Married Past Redemption

by Patricia Veryan

  Mr. Humphrey said slowly, “I’ve no doubt she would, my dear.”

  * * *

  Lisette’s new ball gown was as far from “wearing the willow” as one could imagine. A cloud of net of the palest pink over deeper pink tulle, with tiny spangles here and there, it arrived the day before the ball that the Duke of Vaille held to honour the betrothal of his only son, the Marquis of Damon, to that lovely young widow, Lady Sophia Drayton. Lisette returned from walking with two of her cousins to find the large box on her bed, and Judith all agog to see it opened. The gown looked even lovelier than Lisette had remembered, and she was holding it up against her when an unusually firm scratching came at the door. In answer to her call, her brother burst in, impelled by the enthusiasm of an ugly and vaguely familiar dog.

  “Did you hear him scratch at your door?” Norman laughed, clinging to the leash. “’Pon my word, but he’s the very cleverest brute.”

  “Brutus!” gasped Lisette, remembering.

  Her utterance of the name was heard, and the response was as fervent as it was immediate. With a bark that shook the windows, Brutus hurled himself at the lady who had thus invited him. Lisette gave a shriek as two large paws were planted upon the dainty and pristine fabric of her new gown. Brutus very obviously did not count this a rebuff, for he continued to jump and bark, while Lisette shrieked and Judith berated and Norman shouted with laughter.

  “Get him away! Get him away!” cried Lisette, dodging frantically.

  Judith shrilled, “Horrid dog!” but ran behind the chair when Brutus turned eager eyes her way.

  “He is not a horrid dog!” Norman protested. “I met Lord Bolster outside and he was kind enough to let me bring his puppy up to show you. I might have known you’d—”

  “What in the name of creation is happening?” roared Mr. Van Lindsay, appearing in the doorway.

  “It is my new ball gown, Papa,” Lisette wailed, inspecting her sullied net with anxious eyes. “Norman brought that hideous creature upstairs—”

  “And he jumped all over poor Lisette and chased me behind this chair,” put in Judith indignantly, if not altogether accurately.

  “Well, get the dirty hound out!” ordered the master of the house, advancing purposefully.

  Brutus trundled a few interested paces towards him, and the master of the house retreated precipitately.

  “Come on, poor fellow,” said Norman, tugging on the leash.

  Brutus began to growl at Mr. Van Lindsay, and took a few more paces towards him.

  “Go away!” screamed Judith, taking one of Mr. Garvey’s roses from a vase and waving it threateningly.

  Brutus emitted a piercing yowl and shot under the bed, the leash whipping through Norman’s hand.

  “Now see what you’ve done!” Norman knelt by the bed, and called a cajoling, “Come out, poor frightened puppy.”

  “Puppy?” snorted Mr. Van Lindsay. “The brute’s a behemoth, rather! Remove him, sir! At once!”

  Norman proving singularly unwilling to reach under the bed and drag Brutus out by a paw, this adjuration was not immediately complied with, as a result of which Mr. Van Lindsay’s temper worsened and his son was treated to some decidedly cutting remarks.

  Not until Norman sacrificed a piece of toffee was the dog at last lured forth. Norman grudgingly voiced the apology his sire demanded but, on his way out, dimmed the effect by muttering, “Women! He didn’t hurt your silly dress!”

  Fortunately this appeared to be true. Lisette could find no rents, and the few snags were easily corrected. By this time, however, the afternoon was far spent and it was necessary to change for dinner. Their guests came early and stayed late, and it was not until the following morning that Lisette was able to try on the gown. With loving hands she took it from its protective covering, held it up, and uttered a shriek of horror. The gauze was torn and ripped; large, muddy paw-prints defaced it, and several sections looked to have been well chewed. For a moment, recalling the frightful expense of that gown, Lisette was actually dizzied. With a choking sob she laid the victim on her bed, and only then saw that the damaged gauze was of a slightly different hue. Puzzled, she investigated. Several recent additions had been clumsily pinned onto her lovely (and mercifully unsullied) gown. Her first reaction was one of soaring relief, but a muffled chortle from the door brought her swinging around in time to see Norman’s grinning face jerk from sight. Rage boiled through her. The monster! What a fright he had given her—her heart was still hammering!

  It had been a long time since she had allowed herself to lose her temper, but this was too much! She snatched up the nearest thing to hand, which chanced to be her new parasol, and ran in hot pursuit.

  Norman was leaning against the stair railing, laughing his triumph, but he straightened when he saw retribution at hand and tore down the stairs, Lisette close on his heels. He reached the ground floor a very short distance ahead and, turning to the right and the rear of the house, barely avoided two gentlemen leaving the study. Lisette, parasol upraised, was able to stop at the very last instant, halting all but under the chin of a tall, slender man clad in the height of quiet elegance, who regarded her with one mobile brow lifting. Staring into that bronzed face, Lisette thought that the skin seemed almost stretched over the high cheekbones, and that he was younger than she had supposed—somewhere in the neighbourhood of thirty. Her appraisal brought a smile creeping into the extremely blue eyes, but it did not touch his mouth.

  “Lisette,” said Mr. Van Lindsay, palpably annoyed, “I must make you known to Mr. Justin Strand. Mr. Strand—my second daughter.”

  Strand’s bow was brief and remarkable for a lack of embellishment. Renowned for her serene grace, Lisette realized with a considerable shock that the parasol was still flung up over her head. For a horrified instant she could not decide what to do with it, and her arm wavered. The smile in Mr. Strand’s eyes spread to a quiver beside his mouth. Scarlet with embarrassment, Lisette thrust the parasol behind her and favoured him with a dignified curtsey. The most graceful curtsey in the world, however, can only suffer when the derrière of the lady executing it suddenly comes into violent contact with the handle of a parasol. Lisette, in fact, was thrown so off balance that it was necessary for Strand to steady her.

  “Lord’s sake, girl!” expostulated Mr. Van Lindsay. “What are you about?”

  Wishing the floor might open and swallow her, Lisette mumbled, “I—er—Norman—that is to say—Brutus—”

  “Yes. Precisely why I came,” said Strand, coming to her rescue. “I heard my dog had caused you some inconvenience, Miss Van Lindsay. My apologies. May I hope to make amends in some fashion?”

  He had a brisk but pleasant voice. And he was Rachel Strand’s brother. Recovering herself, Lisette said a cool, “Your dog, sir? I understood he was the property of Lord Bolster.”

  She had made an excellent recovery, thought Strand. How charmingly the thick dark hair waved about her face, and those great eyes were like dusky pansies … as he had heard. But her back was very straight now, and those same dusky eyes were tinged with ice. “I—ah—bestowed him upon Bolster,” he explained. “So I feel responsible.”

  Lisette was in no mood to return that quirkish smile. Of all the people in this world, Justin Strand was the last to whom she would have wished to show a foolish front. Whatever must he have thought to see a lady of her station in life racing down the stairs, brandishing her parasol like some hobbledehoy? And as though that were not bad enough, she had all but thrown herself at his feet! Small wonder he smiled. One scarce could blame him did he laugh aloud! “I certainly do not hold you responsible, sir,” she replied. “And I believe I have to thank you for some very pretty flowers.”

  “Have you?”

  The twinkle in his eyes was even more pronounced and, disconcerted, she stared at him.

  “I am flattered you remember who sent ’em,” he went on with a shrug she could only find deliberately provoking. “I suspect you are fairly deluged with floral of
ferings, Miss Van Lindsay.”

  Lisette managed a smile, excused herself, and walked on in the manner of a queen moving towards her coronation. She knew that Papa was vexed with her and wondered why he should give this man house room, let alone expect her to be civil to the creature.

  Wandering into the breakfast room, she came upon her erstwhile prey choosing from some fruit on the sideboard. He threw up one arm and begged for mercy. “I did not harm your gown, I swear. And I’d not intended to land you in the suds again—did Papa come the ugly?”

  “Not with me. But I cannot guarantee he will not have a few words to say to you!”

  “Oh, well. it was worth it. Truly, Lisette, the expression on your face when you fell off your parasol was priceless.”

  Strand had doubtless thought the same! “At least,” she snapped, “no one has yet wished to pay to view it. Do you continue to gobble up every piece of food in sight, they will offer a pretty sum to see you at Astley’s Amphitheatre!” The instant they were spoken, she would have given a good deal to have retracted those unkind words. The grin died from Norman’s face. He flushed, and in silence replaced the apple, bowed with surprising dignity, and left her alone. She thought with a trace of shock, He’s growing up! and felt confused and unhappy.

  When she was sure the hall was clear, she hurried upstairs and was arraying herself in a gown that Papa favoured when a quiet scratch on the door announced the arrival of Norman and Judith. They both looked solemn, and the fact that they were side by side with no appearance of animosity told its own story. Lisette ushered them inside, allowing her hand to rest an extra minute on her brother’s shoulder, and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  He saw the rather anxious smile in her eyes and grinned his forgiveness.

  “Beatrice,” he said succinctly.

  “And poor Sir William,” nodded Judith.

  “Come for the Damon ball,” Norman finished.

  “Oh, dear,” sighed Lisette.

  * * *

  Lady Beatrice Dwyer was, at four and twenty, a younger but slightly more waspish version of her mother. In a little less than three years, she had succeeded in so cowing her gentle husband that, when in her presence, he seldom spoke without first looking anxiously for her approval. Beatrice had her share of the Bayes-Copeland good looks, and it was those looks that had snared Sir William. He had neither an athletic build nor a handsome countenance to recommend him, being short and rather stocky, his colouring florid and his hair of an undistinguished brown. He was (besides being the possessor of a fine old name, a baronetcy, and a comfortable estate in Somerset) a kind-hearted soul whose interest in his fellow man had won him far more friends than he knew. He idolized his wife, humbly marvelling that he’d been able to win so pretty a prize, not realizing that more worldly-wise gentlemen had taken heed of Beatrice’s tendency to shrewishness, and turned their attentions otherwhere.

  At the luncheon table that day, Sir William was a little more spirited than usual. Lisette always went out of her way to be kind to him, being very aware of the burden under which he laboured. Taking their cue from her, Judith and Norman, who were both now allowed to join the family for luncheon, treated him with a deference he found gratifying. Beatrice was rattling on as usual, allowing him little chance to contribute to the conversation, but when Lisette found an opening and asked if he had been able to get in any hunting after the Christmas holidays, he answered joyfully that he had, by Jove! “Was invited to ride with the Melton men. Bought m’self a dashed fine hunter. Splendid beast. Sixteen hands, good shoulders, and a fine barrel. If I say so m’self—”

  “Oh, pray do not, William,” Beatrice interpolated with a tight smile. “The family don’t want to hear all that hunting talk. Now, Lisette, tell me what is all this we hear of your having been in queer stirrups? You look well enough to me. I hope you don’t mean to become one of these sickly women, always ailing. It’s high time you was wed. She needs a husband, Mama. She is getting to be a positive old maid, which will never do. We all expect you to at least try to make as good a match as did I, dear one.”

  Judith looked daggers and opened her mouth for an impassioned defence, only to gasp as Norman’s shoe connected hard with her shin, and a warning frown was levelled at her across the table.

  “Lisette is much better now,” said Mrs. Van Lindsay. “And is, in fact, being courted by several gentlemen.”

  “Well, I hope one amongst ’em has two groats to rub together. I vow I could have wept when I heard Colonel Leith was snapped up by that Strand woman! I was sure you’d catch him, Lisette—though you must have been his second choice at best, for everyone knows he was mad for Euphemia Buchanan. Lord knows why; she’s nothing for looks, heaven only knows.”

  Lisette kept her eyes on her plate and was silent. Norman and Judith looked at each other in a mutual fuming. Mr. Van Lindsay coughed and said grandly, “I’d allow your sister’s admirers to be a fairly well-breeched lot. Young Hilby will never be able to spend the half of his fortune; Vaughan is wealthy in his own right, to say nothing of what Moulton will leave him; and Garvey—” He exchanged a meaningful glance with his wife. Few people knew of Mr. Garvey’s financial dilemma, and his prestige was such that Lisette’s reputation could only be enhanced by his attentions. “Garvey,” he finished, “is fairly crazy for her.”

  “Garvey?” put in Sir William. “James Garvey? Jove! He’s an out and outer if ever there was one! And as well breeched as he can stare! What d’you say to that, milady!”

  His wife’s eyes were very wide. “A most splendid catch,” she said, with only a trace of hollowness.

  “How regrettable that I have no intention of ‘catching’ him,” averred Lisette, her cheeks flaming.

  Norman murmured softly, “Just like a blasted butcher’s shop!”

  Fortunately, his withering comment did not carry past Lisette, and she did not betray him. She was, in fact, completely in agreement with him.

  Chapter 3

  Like everything else about the Duke of Vaille, his house was as close to perfection as was possible. This edifice was located in Bond Street, not far from the home of his good friend the Earl of Harland, and with its unusual red mansard roof, white exterior, and wide red steps was a spectacular sight. Inside, it was rather awesomely lovely, but the majestic proportions of the rooms did not detract from a sense of warmth and welcome. Tonight, those rooms were ablaze with colourful gowns, and music vied with the merry talk and laughter of the guests. Camille, Marquis of Damon, his betrothed, and his father were still receiving latecomers two hours after the first guests had arrived, but even then the house was not uncomfortably crowded, the Duke not holding with the popular notion that a party was not a success unless the guests were so jammed in they could scarcely move about.

  The arrival of Lisette Van Lindsay, escorted by James Garvey, created quite a stir. Lisette’s new gown admirably became her, and the small necklace of rubies and diamonds that she had borrowed from her mother (and which she suspected were paste) complemented it charmingly. Well aware of the admiring stares of the gentlemen, Garvey was also amused to notice the glares of several mamas having less spectacular daughters they hoped to fire off this season. He confided to his fair partner that he squired the loveliest lady at the ball. Lisette smiled and thanked him, but she was unimpressed by flattery. If anything, she thought the guest of honour the loveliest woman in the room, for Sophia, Lady Drayton, was a great beauty with her golden hair and long violet eyes. Those same eyes were bright indeed tonight, and having congratulated her handsome fiancé, Lisette embraced Sophia, happy for the joy of this good friend.

  “Dearest,” Sophia whispered in her ear, “would you keep an eye on Amanda for me? I bullied her into coming, but I fear she means to hide somewhere. It is all so ridiculous because— Oh, Admiral Peterson. How kind of you to come.”

  Lisette had, perforce, to move along, not having had time to apprise Sophia of the fact that she scarcely knew Amanda Hersh, and was not at all sure she
wished so uncomfortable a task as to befriend a disgraced girl.

  Once they had moved into the ballroom, however, she became such a centre of attraction that Sophia’s request quite slipped her mind. The gentlemen crowded around, begging for a place on her dance card. Jocelyn Vaughan stole it and at once it was whisked away. Even as she started to demand it be returned, Captain Miles Cameron came up to present Lord Bolster, his lordship so obviously petrified with shyness that she put aside her vexation and was as gently kind as she knew how to be. Her reward was an incoherent mumble and a look of gratitude wherein she also thought to read such misery that her heart was touched. She was still looking after Bolster worriedly when Vaughan swept her a deep obeisance and proffered her dance card, completely filled.

  Half laughing, half annoyed, she protested, “No, really, Vaughan! This will not do, gentlemen! I must have a new card.”

  “I fear they are not to be had, dear lady,” chuckled James Garvey, offering his arm. “And since my own name heads the list and a waltz is about to begin, I claim my fair prize.”

  She slipped her hand onto his arm and walked with him onto the floor. “Well you may laugh, sir, your name was written in honestly. I likely do not even know half the gentlemen who signed my card!” She started to raise it, but the music began and she was whirled into the dance.

  The next hour flew by. The happiness of the occasion was contagious, and Vaille’s wisdom in holding the guest list to no more than two hundred and fifty resulted in the room staying fairly cool and allowed the dancers to move freely. The lilting music, the lovely ladies, the charming and elegant gentlemen, and the gracious house all combined to create a most enjoyable evening, and Lisette was almost sorry when Galen Hilby appeared to lead her in to supper. As always, this very eligible young bachelor was light-hearted and full of plans for her amusement. They would have a boat party, he proclaimed. They would go down the Thames to Richmond, where they would disembark at the home of Lisette’s dear grandmama, who would be delighted to serve them all a five-course dinner to follow their picnic. The idea of her sharp-tongued and reclusive grandparent making such an offer sent Lisette into peals of laughter. Glancing up, she encountered from across the room the gaze of two intent blue eyes, and her laughter died. For a moment she returned Strand’s gaze, then, her cheeks hot, she moved too hastily, overturned her glass, and sent ratafia cascading over the pink net. Mr. Hilby gave her his napkin. Chagrined, she thanked him, but excused herself and went in search of a maid.