The Naked Gentleman

by Sally MacKenzie

  No, Papa had been right. Blunt, but right when he’d expressed his…opinion to Aunt Katherine back in Devon.

  She remembered every single word. Adams, the Standen butler, had told her Aunt Katherine had arrived, so she’d come down from inventorying the linen to greet her. She’d known why her aunt was there. She’d planned to tell her going up to Town was impossible. She had too much to do at Standen.

  She’d been just outside the closed drawing room door when her father had started bellowing…

  “My God, woman, are you insane? Grace will be a laughing stock if you drag her to Town!”

  “But, William—” Aunt Katherine’s voice had been considerably softer.

  “‘But William,’ my arse. There’s no need to waste the time putting the girl on the marriage mart. Got a neighbor who’s agreed to take her off my hands.” Papa’d snorted. “Has his eye on a corner of my property which he says is just perfect for some damn flower or other.” He’d laughed and she’d heard him open a decanter—probably the brandy. “And this saves him the bother of trotting up to Town, doing the pretty. The man hates London. Don’t blame him.”

  “Still—”

  “Good God, let it go, Katherine. Grace likes Parker-Roth well enough, and she’s not stupid. She knows his is the best—he’d snorted again—most likely the only offer she’ll get.”

  She’d seen red then. Her own father thought so little of her? It was not a great surprise, but still…She’d show him. She would go to London.

  She glared at the coach door handle. Damn, blasted temper! She was too often ruled by it. Well, now she was paying for her fit of pique. Papa was right. This trip to Town had been a huge mistake. Even if she were the proper size, she was much too old for a debutante. She definitely should have stayed home. She did like Mr. Parker-Roth—John. They’d been friends since childhood. She liked his family; she’d be close to Papa—

  Well, maybe being close to Papa wouldn’t be so wonderful. Still, going husband hunting in London was the height of idiocy. The height—ah, indeed.

  “Grace, you are being foolish beyond permission.” Aunt Katherine gave her another determined shove. “And if you aren’t careful, you’ll go flying out of this carriage when Sykes finally opens the door.”

  She snorted. That would be an entertaining spectacle for the duke’s guests—Lady Grace Belmont, daughter of the Earl of Standen and niece of the Dowager Countess of Oxbury, landing in an ignominious heap—a very large ignominious heap—on the public pavement.

  It was a risk she was willing to take. She most definitely did not wish to grace His Grace’s ballroom.

  She was larger than Sykes—she should be stronger. And the fact that she was more than forty years his junior didn’t hurt.

  “I am not getting out. Tell the coachman to take us—me—home, please.”

  “I most certainly will not. I did not go toe to toe with your father down in Devon nor did I do battle with the Weasel—I mean, the new Lord Oxbury—for the keys to Oxbury House just to have you cry craven and cower in your bedchamber all Season.”

  Grace glared over her shoulder at her aunt. “I will not be cowering in my bedchamber.”

  “Then where will you be cowering?”

  Grace blew out a short, impatient breath, causing the tendrils that had worked themselves free of her coiffure to float briefly in front of her eyes. She shook her head. She had been mad to listen to Katherine—mad, mad, mad.

  Sykes pulled on the door again. She jerked it back again. She watched him frown and scratch his head under his wig.

  “I will not be cowering at all, Aunt Katherine. I merely have decided, on further reflection, that appearing at balls and other such social events would be a mistake. I’m sure I would not fit in—”

  Katherine wormed her way around to face her. “Not fit in? Why would you not fit in? You are not some upstart mushroom. You’re the daughter of the Earl of Standen. You should have taken your place in society years ago.”

  “Exactly. I am too old now—”

  “Too old?!” Katherine’s hands rose as if to wrap themselves around Grace’s neck. “If you are too old at twenty-five, what, pray, am I, with forty years in my dish?”

  “That’s different. I only meant I am too old to make my bows. You have already been about in society—”

  “Twenty-three years ago, and then for a mere two months. I hardly believe that qualifies me—ah, Sykes.”

  “Da—” Grace bit her lip before the curse completely escaped her tongue. Devil take it! She’d let herself be distracted. She’d loosened her grip for just a moment, and the bloody man had taken advantage.

  Sykes glanced at her, raising one bushy, white eyebrow. The insufferable servant knew exactly whom he’d been wrestling with. She glowered at him. He bowed and turned to Aunt Katherine.

  “I am so sorry, my lady. I can’t imagine”—his eyes drifted back toward Grace—“what could be the matter with the door latch. I will have someone look at it the moment we return.”

  “Don’t bother, Sykes. I believe it was merely a temporary problem.” Aunt Katherine also looked at Grace. “Just let down the steps. We are holding up the other carriages.”

  “Very well, my lady.”

  Bloody hell! The creak of the coach’s stairs unfolding must sound just like the French guillotine’s blade dropping to sever some poor soul’s head from his neck. Her palms were suddenly so wet, they dampened her gloves. She swallowed and drew back. “You first, Aunt Katherine.”

  “Nonsense.” Aunt Katherine glared at her. “Don’t think I’m not fully aware of what you’re up to, miss. I wasn’t born yesterday. If I get out first, you’ll slam the door behind me. I believe we’ve created enough of a spectacle this evening.”

  “But—”

  Sykes extended his hand. Grace looked at it as if it were a poisonous snake.

  “Go, Grace.”

  Aunt Katherine’s tone was short and sharp. She must have run out of patience—and she wasn’t the only one.

  “Hurry on, man,” the coachman behind them called out. “I can’t keep the horses standing much longer.” As if to punctuate this point, one of his grays sidestepped, jingling its harness.

  “Lady Grace?” Sykes raised his hand a little higher. She glanced at his face. Perfectly expressionless, except for the eyebrows which jumped impatiently toward his wig.

  “Grace…” Aunt Katherine sounded as if she were considering shoving her out the door, perhaps with her delicate foot applied to Grace’s not-so-delicate derriere.

  Grace sighed. Clearly, she had no choice. She was condemned to brave the duke’s ballroom.

  She took Sykes’s hand and left the safety of the carriage.

  Thank God! Kate had thought Grace was never going to get out. She followed her niece down the stairs, pausing when her foot reached the pavement. She looked up at the Duke of Alvord’s London townhouse.

  Lud! It was just as she remembered it, glowing with the light of hundreds of candles. Magical. How could Grace not be enchanted?

  Grace did not look the least bit enchanted. She was standing by the green iron fence, arms crossed, scowling at the receiving line. It was so long it had spilled out the front door.

  Oh, dear. Apparently the servants’ gossip was correct. All the ton wanted to see the American female who was living under Alvord’s roof—and see whether Alvord’s unpleasant cousin would create a delicious scene. That had been one advantage of hiding away in the country. The local gossips were not as vicious as their London counterparts.

  Well, there was no point in standing here on the walk like blocks.

  “We shall not be late, Mr. Sykes.”

  Why was the man grinning at her? And he had a distinctly cat-in-the-cream-pot look. Her stomach tightened.

  What did he know that she didn’t?

  “What is it?”

  “Oh, nothing, my lady.” His grin widened. “I’m just thinking the evening might hold a surprise or two.”

 
A surprise? She did not like surprises.

  Perhaps she should have followed Grace’s lead and stayed in the carriage. Her stomach tightened further until it was a rock-hard knot.

  Dear God! Sykes couldn’t mean…No, of course not. Yet the gleam in his eyes was most pronounced.

  He couldn’t mean that Mr. Alexander Wilton would be in attendance?

  No. She was letting her imagination run away with her. Alex never came to Town. She knew—she’d been reading the London gossip columns for years. And William would not have let her bring his daughter to London if there was the slightest chance they might encounter a Wilton. He hated that family with a passion that hadn’t dimmed in twenty-three—no, thirty-one—years.

  Sykes put up the stairs. “You know,” he said quietly, so quietly she had to strain to hear, “Lord Oxbury—your dear departed husband, not the current bast—” He coughed. “Well, the old lord wouldn’t want you to mourn him too long. He’d want you to find happiness.”

  “Uh—” Her eyes must be starting from her head. Why was Sykes bringing up this topic?

  “He knew he was too old for you.”

  “Oh, no. I mean, I don’t, um—” Had Oxbury confided in Sykes? Well, they were of an age, and she’d always wondered if their connection was closer than master and servant.

  “He would never want you to spend the rest of your life alone.”

  “No, uh, of course, um, that is, I hadn’t thought—”

  But she had thought. She looked away. Surely the light was too uncertain for Sykes or Grace to notice her flushed cheeks?

  She hadn’t…she had barely admitted it to herself, but she had thought…only in a general way, of course…that while Grace was looking for a husband, she might also take a glance around the ton’s ballrooms. Oh, not for another husband necessarily—though Oxbury’s heir was certain to make living in the Dower House miserable—but, well, she was a widow, and widows were allowed—almost expected to take—certain…liberties.

  She’d admit she’d had Marie lace her stays a little tighter than usual—a little tighter than comfortable. Stupid! She’d wanted to look young again, slim and virginal and seventeen. Impossible. Worse, futile. Marie could tighten her stays until the strings broke, she’d still have a deep crease between her brows, lines at the corner of her eyes, threads of gray in her hair…

  Forty. She was forty years old. Too old for—

  Just too old.

  Well, this was most certainly not a conversation to be having on the public walk in front of the Duke of Alvord’s townhouse with half the gossiping ton milling about—and half their coachmen loudly urging Sykes to get the bloody move on, mate.

  “We won’t be late,” she repeated, firmly.

  Sykes winked, then clambered up next to the coachman. “Right. Have a pleasant evening, my lady.”

  “Sykes!”

  The man just waved as the horses moved off.

  “What was that about?” Grace had walked over to stand next to her. At least the odd scene with Sykes had taken her out of her sulks for the moment.

  Kate shrugged. “I don’t know. One of Sykes’s odd starts, I suppose.”

  “Sykes has odd starts?”

  “Well, not that I’d noticed, but being in London can do strange things to a person.” It was certainly doing strange things to her. She was actually considering…well, something.

  “Yes.” Grace was nodding. “Very strange things. I think we should go home immediately.”

  “Nonsense. We can’t go home—you saw Sykes just left with the carriage.” Lud! People were starting to stare at them. “You were eager enough to enjoy the Season before we came.”

  Grace’s brows snapped down. “I was never eager. I was angry. I came to spite my father.” She looked back at the receiving line. “But he was right. I will be a laughing stock.”

  “You will not. And don’t frown, you’ll give yourself wrinkles.”

  Grace, ignoring her advice as usual, scowled at her. “How can you know the ton won’t laugh me out of that ballroom?”

  Kate took as deep a breath as her too-tight stays would allow. Patience. She must strive for patience. It was nerves that were making Grace so tetchy.

  “I can’t know the idiots won’t laugh, but I do know they won’t chase you from the room. You must simply look down your nose at them. You are an earl’s daughter, after all. Show some backbone.”

  Her tone was sharper than she’d intended, but Grace was not the only one on pins and needles this evening. Why had Sykes mentioned surprises?

  A slight breeze brushed her cheek. The noise of the street—the creak and jingle of harnesses, the rattle of wheels on cobbles, the shouts of the coachmen—competed with the drone of conversation that drifted from the receiving line and out of the open windows.

  She’d stood here twenty-three years ago, eager for excitement and surprises. Only seventeen, in her first—and last—London Season, she’d had her head full of silly dreams of handsome men and stolen kisses. Of love and marriage. Of happily ever after.

  Of fairy tales! At least Grace stood in no danger of falling prey to such airy dreams.

  “Come on, Grace,” she said. “We need to join the receiving line.”

  Grace made an odd noise, a cross between a snort and a gag. “Join that revolting collection of fops and toadies?”

  “Shh!” What was the matter with the girl? Did she want to marry that boring neighbor William had picked for her? “You’ll meet scores of eligible young men tonight. Aren’t you the least bit—?”

  “Look at me, Aunt Kate.”

  “I have been looking at you.” She tilted her head back to look again. Grace’s copper-colored hair was gathered high on her head, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face. She was beautiful—except for the frown marring her forehead and turning her full lips down at the corners. “You know, some small semblance of conviviality would not go amiss.”

  “Aunt Katherine, I could smile until my face cracked, it would make no difference. No one would notice. No one would see. In case you haven’t made note of it, I tower over everyone.”

  “Surely not everyone, Grace. There are tall gentlemen among the ton.” Alex’s face flashed into her memory, but she banished it immediately. “There’s sure to be some here tonight.”

  “Aunt Katherine, this is not the first ball I’ve attended. We do have some society in Devon. I know how the women will whisper and the men will stare.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  “Yes, they will. They are.”

  “What?”

  Grace looked significantly toward the receiving line. A fop in a hideous canary waistcoat had his quizzing glass to his eye and was directing it at Grace’s—

  “Oh!”

  Kate stepped briskly in front of her niece. Let the mutton-headed nodcock inspect her glaring countenance instead.

  “Stupid coxcomb! Just ignore him, Grace.”

  “But Aunt Katherine—” Grace sighed. Aunt Katherine didn’t understand. How could she? She was small and delicate. She’d never had to listen to women gasp and giggle when she entered a room. She’d never seen men’s eyes widen—and then widen more as they focused on the most prominent part of her anatomy.

  Height was not her only notable attribute.

  Thank heavens she’d been able to convince the mantua maker to fashion a high neck on most of her gowns. It had been a challenge. For some reason the woman—and even Aunt Katherine—had had the ridiculous notion that displaying her…charms for all the world to see was a good idea. Had they never observed how gentlemen behaved? If she wanted any hope of conducting a rational conversation with a member of the opposite sex, she needed to cover her two most prominent distractions.

  She had not won the battle entirely. Three of her ball gowns had scandalously low necks, but she was confident that the problem could be remedied by the judicious use of fichus.

  “Come, Grace.” Aunt Katherine linked her arm through hers. “You’ll have a sp
lendid time once we are finally inside. London is as different from Devon as chalk from cheese.”

  Doubtful, but there was little point in arguing the matter. No point, actually—as Aunt Katherine had pointed out, the carriage had left. She was stuck here. She could while away the hours amidst the potted palms and chaperones considering how best to persuade Aunt Katherine to let her forgo the Season’s myriad social entertainments. She would much rather spend her limited time in Town viewing the sights. This might be—most likely was—her last opportunity to see London. When she wed John, she must be governed by his wishes, and he wished never to stir from Devon and his bloody beautiful gardens.

  They joined the receiving line behind a small blonde woman who looked to be close to Grace’s own age and two older females.

  “The rumors are ridiculous, Charlotte.” The shorter of the two older females—the one with the sharp, beaklike nose—sniffed, causing her remarkable nostrils to flare. “Alvord won’t marry the American.”

  The blonde shrugged. “Really, Mother, I didn’t think he would.”

  “I don’t know.” The other woman was almost as tall as Grace, but thin and bony. “She is the Earl of Westbrooke’s cousin.”

  The blonde and her mother stared at the third woman.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Huffy.” The mother’s nostrils curled up as if she smelled something particularly offensive. “She’s the daughter of Westbrooke’s black sheep uncle and some Scottish merchant’s spawn. Compared to Rothingham’s lineage and my own—well, there is no comparison, is there? Alvord would have to be a complete flat to choose that…mushroom over Charlotte.”

  “Well, yes, I see your point—”

  “Of course you do. It is as obvious as the nose on my face.”

  Lud, the woman hadn’t actually said that, had she? Grace turned her startled laugh into a cough immediately, but it was too late. She’d caught the woman’s attention. Hard little eyes glared up at her.