“And ungrateful!” Lisette flashed an angry glare at Judith. “You forget, do you not, that Mr. Strand was so kind as to escort you home this morning?”
“Well, I did not need his offices,” declared Judith, her nose in the air. “Lord Bolster and Brutus were sufficient of an escort. And besides, not only is Mr. Strand socially beneath us, but he’s not near so handsome as Mr. Garvey.”
Beatrice laughed, but Lisette exclaimed, “For shame! Whatever else he may be”—and little did they know how low!—“he is a—a friend of my father. And Grandmama thinks the world of him!”
“Scarcely a glowing recommendation.” Beatrice sat on the sofa again, and tittered, “Lud, girl, why do you rage at us? One might almost think you were becoming fond of the creature.”
“Then one would be most foolish! It is simply that I cannot abide unkindness. Which reminds me, I had thought you were going back to Somerset with William?”
“Oh, he went back.” Beatrice shrugged. “But I decided to stay in town for a while. I am invited to visit Dorothy Haines-Curtis. She is upset because she was obliged to send Harry Redmond about his business. The Redmonds are bankrupted, you know, so she is well rid of him. And why my plans should be any of your bread and butter, I cannot guess.”
Lisette, who was fond of Sir William, fixed her with a cold stare. “Can you not?”
Beatrice’s eyes fell. She stood, exclaiming, “I declare, I cannot be in this house above an hour without coming to cuffs with someone! Nobody cares how I feel—nor what my life is like in that lonely old house … miles from any excitement!” With tears coming into her dark eyes, she said on a sob, “Nobody even tries to understand!” And with a flounce of silks, she sped from the room.
Lisette turned to Judith. “I think it will be as well, dear, if we forget what Beatrice just said. She likely does not mean it.”
“Oh, yes, she does. She is bored. She doesn’t like that house in Somerset. And I doubt she likes William very much, either.” Abandoning the air of sophisticated languor she had copied from Beatrice, Judith now bounced up, saying with ghoulish appreciation, “Was that not a famous confrontation this morning? I was sure Mr. Strand was going to take off his glove and cast it in Mr. Garvey’s teeth! How thrilling that would have been! I probably would have fainted away.”
Lisette said dryly, “So might Mr. Strand. I hear James Garvey is a dead shot!”
Chapter 5
Promptly at three o’clock Mr. Justin Strand was announced and at once strode swiftly into the drawing room. Lisette had been idly turning the pages of Ladies Magazine and looked up, startled, schooling her features into a smile that died a’borning. In anticipation of a carriage ride, she had donned a high-necked gown of cream silk, the bodice overlaid with ecru lace, and had selected a fine straw bonnet with a high poke trimmed in the same shade of lace. Mr. Strand, however, was dressed very formally in an impressive dark brown velvet jacket, fawn knee breeches, and a magnificent cravat in which a great topaz gleamed. Not a little dismayed, she rose as he marched across the room to halt before her.
“Good afternoon,” she faltered, holding out her hand. “I must thank you, Mr. Strand, for your—your understanding this morning. And for escorting my sister home. Perhaps I should call my mother. I’d not realized you meant to come up, and—”
His clasp was firm, brief, and icy cold. “And it is improper to be alone with me,” he said in his brusque way. “I know. That is why I asked the footman not to announce me until I was up here. There is something I must discuss with Mr. Van Lindsay. I am told he is at home, but first, I must know. Miss Lisette—have you taken me in aversion?”
With the moment of truth upon her, she stared at him in blank shock. He was a little pale, and the thick light hair with its tendency to turn upwards at the ends was rumpled as though he had run a nervous hand through it. Those intense eyes seemed to burn through her defences so that she lowered her own and lied, “Why, no. But—but, I know you so slightly, sir. It is very—er, soon to—to—”
“You know my background; my family,” he interpolated gruffly. “Tell me without frills if you please, ma’am. Would an offer from me be—repulsive to you?”
From under her lashes she saw that his jaw had set, and that a little nerve pulsed in his cheek. His hands, too, were clenching and unclenching, and she noted absently what long, thin, sensitive fingers he had. Could it be possible that he did care for her a little? What stuff! If he cared for anything, it was that he not be made to look ridiculous by suffering a rejection after his braggadocio! Recovering her poise, but her heart recoiling from this duplicity, she lifted her eyes to his. “For a lady to receive an offer of marriage can only be a great compliment, sir.”
For an instant, something that might almost have been regret came into his expression, and was as quickly gone. “I see.” He nodded, and stepped back. “Will you be so good as to excuse me, then?”
Lisette murmured, “Of course,” and watched him stalk from the room. She sat down again, tears blinding her. What a perfectly horrid proposal of marriage. The antithesis of everything she had ever dreamt of. How stiff and cold he was. How totally lacking even a touch of romance. The odious creature had not so much as kissed her hand. After they were wed, she would likely freeze to death! And then, she thought miserably, everyone would be sorry.
The object of her thoughts paced along the hall, slowed, and stopped at the top of the stairs. With one hand resting on the banister, he stared blankly at the lower hallway. She didn’t want him, that was very clear. But she would not refuse him. His brows drew together. Perhaps, if he waited … But he dared not wait. Garvey would not wait, and Garvey could upset the whole applecart! He squared his shoulders, ran an impatient hand through his hair, and hurried lightly down the stairs.
He had visited this house sufficiently often to find his way to the study but when he reached the door, he again paused. He could hear Van Lindsay talking very loudly inside, and Mrs. Van Lindsay’s voice raised in complaint. His knock received no answer and, looking about for a servant to announce him properly, he saw no sign of life. He opened the door, then stopped, blinking in astonishment.
The butler, footman, and two maids sat at one side of the room, watching their employer, who strode up and down, several sheets of paper close-covered with writing in one hand, and the other arm waving as he roared out a speech. Mrs. Van Lindsay, elegant in a gown of dark blue sarsenet braided with white at flounce and throat, ran along beside him, exhorting, pleading, demanding, all to no avail.
A slow grin curved Strand’s mouth, and he watched, delightedly.
“… the fields are being gobbled up!” thundered Van Lindsay.
“You will trample a hole clear through, do you not sit down, sir!” moaned Mrs. Van Lindsay, trotting just as destructively at his side.
“They do not farm! They buy up the land only for their own aggrandizement, and seldom set foot on it!”
“Your feet will touch the boards soon enough, do you not stop this horrid pacing!”
“Thousands have lost their place! Our valiant fighting men have been disbanded with neither thanks nor reward! The taxes are eating us up! And these reckless fools build their palaces, and—”
“Sit down! Will you not sit down, Mr. Van Lindsay? I beg! There are bare strands now! Another few strides, you will be through to the backing!”
The bedevilled orator halted. “By gad, madam! Can you think of nothing but your confounded floor coverings? I am striving to—” Here, chancing to encounter the amused glance of his guest, Humphrey gave a gasp. “Mr. Strand!” he cried with uncertain joviality. “Er—that will be all, you people.”
Hiding covert grins, the servants fled. Mrs. Van Lindsay looked briefly ready to swoon, but recovered to extend her hand in a queenly gesture and assure Mr. Strand he was most welcome, although she would wish someone had been available to receive him.
Inwardly delighted that the lapse in protocol had enabled him to witness such a scene, Strand
replied, “I am encouraged to feel sufficiently at home that I came on, ma’am. I trust I have not offended.”
“No, no!” She granted him a rather toothy smile. “Never that, Mr. Strand. You are—always welcome. You have come to call for my daughter, I believe?”
“No, ma’am. I have come for a word with your husband. If I do not intrude at a difficult moment?”
“Never!” Van Lindsay beamed, all but throwing his speech aside. “My dear, you will be so kind as to require that Powers bring a bottle of the ’seventy-four Madeira. Now, my dear Strand, sit down and be comfortable. Tell me—what may I do for you?”
* * *
“Do not cry! Oh, please do not cry!” wailed Judith, fluttering about her sister with damp rag in hand and tears of sympathy filling her own eyes. “My poor darling! How could they be so heartless? Sold! Like sweet Fiona! I vow it is inhuman!” She stood straight and flung up the rag in her distress, proclaiming, “We should protest! We must strike a blow for—”
“What the deuce?” chortled Norman, stepping into the room. “Practising dramatics, Judith? Do you play the hero, or the abigail?”
“Odious wretch!” his sister snarled, throwing the rag at him. “Can you not see that poor Lisette is dying of grief?”
“What? Oh, Lord!” he gasped, dismayed by the sight of tears. “My—er, apologies, Lisette. It is not—Grandmama?”
“No. Thank goodness,” gulped Lisette, trying valiantly to stop weeping. “It—it is only—”
“She has received An Offer,” said Judith, eyeing her quailing brother with revulsion. “Men!”
“Good God! How many?” he gasped.
Lisette could not restrain a watery smile. “One—this afternoon.” She ignored the surprised glance Judith shot at her. “Justin Strand.”
Norman was so diverted as to forget discretion. He took out the piece of nougat he had been hiding in his pocket, removed a leaf from it, and popped it into his mouth. “Hmmn,” he said indistinctly. “He’s not a commoner, whatever they say of his family. And—at least it’s not Garvey.”
“Garvey would be a—a paladin compared to Strand,” Judith declared with indignation. “And you thought him wondrous great when he first began to fix his attentions with Lisette.”
“I doubt you know what ‘paladin’ means, even!” He did not add that he’d written to his brother Timothy in the matter, nor did he mention Tim’s reply, now residing in his desk, but said merely, “Changed my mind about the fellow. Was it my decision, I’d have Strand, Lisette.”
“And was it my decision, she should have neither, but wait until a Prince of the Blood offers!” Judith announced grandiloquently. “She has the looks, the lineage, and the grace, goodness knows.”
“Well, hee haw!” mocked Norman. “From the look of her, she don’t mean to have neither. Is that the sum of it, Lisette?”
“No.” Lisette stood. “I shall wed Mr. Strand.” She smiled sadly at Judith’s agonized wail and, saying she must go and tidy her hair, went up to her bedchamber. Sanders was waiting and, taking one look at her favourite, held out her arms. Lisette walked into them and wept.
“My lamb.” Sanders stroked the glossy hair comfortingly. “Never you mind. Things has a way of working out for the best. You’ll find your happiness yet. Just look at Emily Cowper, married and a Countess, but in love with Palmerston as all London knows. Love don’t always come where it’s supposed to, my dearie.”
“I know,” Lisette sniffed, drawing back and drying her eyes. “That’s what Grandmama said. Only … I had so hoped…” Her voice scratched into silence. She went over to sit down at her dressing table, and gave an aghast cry at the sight of her red and puffy eyes. “Oh, Sandy! They will be calling me downstairs!”
“Never you fear. We’ll have you pretty as a picture in a trice. You just close your eyes now.” Sanders proceeded to bathe Lisette’s eyes with icy cold water, and then skilfully applied cosmetics. “Was Mr. Strand all loving words and flowery speeches, my lamb?” she asked.
“No! He—he was horribly cold and—and businesslike. He stamped up to me as though he were on a parade ground, and when I uttered a perfectly natural and maidenly demurral, he practically barked out that I knew his family, and demanded to know if an offer from him would be repulsive to me.” Blinking away fresh tears, she said, “He—he might have been bidding at a cattle auction!”
“Poor lad,” Sanders smiled, and as her lady’s eyes flew open to fix her with an indignant stare, she shrugged, “Well, you know, Miss Lisette, some men has the gift of the gab, and some hasn’t.”
“Lisette!” Judith burst into the room, quivering with excitement. “Papa has sent Pauline to ask if you can please step into the drawing room only I came instead and what did you mean when you said one this afternoon did Mr. Garvey offer this morning?”
“Lawks!” gasped Sanders. “Whatever did you say, Miss Judith?”
Jumping up and down in agitation, Judith demanded, “Lisette! Did he?”
Lisette stood, smoothing her frock and knowing she looked fairly well restored. “Yes. He offered. And I refused.”
Judith uttered a shriek and threw herself backwards onto the bed, to lie with arms wide-tossed. “What a waste! What an awful waste!”
Sanders muttered, “I doubt Mr. Garvey had any lack of flowery words.”
Lisette said, “No. As a matter of fact, he did not.”
And, sadly, she went downstairs to accept the hand of Mr. Justin Derwent Strand.
* * *
The newly betrothed gentleman politely refused an invitation to remain for dinner at the home of his affianced bride. Walking beside her to the front door, he directed a keen gaze at her composed features and said in his abrupt fashion, “I mean to make you a good husband, ma’am. I hope to make you happy.”
Lisette looked steadily at him, wondering what he would think if he knew she was aware of the disgraceful way in which he had bandied her name about. Her silence apparently discomposed him, for he lowered his gaze, muttered, “I shall call to take you riding in the morning,” accepted his hat and cane from the butler, and walked outside.
Turning about, he said with a flickering grin, “At half-past six,” and left her speechless with shock.
She had not the remotest intention of arising at such an hour, but she began to harbour the uneasy suspicion that if she were not ready at the appointed time, Strand would not be above rousing the house. Vexed, she instructed Sandy to waken her at quarter to six, and by half-past the hour, clad in her most attractive habit, was peeping from the drawing room window.
“I’m over here!” announced a familiar voice behind her.
She spun around to find Strand watching her in obvious amusement. He looked different somehow in his riding clothes; more at ease, perhaps, in the brown corduroy jacket, beige breeches, and spurred boots. “Come,” he said, holding out an imperative hand.
Resenting the suggestion of command, she sauntered to his side, tried to ignore that thin hand, but somehow found it clasping her own. He took a small box from his pocket, opened it, and revealed a ring that took her breath away. There were two diamonds and a round emerald, of superb hue and cut, mounted in a charming design of filigreed gold. “They were my grandmother’s gems,” he imparted, slipping the ring onto her finger.
“How lovely! And the fit is perfect. What a good guess!”
“Not at all. Your abigail gave me one of your rings to take to the jeweller. I commissioned Rundell and Bridge to design the new setting for you.”
Frowning a little, she said, “You did? When?”
“Oh, last week,” he answered airily, and stifling a smile at the immediate indignation in her face, said, “Come along. I cannot keep the horses standing.”
“Nor can I make a practice of this. You must know, Mr. Strand, that—”
“Do you fancy you could manage to use my name?” he asked, suddenly wistful. “Since I did not ask for a kiss.”
Colour flooded her cheeks. �
�You—are quite at—at liberty to take one, sir—Justin.”
“Justin will do nicely,” he said, kindly. “I have no title, you know.”
Yearning to scratch him, Lisette swept from the room. Downstairs, he seized her hand as she started for the front door, and led her instead to the back of the house.
“What on earth?” she asked, curious.
“I came around the back, so that you would not see me arrive. Just in case you were peeping through the curtains, I mean.”
Bristling, she resumed the attack. “Which reminds me, I do not make a habit of rising at this hour, and—”
“Never mind. You’ll get used to it. This way.”
He marched across the lawn as though this were his house instead of the home in which his seething fiancée had grown up, and opened the back gate.
Lisette walked ragefully into the alley. A groom held two fine horses, one a big chestnut stallion, and the other a black mare, all fine Arabian daintiness. Her vexation forgotten, Lisette went at once to stroke the mare. “What a beauty! You never found her at the stables? Is she yours?”
“No. She’s yours.”
She gave a gasp, and stared at him.
He said quietly, “Your engagement present, my dear.” And, heedless of the groom’s presence, he bent and kissed her on the cheek. An odd flutter disturbed Lisette’s heartbeat. Instinctively, her hand went up to touch his face. For an absurd instant she thought she saw longing in his eyes, then he said, “Now you’re paid up!” and bent to receive her foot and throw her up into the saddle.
The mare’s name was Yasmin; she had a pretty, mincing gait and a spirited, playful disposition. “No cow-handed idiot has ever hurt her mouth,” said Strand, adding a “yet,” that caused Lisette to freeze with indignation until she glimpsed the twinkle in his eyes.
Married Past Redemption Page 8
