord Bentley. I can do so again. I am a woman of the world, and such arrangements will not soil or ruin me as they would an innocent like Harriet.”

  She looked at Bertram, her blue eyes growing wider and wider until he felt he was slowly drowning in a warm, tropical sea. He forgot about the poverty at Pringle House, which had been ample evidence that Cordelia had done nothing to help her sister. He eagerly hitched his chair forward. “What can I do?” he asked.

  “You must not simply take my word. You must endeavor to get Harriet to confide in you. I think you will find it apparent that she fears Arden and dreads the marriage. Our aunt is very much to blame. Thinking only of herself, Aunt Rebecca pointed out that it was Harriet’s duty to marry well. You may have thought me hard and unfeeling in the past, Mr. Hudson—”

  “No, no,” cried Bertram, completely won over. This was the stuff of which his Gothic dreams were made. Like many young men of his class and age, he claimed to detest novels. But he devoured as many as he could get, and often the situations and characters in his favorite books were more real to him than anything or anybody in the world around.

  “Hark!” Cordelia leaned forward with her hand cupped to her ear. It was one of her favorite “attitudes.” Attitudes were very popular among the ladies of the ton. “I hear Harriet returning. Do but stay where you are, Mr. Hudson, and I will send her to you.”

  A surprised Harriet was told by Cordelia that “that bore of a cousin of Arden’s has been plaguing me this half hour. Do be a darling and send him on his way. I must rest. Dear Aunt Rebecca, I have a fine Norwich shawl I have been meaning to give you this age.”

  And so Harriet was neatly left alone to face Mr. Hudson.

  She experienced a certain amount of embarrassment on entering the room, worried in case he would remind her of the ball. But he shook hands with her warmly and congratulated her on her marriage—realized his mistake—and, blushing, offered her his felicitations instead. After all, he should have remembered, it was only the man who was ever congratulated.

  He was much struck by her pallor. Her beauty appealed to the romantic side of him in a way that Cordelia’s more full-blown charms could not.

  “I must apologize,” he said gently, “for having pressed my unwelcome attentions on you, but the fact was I had had rather too much to drink and your beauty quite overwhelmed me.”

  “Let us not speak of it, Mr. Hudson,” said Harriet awkwardly. “It is all past and forgotten.”

  “You are most gracious. This engagement—it was very sudden?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “But you must be very much in love to be so precipitate.” He saw Harriet stiffen and displeasure and added hurriedly, “That was impertinent, although I did not mean it to be so. I have your welfare very much at heart and my wish is to see you happy. May I act as your escort while Arden is away? It is a lovely day and the sun is shining. We could go for a drive in the park and talk nonsense.”

  H
arriet hesitated. “Come, Miss Harriet,” he urged. “We are of an age, I think, and so we can be silly and young together before we have to put on our grown-up society faces for the ton.”

  His face went through a series of comic contortions, and, despite her worries, Harriet burst out laughing.

  She had felt so weary and worried and alone since Agnes had visited her room the night before. Agnes had done her work well. Harriet was dreading her fiancé’s return, knowing she would see him for the terrible, lustful satyr of Agnes’s description. And Agnes must be telling the truth, for the poor woman had choked out the terrible facts as if they were eating her and then had cried her eyes out with remorse. Harriet’s first thought had been to write to the marquess canceling the engagement. But there was Aunt Rebecca to consider. Because a man had a dark reputation, it was really no grounds for getting rid of him. Men were allowed such behavior. Women were not.

  To expect a man to love with the same spiritual tenderness as a woman was ridiculous. Women fell in love; men had lusts. That was the difference. And so unworldly Harriet tried to resign herself to her fate by dredging up all the dangerous tittle-tattle she had heard from the women in the village when she called at Lower Maxton on one of her rare visits, and combined that with the scurrilous gossip of London society.

  Mr. Hudson, despite his carefully adopted slovenliness of dress and his affected brooding manners, seemed kind and helpful. He would hardly press his attentions on her now that she was to wed his cousin.

  Harriet glanced out of the window. The sun was glinting on the windows of the houses opposite. The windows of the drawing room were open and a warm, lazy breeze stirred the curtains. Upstairs, Agnes would be weeping. For some reason, the poor woman could not seem to stop crying. Aunt Rebecca would be ready to settle down over the teacups to a long discussion on the state of her nerves.

  “Yes, Mr. Hudson,” said Harriet quietly. “I would like to go for a drive in the park—very much, indeed.”

  Mr. Hudson felt very happy. He felt like a knight-errant who had just rescued his lady from the tower. Perched up beside him in his phaeton, Harriet looked beautiful enough to cause a small sensation in the park. She was wearing the very latest thing in hats. It was of the fashionable Egyptian-sand color—Egyptian sand being the stuff sold by stationers to blot letters. It was made of straw and ornamented on the brim by a large cluster of corn poppies. Her poppy-red cambric gown was ornamented around the border with stripes of clear muslin. The sleeves were slashed and fitted tightly over the wrist. She carried a white gauze parasol striped with white silk.