These disasters were capped off when she discovered the duke's valet, Bartleby, had given in his notice. Again. On the way to make one last harried inspection of the ballroom, Augusta met the lordly looking manservant stalking down the hall, his portmanteau in hand.
"Not again, Bartleby," Augusta groaned. "You have not been quarreling with His Grace tonight of all nights."
A rather spare individual with the face of a suffering artist, Bartleby drew himself stiffly upright. "Far be it from me to cause you any distress, my lady. I am a patient man. I am accustomed to being sworn at, to say nothing of having a boot shied at me from time to time. But when the master that I have served faithfully all these years, the same one as I have always endeavored to turn out as becomes a gentleman of modest habits, when he accuses me of rigging him out like a fop . . . Nay, it is too much even for a saint to endure."
"Oh, Bartleby," Augusta cried, but when he made her a smart bow, stalking on his way, she made no effort to stop him. The valet would never get any further than the kitchens where he would permit the housekeeper to offer him tea and a sympathetic ear. And heaven knows, Simon was not the sort of man unable to function without the services of his valet. Still, it was another vexation.
The folds of her silver gauze ball gown rustling, Augusta made her way to the duke's bedchamber door and knocked. Upon her identifying herself, her brother bellowed, "Come in."
Augusta grimaced. She knew Simon would not be enthusiastic about the ball, but if he was going to be in one of his difficult moods, they might as well bar the doors to the castle and be done with it.
She entered to find Simon in his dressing room. He was in his stocking feet, attired in nothing but a white shirt and black breeches. His expression waxed thunderous as he snapped the starched ends of a stock, preparing to tie his cravat.
"Simon," she demanded, “What have you done to poor Bartleby now?"
"That silly ass. I threatened to boil him in his own starch. The dolt kept insisting that in the honor of the occasion, I should allow him to do something special with my cravat arrangement tonight, some damn fool thing he called 'a waterfall.' If I wanted a waterfall about my neck, I'd dump a bucket of water over my head and be done with it."
"Simon!" But Lady Augusta bit back her exclamation, knowing it would not do a particle of good to scold. Besides she had to admit that Simon's taste regarding his attire was impeccable. Having studied the portraits of her ancestors, she might deplore the passage of an age when men garbed themselves in more brilliant colors, rich brocades and cuffs dripping with lace. She often thought that Beau Brummell had done the gentlemen of England no service, persuading them to adopt evening attire that was infinitely more boring. But in Simon's case, the more severe style—the unrelenting black—somehow suited his rugged, dark masculinity.
While Lady Augusta admired her brother's appearance, she saw that he was far from returning the approval. He paused in his exertions with his cravat to scowl at her gown, his gaze fixed on the plunging neckline.
"Shouldn't you drape yourself with some sort of shawl," he growled. "Or stuff a bit of lace there?"
"No. Let me remind you, Simon, I am a married lady, not some chit fresh out of the nursery. Do not attempt to be playing big brother to me tonight. I assure you I am frazzled enough what with everything going wrong."
He turned back to the mirror with a shrug. "All will come right in the end. I have never attended any function of yours that came off less than elegant, Gus. You are ever the perfect hostess."
Although somewhat mollified by the compliment, she said, "I fear the success of this particular function depends more upon its host."
Simon bent closer to the glass, adding another fold to his cravat. "Oh, I'll be so charming, the ladies will be ready to bust their stays with delight." Since this pledge was accompanied by a frown dark enough to shatter the mirror, Augusta did not feel much reassured.
She fidgeted with the things on his dressing table, the silver-handled Sheffield razor, the jars of snuff, the small knife he used for paring his nails and his comb.
Simon felt a twinge of conscience. His placid sister appeared unusually ruffled. Perhaps he could forgo the pleasure of tormenting her, at least for one night.
"I promise you, Gus," he said, "although I may not exactly be the perfect host, I shall endeavor to uphold the honor of the dukes of Raeburn."
"If it is not asking too much, I should also like to see you enjoy yourself a little."
"Ah, that is entirely another matter," Simon said, removing the razor from her grasp before she managed to cut herself. He attempted a taut smile, but could already feel the tension stiffening his neck muscles. Usually he never put himself into such a bother for a mere ball, finding such entertainments a boring nuisance. But this one had somehow attained an importance all out of proportion to the event. He was too much aware that every eye would be trained upon him this eve, all those fond matchmaking mamas, all those coy young maidens tremulous with hope. Simon had been catching enough disturbing bits of gossip during the last fortnight. There was an absurd notion firmly fixed in nearly everyone's mind, that he would award the palm to some eager female this very night.
Simon had never flinched when facing the entire French line, but all this rampant speculation was enough to make him want to bolt.
Seeing Gus so fretful only added to his feeling of being on edge. He barked out an order for her to be still, at least until he had finished dressing. Although she subsided into a striped-silk chair, she kept stealing uneasy glances at him. Uneasy? Nay, more like sheepish.
When he stepped back for one final look, subjecting the severe style of the cravat to his approval, Gus cleared her throat.
"Simon . . . do you recollect that young woman you told me about, the one you found so fascinating?"
"Who the blazes was that?"
"Miss Audra Leigh Masters."
"I wouldn't exactly say that I told you anything about her, Gus. More accurately, you bedeviled the life out of me until I mentioning having met the young woman out--er—walking her dog. But I believe I said no more than that. Certainly nothing about fascination."
"It was rather what you didn't say," Augusta replied. "You didn't call her a hare-brained fool or a die-away ninny. After hearing your opinions of the other ladies hereabouts, I found such reticence positively heartening."
"And so? What about Miss Masters?"
"Nothing," Augusta said airily. "I only thought you might be interested to hear that I found out where she lives."
"I hadn't given it much consideration," he said, reaching for his white satin waistcoat and proceeding to struggle into it. That wasn't precisely a lie. He hadn't thought much about Miss Masters, only caught himself looking for her and the dog, every time he passed by that part of the moat.
Although he was curious, he refused to question his sister as to what she had discovered. He didn't have to. Augusta was determined to tell him.
"Miss Masters happens to be your tenant. She lives at Meadow Lane Lodge."
Meadow Lane. Simon's fingers stilled in the act of buttoning his waistcoat, the mention of that place evoking a flood of memories. The old hunting lodge had been bought up by his father "to prevent rackety young men from coming down from London and scaring our birds." The cottage had been Robert's private retreat, away from the castle. Many times he had entertained Simon there, the pair of them playing truant from the old duke's stern gaze.
"I didn't know the place had been rented," Simon said.
"Did you not instruct Mr. Wylie to do so?"
"I suppose I did." Simon straightened, giving himself a mental shake. He assured himself it would have been sentimental folly to do otherwise, but when he thought of Robert's special place inhabited by a stranger. . . . Sometimes being practical did not come easy.
"So Miss Masters lives there now?" he mused. She must keep rather close to the place or surely he would have seen her in the village or come upon her in the lane. But it was not as if he had been deli
berately looking for her.
"She lives at Meadow Lane with her younger sister, but no older companion. Rather odd," Augusta said. "But they say she is a considerable heiress."
"Ten thousand pounds a year," Simon mumbled under his breath. His lips twitched as he remembered Audra's indignant speech.
"Her father was the Viscount Sunderly," his sister continued to enlighten him. "Her mother came from good family as well. She was one of the Exeters. Do you recall, Simon? The woman everyone used to call Lady Arabella because she went through husbands at such a rate, no one could ever recall her married name."
"Her? The one that now calls herself Countess Montacute or something like that?"
"I fear so."
Simon pulled a face. "I met her once when I was traveling through Italy. Good God, the woman is as vulgar and lascivious as Princess Caroline."
"The poor princess. I sometimes think her highness is judged too harshly. They are saying the king will never permit her to be crowned with him."
But the ton gossip held no interest for Simon. He was still digesting the startling information that the absurd, painted female he had met abroad was Miss Masters' mama.
He surprised himself by saying fiercely to his sister, "It makes no odds. Miss Masters is not in the least like Lady Arabella."
"I am pleased to hear it. I shall look forward to making Miss Masters's acquaintance to—" Augusta clapped her hand over her mouth.
When Simon subjected her to a hard stare, a guilty flush stole into her cheeks. She rose hastily. "I had best put a few finishing touches onto my own toilette."
"Not so fast, my dear sister." Simon seized her by the elbow. "What do you mean by that, Gus? Just when do you expect to meet Audra Masters?"
Her smile was a nervous, but her eyes danced with mischief. "Why, tonight, of course. I invited her to the ball."
"You what!"
"Don't roar like that, Simon. You hurt my ears."
"Augusta!" His tone became almost as pleading as fierce. "Tell me you didn't. You never sent—"
"I am afraid I did," she said cheerfully. "In quite the grand style, too, I might add. I sent your own secretary Mr. Lawrence to deliver the invitation in your best coach, with footmen in attendance."
Simon emitted a low groan. "So what did she do? Meet poor Lawrence with a loaded blunderbuss?"
"Certainly not, you silly man. She accepted with the greatest of civility."
Simon was so thunderstruck, he relaxed his grip on Augusta's elbow, permitting her to pull away. With a well-satisfied smile, she made good her escape before Simon could recover his wits enough to bluster. "Blast you, Gus, and your infernal meddling—"
But the door had already closed behind Lady Augusta. In truth, Simon thought grimly, there was little more he could say. He had furnished Gus with a meddler's license by asking her to arrange this ball in the first place.
But what imp had induced her to invite Audra Masters, and perhaps even more to the point, what had made Miss Masters accept?
"So she wasn't going to come, eh? Not even if I got down on one knee and begged."
As he faced the mirror, a wicked smile spread over his features, but it was nothing compared to the devil's glint in his eyes. This ball that had promised to be such a tedious affair had suddenly taken on an entirely new aspect.
Whistling softly, he finished dressing, taking more pains with his appearance than he ever had in his life.
The Masters’ carriage rumbled past the castle gate, moonlight rendering the road a ribbon of silver spiraling toward the great stone keep beyond. The cone-capped towers rose above the line of autumn shorn trees, the stone battlements held spellbound by clouds whispering across the inky sky. It was a night formed for enchantment, adventure and romance.
Audra wished herself a thousand miles away. As the coach rattled over the ancient draw-bridge, she blotted out the chatter of Uncle Matthew and Cecily, her hands clenching tight the nosegay her courtly uncle had presented to her. Why had she allowed Uncle Matt to persuade her into coming? She had wondered that more than once during the past days of preparation, being dragged through silk warehouses, endless fittings with the dressmaker.
And all for what? She detested balls. She was dreadfully awkward at dancing, even more so at the art of making social conversation with strangers. To add to her discomfort at attending this particular function, he would be there.
Raeburn. His Grace of the dark, sardonic eye. The notion of meeting him again made the bodice of her russet-colored gown seemed laced too tight, not allowing enough room for the host of butterflies that had taken up residence beneath her rib cage.
Despising her nervousness, Audra sought to quell it. She'd be hanged if she would permit herself to be intimidated by the mere thought of the man. After all she had cornered the dragon once in his lair, felt the scorch of his fiery breath. She would daresay that she could survive a second encounter.
Besides she kept reminding herself, she was only enduring this misery because of Cecily. It already was worth it to see Muffin looking so happy. Cecily appeared a veritable princess tonight, all garbed in filmy white from her gown to her satin cloak. A spangled ribbon caught up golden curls framing a face so shining with innocent dreams that it brought a lump to Audra's throat.
She knew too well that dreams were seldom what they seemed, but she hoped that for just one night, it might prove different for Cecily.
When the coach at last lurched to a halt in the castle courtyard, bewigged grooms sprang forward to open the door. But it was Uncle Matthew who alighted first to offer up his hand to Audra and Cecily. The old man had a most youthful spring to his step tonight. From some ancient trunk, he had unearthed satin knee breeches, a shirt frothy with lace and a brocaded frock coat. But the old-fashioned attire suited him far better than if he had attempted to ape the fashions of the younger men. His excitement at attending the ball seemed not one whit less than Cecily's.
"My ladies," he said, sweeping off his tricorne with a courtly bow that caused his stays to creak.
Cecily giggled as her uncle handed her down. She paused midway upon the coach steps to gape up at the castle. The high arched windows seemed iridescent with the glow of myriad lights.
"Oh, Audra," Cecily breathed. "It's all so wonderful. Just as I imagined. There's magic, a certain something in the air tonight—"
"It's called frost," Audra started to mutter and then bit her tongue. She had resolved she would say or do nothing to spoil this night for Cecily or her uncle.
"Indeed, it is all most charming," she agreed, giving her starry-eyed sister a gentle prod to get her moving down the steps.
Within the castle hall, liveried footmen hastened forward to take cloaks and hats. This was the newer part of the castle, and although the architecture without had been cleverly designed to blend with the old, Audra noted that the interior could have been part of any Georgian mansion.
When she handed over her own mantle, she felt a tug on the train of her gown. Turning to politely request the gentleman next to her to move his foot, she drew up short, staring into the grinning countenance of Sir Ralph Entwhistle. It had never occurred to Audra that the baronet would be present. She had never known him to do other than tear about the countryside, making some poor horse's life a misery. It was astonishing to see him out of his top boots and buckskins, his stocky frame garbed in tight yellow pantaloons with matching coat. With his wild red hair brushed back, he resembled nothing so much as a squat yellow candle.
"You!" Audra could not help exclaiming in accents of dismay. "What are you doing here?"
Not in the least taken aback by her bluntness, Sir Ralph chuckled. "I was invited o' course. Thought my sisters may as well have a touch at the duke, too. It'd be a fine thing to have Sophy or Georgy settled here at Raeburn. Good hunting land. Worth the nuisance of attending a ball."
"Indeed?" Audra leveled him a frosty stare. She meant to sweep past him, but the dolt was still standing on the hem of her gown.
<
br /> "Aw, here now, Miss Masters," he coaxed. "You can't still be vexed with me over that little jest I played with Miss Cecily's dog. Why don't you promise me the first dance and we can be friends again?"
"That would be rather difficult since I don't recall our being friends in the first place. Now kindly get off my train."
For a second, she feared Sir Ralph might be too boorish to comply, but he stepped aside at last. However as she stalked away from him, he emitted one of his hee-haw laughs and called after her, "The first dance, Miss Masters!"
Audra longed to tell him if he attempted to stand up with her, his first dance was going to be his last. With difficulty, she checked her temper, recalling her resolve not to cause Cecily any embarrassment this evening.
By the time she joined her sister and the Reverend Mr. Masters, taking their place in the receiving line, Audra managed to regain a semblance of calm.
Lit by a massive chandelier, a sweeping marble stair curved upward to the ballroom above. The steps already seemed thronged with silk skirts and fluttering fans waiting to be presented to His Grace.
Audra reflected it was a pity that Raeburn's drawbridge these days was only for ornament, no longer capable of being raised. Of course it had been many centuries since the castle had been attacked, but it was definitely under siege tonight . . . by an army of women.
None of the other guests would be as vulgar as Sir Ralph, admitting that they were also here to have a "touch at the duke." But soft smiles did little to disguise predatory gleams and Raeburn's name was on everyone's lips.
The game was afoot, but the prize tonight was no mere stag or dog fox, but a duke, replete with accompanying lands and titles. If Raeburn had not shown himself to be so impossibly arrogant, Audra could have felt sorry for the man. But since he had courted this sort of pursuit by giving this silly ball, she did not waste a moment of her sympathy.
As she waited in the reception line, she tried to ignore the fact that her dancing slippers had already begun to pinch her feet. Her heavy chestnut locks done up in a chignon seemed to have a dozen hairpins impaled in her scalp. To take her mind from these discomforts, she amused herself by trying to guess which of these women Raeburn might be likely to choose for his duchess. The buxom girl with the shocking decolletage? The icy blonde who was looking down her nose at the rest of the assemblage? Or perhaps that lively little brunette with the voice as shrill as a starling.
The Wooing of Miss Masters Page 7
