by Jo Beverley
“Then, of course, we must go.”
“Don’t ‘must’ me, Dracy,” she said, “especially in that tone. I’m making light of an imposition, for I’d much rather spend the next few hours with my mantua maker.”
“Then I most humbly beg your pardon and grovel in gratitude.”
She frowned. “Are you cross? What an exasperating man you are. Promise me something.”
As imperious as the queen she didn’t want to be.
“What?”
“Why so wary? It’s a minor matter. I labor with a purpose—to help Fancy Free. Promise me that if you’re comfortable at the ball, you’ll spare the poor horse at a price my father can afford.”
Damn the woman, and damn her father who’d come up with this device. He wanted to tell her the truth, here and now, but if he did she’d shun him forever.
“Is it so hard a thing?” she demanded.
“You’re very tender of the sensibilities of a horse.”
“They have feelings. Will you consign her to suffering in order to squeeze every last guinea out of your lucky win?”
“Dracy can use every coin.…” He reined in his temper, but now he wanted her even more. She wasn’t afraid of him or of any man. She’d always give as good as she got.
“Very well, Lady Maybury, I accept your bargain. If I’m comfortable at your sister’s ball, I’ll take your father’s bargain. But only if we seal it with a kiss.”
“A kiss, sir? My maid is present.”
“You wouldn’t agree if she were not.”
“We’d not be here together if she were not.”
“Precisely. So what danger in a kiss?”
He watched her struggle between outrage and temptation. He wasn’t surprised when temptation won or when she controlled the payment. She rose on tiptoe and put a light kiss on his lips. “There, the pact is made.”
That butterfly contact had been like fire, and perhaps she’d felt it too, for despite her light words, she’d turned away.
“The pact is made,” he repeated, knowing then that he was going to fight his damnedest to win Georgia Maybury for wife, for all eternity and beyond.
“To Pargeter’s?” he said.
She hesitated in an interesting way, sliding a thoughtful look at him. But then she turned and briskly led the way out of the room, once more assuming command.
Georgia wasn’t quite sure what had happened. The kiss, of course, which had been naughty of him, but nothing of significance. Men and women kissed in games and in light wagers all the time.
That had been a startling kiss, however.
Only because he’d made it daring, almost wicked.
She should remember that Dracy was the man who’d picked her up without permission and flirted with her in a very daring way. He didn’t bend to her every whim. Instead, he challenged her.
“Do you want your chair, Lady Maybury?” he said in the hall.
It would be sensible protection against dust and dirt, but Georgia felt a need to experience the London streets more directly. “No, we’ll walk. It’s not far.”
As they left the house, she pulled down veiling on her hat to protect herself from dust. “Pargeter’s is in Carlyon Street,” she said, turning right.
“At least you’re no fragile bloom,” he said. “Do you often walk around Town?”
“Are you criticizing me, my lord? Suggesting I’m made of coarser stuff?”
“Lady Maybury, no one could ever describe you as coarse.”
“Thank heavens for that. I feared a year of rustication had ruined me completely. Why are you not rusticating, Dracy? I thought it your intention.”
“I was ordered to pay attention to my duties in Town.”
“Were you? By whom?”
“By you.”
She felt her cheeks heat. “How very presumptuous of me, to be sure. But I’m sure I was right.”
“Are you always sure you’re right?”
“Except when I’m wrong,” she said lightly. “And I’m right about the ball. Fair warning—it will be as much about politics as about me. Thretford aspires to play peacemaker. He, my father, and a few others need an excuse to bring some important men together on neutral ground.”
“Coroneted brigades on a very slippery wooden battlefield. You alarm me.”
“No, I don’t,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
She met his eyes. “Nothing alarms you, Lord Dracy.”
“There, Lady Maybury, you’re wrong.”
“Perhaps you alarm me, my lord.”
“There, Lady Maybury, you might be right.”
A shiver went down her spine.
“How odd you are today,” she said, walking on briskly. Whatever she’d expected from this day, it was turning out otherwise. She realized with surprise that his face hadn’t disturbed her. The damage was still extensive, but she’d made it worse in her mind so that now it seemed at least tolerable.
There were other aspects as well. When she’d first seen him waiting at the York Stairs, distance had given a new perspective. She’d been struck by a nobleness of bearing, and when he’d descended the steps, by an ease of movement. It was easy to imagine him on the deck of a ship, in command, or strong and agile in battle.
“Carlyon Street, didn’t you say?”
His words brought her out of her thoughts, and she saw they’d arrived at the street. “Yes, and we need number sixteen.” She walked along, eager now to have this task done. “Here we are. How very discreet, to be sure. Only a small plaque.” She mounted the three steps. “Knock.”
“What a shame they don’t allow females into the military.”
She raised her veil to see if he was truly cross. She couldn’t tell.
“Am I commanding you? Dickon—my husband—sometimes complained of that.” She gave him her prettiest smile. “My dear Lord Dracy, of your kindness, would you ply the knocker?”
Dracy wanted to kiss her again, or spank her, in equal measure. She truly was a Circe, and could wrap him around her pretty fingers with ease.
The damnable thing was that he might not mind as long as she was his.
He rapped the knocker, and the door was opened by a middle-aged maidservant who dipped a curtsy and took them into a small but well-furnished reception room.
When the maid left, Circe looked around. “I might think we’d come to a private house by mistake.”
“You haven’t visited a similar establishment for ladies?”
“Faith, no!”
He wasn’t sure her horror was feigned.
“What do you do with old gowns?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“The simpler ones I give to Jane, but the others are stored.”
“Why?”
“Am I to sell them and meet another lady wearing one? Embarrassing for her and me. Am I to pick them apart and try to reuse bits and pieces? Perhaps you think I should burn them.”
“I think you should wear them out.”
She laughed, but said, “It will please your frugal soul to know I mean to wear some of them again during the next few months.”
Her tone stung, but she was right. He did have a frugal soul. It came from never having had money to squander.
A short, portly man came in, looking exactly the part in an elaborately curled bagwig, face paint, and a cloud of perfume.
He bowed. “My lady, my lord, you honor my establishment! Jeffrey Pargeter, most humbly at your service. How may I assist you?”
Dracy saw Lady Maybury prepare to command and spoke first. “I need a suit suitable for a summer ball, sir. Alas, short notice makes it impossible to have something made.”
She put her oar in anyway. “Until recently, Lord Dracy was in the navy.”
“An honor to assist a hero, my lord,” said the unctuous Pargeter. “If you would come with me, sir, we can ascertain your measurements and discover what we have that might suit.”
Dracy went, certain that Georgia Maybury itched to c
ome with him. He smiled. He had no objection to being managed by a lovely woman, but she needed to learn that she wouldn’t always be in command.
Chapter 10
Georgia frowned at the door. “I’m not sure why I’m here.”
“I’m not sure either, milady,” Jane said. “Lord Dracy seems well able to manage his affairs.”
“But he knows nothing of style and fashion.”
“Mr. Pargeter will advise him, milady.”
Georgia took a restless turn around the small room, then sat and picked up a magazine. “The Lady’s Almanac. I’m surprised it isn’t The Gentleman’s Magazine, or some such.”
“Would a gentleman accompany another here, milady?”
“And if he did, he’d be allowed to go with him into the innards of the place. There could at least be some goods on display. As it is, I’ll learn nothing. Sit down, Jane. What color do you think would suit Lord Dracy best?”
“Blue, milady,” Jane said, sitting neatly on a hard chair. “Not navy blue. A bit brighter, like his eyes.”
“Are his eyes bright blue?” Georgia asked, but she knew they were. “Perhaps it comes from looking at the sea.”
“Mostly the sea’s gray, milady.”
“You have no romance in your soul.”
“I’m only speaking the truth.”
“A dangerous habit, that. What of his hair? He’ll need it to be curled and powdered.”
“Perhaps a wig, milady?”
“It is hard to imagine him sitting still for hours,” Georgia agreed. “A wig, then, but good wigs aren’t come upon in a moment.…”
“Milady, Lord Dracy’s not a doll for your dressing.”
Georgia looked at her maid in surprise. “Of course not. But I need him to feel at ease at the ball for the sake of Fancy Free. There can be nothing so awful as being inappropriately dressed.”
“There can be any number of more awful things, milady, and I don’t know how you’d know how being inappropriately dressed feels.”
“Jane, are you cross with me?”
Jane sighed. “No, milady, not cross. But you’re treating Lord Dracy as an amusement, and he’s not like your usual gentlemen. He’s…he’s been in the navy most of his life, living hard, fighting, killing even. You need to watch yourself.”
“You’re referring to that kiss,” Georgia said. “It was nothing.”
“If you say so, milady, but I don’t mean that.”
“You think him too rough for gentle company? Then I’ll polish him like a brass pot until Fancy Free is saved.”
“You won’t change him, milady.”
“I don’t want to! Lud, why are we talking this way? Yes, I used Lord Dracy as an excuse to come into Town, but what harm in that?”
“You might have raised some hopes.”
“He’d never be so foolish,” Georgia said, but didn’t entirely convince herself. “If you’re right, it’s unfortunate, but I’m sure he’ll soon see that he’s no candidate for my hand.”
“It’s to be hoped so, milady.”
“Don’t put on that dismal face. I’ll magic him into form for the ball, and guard and guide him on the night, then with Fancy Free safe, I’ll wave him off to his muddy acres.”
Jane still had that look—the you’ll-come-to-grief-if-you-go-on-this-way-milady look.
“Perish it, there’s no reason for us both to kick our heels here. Your sister’s establishment is only a few streets away. Go there and enjoy some time together until I join you.”
“I can’t leave you unchaperoned, milady.”
“I don’t need a chaperone to walk a few Town streets. When Dracy’s business here is done, we’ll join you there.”
“Remember, milady, you must cause no new talk.”
“How could I in that time? Go, Jane!”
“I don’t think—”
“Go, or I shall become cross.”
Jane rose. “On your head be it,” she said, and left.
What on earth had she meant by that?
Alone, Georgia’s irritation slowly melted into liberation. Here she was, at liberty in Town. She could leave here now and go where she wished, do as she wished.…
She wouldn’t, for she needed respectability, but the possibility put her into a good humor. She picked up the magazine again to consider the latest styles. She’d chosen not to receive magazines at Herne, for they would have been depressing, so this was a treat.
She browsed, noting with relief that there’d been no revolutions in style in the past year, so her old gowns would not make her a laughingstock.
There were small style details, however, and some novel ways of trimming. She could have that style of point lace put on her blue instead of scalloped, but would that be shabby refurbishment?
She settled instead to ideas for new gowns. That saque embroidered with summer flowers was pretty, but what if some of the flowers were silk ones, attached as if scattered there. What if they were arranged in garlands? Would a background of green lace in a leafy effect be too much?
A skirt gathered up into billows of lace was absurd, but if it were silk gauze embroidered with spangles it could be pretty. Even better in a color other than white. A soft brown with copper spangles?
She stored both ideas for when she was married again and could indulge.
She studied a plain blue villager dress. If the skirt was hitched up at the side, as if caught up for work…
The door opened, and Dracy returned followed by Pargeter and three employees, each holding up a suit of jacket, waistcoat, and breeches, hung together so that they lacked only the man inside.
“I thought it wise to seek your advice, Lady Maybury,” he said, perhaps drily.
Choosing diplomacy, Georgia asked, “Which does Mr. Pargeter recommend?”
“He refuses to give weight to any of the three but says all should fit after minor alterations.”
Georgia rose to inspect the offerings—a dark blue, a light blue, and a gray with embroidered flowers.
She took the lighter blue and passed it to Dracy. “Hold it in front of you, my lord.”
It was close to the color of his eyes, which really were a very fine blue, but she twitched a finger. “The gray.”
When he was holding the gray, she stepped back and considered. “I wouldn’t have predicted it, which is what makes fashion so interesting. Will it be recognized, Pargeter? I rather think that dark blue belonged to Lord Ashart.”
“You have a keen eye, milady. We’ve altered the trimmings—we’re most careful about such matters—but a true connoisseur of fashion notices these things. In the case of the gray, however, it has only been seen in Ireland. Never worn in Town, I assure you, and again, altered.”
Georgia nodded and turned back to Dracy. “You approve?”
“I’m in your hands. It’s of little interest to me.”
“Would you go on board ship improperly dressed?” she demanded.
He smiled. “You win that point.”
She nodded. “Complete your purchase, my lord, and we’ll move on to other matters.”
He went, leaving Georgia unsettled, though she wasn’t sure why. She remembered Jane’s vague warnings, but she couldn’t believe Dracy was a danger to her.
It must be the other thing Jane had said—that he was a military man. He’d fought battles, which must mean that he’d killed. He would have lived a hard life at times, which was probably why he was impatient with her. She couldn’t help the fact that she’d always lived comfortably, and she certainly didn’t wish it otherwise.
He was so different from other men she knew—from Dickon, Perry, Beaufort, and the rest. Men who’d been raised to elegance and style. He was also different from the rougher men, the sporting men like Shaldon and Vance. Their dangers were chosen.
That didn’t make Dracy a danger to her.
Not at all.
Certainly not during a walk to Mary Gifford’s house.
Having satisfied herself on that, she
was able to greet him easily upon his return and leave the establishment without a qualm.
Perhaps he felt differently. As the door closed behind them, he asked, “What’s become of your maid, Lady Maybury?”
“I gave her leave to visit her sister nearby. Don’t fret. We’ll join her there forthwith. Do you need a wig, Dracy, or will you use a coiffeur?”
