by Anne Gracie
“I agree,” Aunt Dottie said. “And now, ices.”
* * *
* * *
The following afternoon the duke’s front doorbell rang again. It had rung on and off all day—to no avail. Hart made a grimace of satisfaction and bent over his correspondence. The gossip-seeking vultures would get no joy here. Fleming had his instructions.
He stared down at the note he was trying to compose. It was more difficult than he imagined. The previous evening he’d sent a note around to the Earl of Ashendon, offering to buy the black stallion. He didn’t mention that he’d seen the horse being ridden by the earl’s niece, let alone that the young hoyden had been riding astride. He was sure Sinc was wrong, saying the horse belonged to the girl.
But a brief note had arrived this morning in which the earl informed him that the stallion belonged to Lady Georgiana and that he doubted she’d sell it. However, if Everingham was interested in breeding the stallion to one of his mares, she might consider that. Everingham should apply directly to her.
It was ridiculous. Ashendon had always seemed like a levelheaded fellow, but allowing his niece to be directly involved in the breeding of a valuable, blood stallion . . . A young, unmarried girl shouldn’t even know about the breeding of horses, let alone arrange it.
He finished the note, making her a generous offer for the horse—he would not even consider discussing stud arrangements with a lady—addressed and sealed it, then returned to his business correspondence. Much less complicated.
A short time later voices in the hall, one of them female, caused him to look up. What the devil?
His butler knocked discreetly and looked in. “Your grace, forgive the interruption but—”
“What part of I am not at home did you fail to understand, Fleming?”
“I’m sorry, your grace, but—” the butler began.
“Oh, what nonsense, as if my son meant you to deny me,” said a soft voice from the doorway.
His butler gave him an agonized look of apology. Hart waved him away. He might be irritated, but he understood. Most men were helpless before his mother.
The Duchess of Everingham brushed past the butler, all slender, helpless frailty and fluttering draperies. Pretty and still quite youthful looking—she did not admit to forty, although since he was eight-and-twenty she could hardly deny it—she cultivated an air of delicacy and fragility that brought out the protective instincts of a certain type of man.
Hart was not one of them.
“The library, Redmond?” she said plaintively. “You receive your mother in the library?”
He gestured to the papers spread out on the desk before him. “I’m working.”
His mother pouted, then tottered across the room, sank gracefully into the most comfortable chair and gave an exhausted sigh. Hard on her heels came her most recent companion, a colorless woman clad in a depressing shade between gray and purple, clutching a large, lumpy reticule.
He nodded to her. She was some kind of distant cousin. Harriet? Henrietta? He couldn’t remember her name. His mother changed her companions so often it was hard to keep up. They all started off devoted, but after a few months, they became “impossible” and Hart was instructed to pension them off.
The companion produced a number of little bottles and vials and arranged them on a small table next to his mother’s chair. Smelling salts, hartshorn, feathers for burning, and various potions guaranteed to revive the feeblest invalid: Mother’s battery of armaments.
Not that his mother was an invalid. The Duchess of Everingham was said by some to enjoy ill health. Hart would have said that far from enjoying it, his mother positively relished it. As far as he was concerned, she was as strong as a horse.
The medicines were there purely as a silent warning that any opposition to his mother’s wishes would have dire, possibly fatal consequences. He’d learned that lesson young.
The companion pulled a shawl from the seemingly bottomless reticule and arranged it around his mother’s knees. Her grace had a horror of drafts.
“Oh, stop fussing, Hester.” His mother kicked impatiently at the shawl. “Go. Leave us. I wish to talk to my son.”
Handing a dainty crystal vial—probably smelling salts—to his mother, Hester turned to Hart and said in an undervoice, “Try not to upset her, your grace. She’s feeling very poorly today.”
When was she not? Particularly when she wanted something. But he didn’t say it aloud. He glanced at the doorway where his butler still hovered. “Tea and cakes, Fleming.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly,” his mother said. “Just a little barley water. With honey and a slice of lemon. And perhaps a rusk. I need to keep up my strength, such as it is.”
Fleming bowed and left, taking the companion with him. Silence fell. Hart turned back to his correspondence. His mother sighed. He kept writing.
“I miss this house so much.”
Hart ignored her. All his life his mother had complained about the inconvenience and old-fashioned furniture of Everingham House, saying it was too big, too grim and too cold. His late father had spent a fortune trying to please her, but nothing ever did.
Papa had never learned that lesson. Hart had.
Several years ago he’d finally given in to her complaints and bought her a pretty house just around the corner that was smaller, lighter, warmer and more modern. She’d had it entirely redecorated, and happily moved in, all the while confiding sadly to her friends that her son had callously thrust his mother from her family home.
He himself had been living in bachelor apartments at the time and had shut Everingham House up. But last year, when he’d decided to take a bride, he’d reopened it, had it redecorated and some parts of it modernized—the kitchens and the plumbing in particular—and moved back in.
Naturally his mother had conceived a desperate yearning to live there again.
She sighed again, and when he showed no sign of putting aside his correspondence, she said in a plaintive voice, “It utterly exhausts me to venture out into the world, you know.”
“Then why bother?”
“Because I am in despair, Redmond, utter despair!”
He kept writing.
“Despair about you and your situation, Redmond!” Seeming to realize the waspish tenor of her speech, she added, “Dearest.”
He didn’t look up. “Don’t worry your head about me, Mother. There’s no need.”
“But there is need, my son. That frightful aborted ceremony, the gossip, the scandal, the disgrace! The horrid slur on our family name! I am nigh on prostrated with mortification.” She shuddered, unstoppered the tiny vial and took a restorative sniff.
Hart said nothing. There was no point. They’d had this conversation numerous times. Yes, there was gossip, but gossip never lasted. And if she didn’t go to so many parties—forcing herself, naturally—she wouldn’t have to hear it.
“Do not fret yourself, my son, I shall try to weather the storm,” his mother said, rallying bravely. “It’s you I worry about, my dearest. I thought that you were all settled at last, and that finally I could go in peace.” She sank back feebly in her chair and closed her eyes.
“Go where, Mother? Off to Bath again, are you?” He blotted the ink of his letter, folded it and reached for his seal. “Or perhaps a sea-bathing treatment this time? I’ve heard that a bracing dip in the cold salt sea does people a power of good.”
She shuddered and clutched her vial feebly to her bosom. “Such a thing would kill me.”
“Only if you drowned, and I believe there are muscular females at the dipping sites whose job it is to prevent that. It’s perfectly safe.”
She sat up and glared at him. “Don’t be so obtuse, Redmond—my darling boy. You must know that the only thing that keeps me alive—the only thing, dearest—is the desire to see you settled. Married.”
“Then I shall postpone my nuptials indefinitely and provide you with a long life.”
“No! No—oh, but I see you are teasing me, and you really must not.” She waved the smelling salts feebly but with delicate emphasis. “Dr. Bentink says my constitution is extremely fragile and any shock, even a small one, could carry me off.”
Hart didn’t bother responding. Dr. Bentink knew which side of his bread was buttered.
Fleming entered then, followed by a footman carrying a tea tray, containing a teapot, two cups, a glass of barley water, a dish containing several almond rusks and a plate of luscious-looking cream cakes.
The duchess waved them away. “Oh, how pretty, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t eat a thing.”
“You must keep your strength up, your grace,” Fleming murmured. He produced a small table and placed it on the other side of the duchess. He poured out the tea, added milk and two lumps of sugar, stirred it well and placed it, the glass of barley water, the dish of rusks and a plate containing two small pink cakes oozing with cream on the duchess’s table. Then he poured black and sugarless tea for Hart and set it pointedly next to the chair opposite the duchess.
“I’ll just finish this.” Hart blotted, sealed and addressed the letter. When he looked up there were still two cakes on his mother’s plate, but there were now several fewer on the larger plate. As always, Fleming had calculated his mother’s tastes exactly.
Hart left his desk and sat down opposite his mother. He sipped his tea.
“I couldn’t eat a morsel, Redmond, I am in such distress.”
Hart drank his tea.
“Perhaps a rusk. One must force oneself for the sake of one’s loved ones.” She picked up a rusk and toyed with it. “Dear Lady Salter—”
“Came the other day and delivered your latest suggestion for a bride. I sent her off with a flea in her ear.”
His mother gasped. “Don’t tell me you were uncivil to her, Redmond! Apart from being my godmother, she is one of my dearest friends.”
“I was blunt rather than uncivil, and I’ll tell you what I told her. Stop meddling in my life, Mother, or—” He broke off, as his mother fluttered back in her chair, gasping in apparent distress. He waited.
After a few moments she registered his indifference and stopped gasping. “Or what?”
“Or one of these days I’ll return the favor.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Perhaps I’ll give my consent to one of those puppies you encourage to hang around you. They’re always pestering me for your hand.”
She sat up. “You wouldn’t!”
Hart shrugged. “Jeavons has approached me three times already.”
She patted her hair complacently. “The dear sweet boy, but of course it would never do.”
Jeavons was several years younger than himself, an impressionable puppy.
“I should think not. He’s barely out of leading strings.”
She sniffed. “Hardly.”
“No, Bullstrode would be far more suitable.”
She stiffened. “Bullstrode! That arrogant bully! He’s an oaf! A ruffian! He’s, he’s . . . vulgar. Ungentlemanly!”
“He adores you, Mother. He has several times importuned me for your hand.”
“Then you must refuse! What am I saying? I refuse!”
“Ah, but Bullstrode is the kind of man who would take your refusal as a kind of flirting from an indecisive female. I’m sure you’ve heard his views on the inability of females to know what is good for them.”
“I’ve heard! And I’m not indecisive. I loathe the man!” There was nothing helpless or fluttery about his mother now.
In a thoughtful voice he said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Bullstrode decided to kidnap you and force a marriage—if he thought he had my blessing, that is.”
She shuddered again, this time genuinely. “Redmond! No! He doesn’t have your blessing . . . Does he?”
Hart pondered the contents of his teacup as if considering it.
She crumbled the rusk between her fingers. “You wouldn’t, would you? Dearest?”
He looked up. “I might—if you and that skinny godmother of yours don’t stop pestering me.”
A huff of laughter escaped her. “Skinny? Lady Salter? Oh, you are wicked. But Bullstrode, Redmond. You would never—”
“Are we finished here, Mother? Because I have work to do.” He gestured to the pile of papers on his desk.
She pouted. “Never any time for your nearest and dearest. Your father left all that sort of thing to his secretary.”
“I am not my father.” He rose and rang for his butler.
She hesitated, and fiddled with a handkerchief. “Do you go to the opera this evening, Redmond, dear?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She considered that. “What about next Thursday?”
“No.” He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Is this another attempt to foist an eligible female on me?”
She gave an indignant little huff. “Of course not. You’ve made yourself perfectly clear. Though you must admit that the last girl we found for you—dear Lady Rose—was perfect.”
“And look how well that turned out.”
“Well, how were we to know the silly gel had contracted a secret marriage?”
“Good-bye, Mother and remember what I said. A word from me and Bullstrode will be yours.”
His mother applied a wisp of lace to her eye. “So harsh, so cruel to treat your poor mama so. I don’t know where you get it from. Your father was always so sweet to me.”
Hart’s father had lived a dog’s life, wrapped as he was around his wife’s little finger and driven to distraction by her imaginary ailments. Hart had no intention of going down that path.
The door opened and his butler appeared. “Her grace is leaving, Fleming. And have this delivered, will you?” He handed the butler his note to the Rutherford girl. “Good-bye, Mother.”
His mother sighed. “Unfeeling, unnatural boy. I’m not surprised some people in the ton call you Heartless.” She floated tragically from the room, a martyred exit overlaying a barely suppressed flounce.
Hart kept a straight face. He had no intention of encouraging Bullstrode, of course—he was a bully and a braggart and Hart would rather shoot the man than have him as a stepfather—but if the threat kept his mother from her eternal meddling, it was worth it.
He returned to his correspondence. He had a man of affairs, but not a private secretary. Some things he preferred to do himself. He administered a number of estates, his own and three for which he had recently become a trustee. These last three, which had belonged to a late cousin, took up most of his time; Arthur Wooldridge had not only left his young son and heir to Hart’s wardship, he’d left his affairs in a mess and his estate in debt.
Fortunately, Hart enjoyed a challenge.
* * *
* * *
Two hours later he received an answer to his note.
My horse is not for sale, to you or anyone.
G. Rutherford.
Chapter Four
I have not the pleasure of understanding you.
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
The last thing George had expected to enjoy when she’d first been thrust into the life of the ton was the opera. But to everyone’s surprise—including hers—she did. The first time, she’d attended it reluctantly with Rose and Aunt Agatha, knowing it was just some excuse for Aunt Agatha to introduce Rose to the duke.
Except he hadn’t turned up.
For Aunt Agatha the evening had been a waste of time; for George, it had been a revelation. The music, the drama, the story, the costumes—she’d been entranced.
She’d always liked music, always enjoyed a song or two, but she’d had no musical education. Accordin
g to Martha, Mama had a very sweet voice—she’d played the pianoforte and sung—but she’d died when George was a baby. The music in church was always her favorite part of Sundays, and she’d loved to listen to the villagers playing their fiddles and other instruments whenever there was a wedding or some other celebration. Several times she’d even sneaked into the grounds of some of the grander local houses and eavesdropped on their balls and parties.
But opera was something else again. She couldn’t understand most of the words—she spoke no Italian or German; no other language except English, in fact—but Emm, who knew about opera, usually told her the story before she went, so she could follow along. Often the story seemed a bit silly, and the characters a little on the ridiculous side, but then a voice would begin to soar and she would be transported out of the theater, away from London, into a realm she’d never known existed.
It didn’t always happen, but with some singers, and some pieces, the opening notes would send a prickle down her spine, across her skin, and she’d lean forward toward the stage and let the music soak into her. And be transported.
Aunt Dottie also shared her love of music. She didn’t often come up to London—she preferred her home in Bath—but she’d come up for Rose’s wedding, and was staying on for Rose’s ball next week, so she’d come with George and Aunt Agatha tonight.
A burst of masculine laughter came from the box next door—nothing to do with anything happening onstage. The box had been empty for most of the opera, but now, more than halfway through, a group of young men had entered noisily, talking and laughing, indifferent to what was happening onstage or whom they might be disturbing.
Lots of people talked through the opera. It drove George mad. Why did they come if they had no intention of listening to the music? She knew the answer, of course—because it was fashionable. To see and be seen, to show off their clothes and jewels. And meet friends and gossip.
Most of them showed little interest in the music. She’d even seen people play cards right through a performance, their backs to the stage. At least cards were relatively quiet. These young men weren’t.
