Regency Debutantes

by Margaret McPhee

  Chapter Ten

  With a tap at the door, Kathryn walked into the room. She had changed into one of her new afternoon dresses and tidied the wayward curls of her hair. Her hands were still pink from being scrubbed with soap, but all signs of the black dust had disappeared. As soon as she entered she had the feeling that she had just interrupted an awkward silence. ‘I hope the Madeira has refreshed you, my lady.’

  ‘Never more so,’ replied her ladyship. ‘I was tempted by a second slice, but managed to resist.’ She passed Kathryn a slice of sponge cake on a delicate painted plate. ‘Help yourself to Madeira, my dear.’

  Kathryn did as she was bid and then settled herself down in the empty chair next to the table. It was positioned beside the dowager and directly opposite the Viscount, so that she could not help but obtain an excellent view of his face. He certainly looked to be pondering something. She wondered what his grandmother had said to make him so. Perhaps more strikingly, though, he had a faint thumbprint of charcoal dust upon his chin and a smaller but similar mark upon his cheek. Her eyes flitted towards Lady Maybury who seemed to have observed nothing out of the ordinary with her grandson’s appearance. Kathryn’s fingers twisted at the skirt of her dress. What to do? She couldn’t let Nicholas leave the house like that—he’d be a laughing stock within five minutes. But to point it out when his grandmother had failed to do so was to risk embarrassing both the dowager and her grandson. Perhaps Lady Maybury would notice before that time came. True to form, the old lady was suffering none of her grandson’s silence.

  ‘Well?’ A haughty brow rose. ‘We are waiting for your discussions on Brighthelmstone.’

  Ravensmede seemed to shake the contemplative mood from him, and started to recount the arrangements he had made. ‘My servants shall travel down tomorrow to ensure that all is ready for us upon our arrival. We will leave on Thursday, take a leisurely journey with one overnight stop on the way down, thus arriving on Friday. No point in making the journey uncomfortable for you.’

  His grandmother made what sounded to be a snort of disgust at this point, but he ignored it and continued undeterred.

  ‘Once in Brighthelmstone I’ve rented us a house for the month. I’m told it has a good position with unimpeded views of the sea. It’s on The Steyne and not far from the Prince’s Pavilion.’

  ‘Sea views?’ Kathryn could not keep the excitement from her voice.

  Ravensmede’s mouth curved into a smile, the first since she had returned to the room. ‘They’re reported to be most scenic.’

  Her face lit with delight. ‘I can scarcely wait.’

  ‘You will be taking your sketching and painting materials?’ He was looking at her with an unfathomable expression.

  She smiled. ‘Of course! Nothing could stop me. You know how I treasure them.’

  His voice was a low husky murmur. ‘Yes.’

  Their eyes met across the table and held.

  ‘Kathryn, my dear,’ Lady Maybury interrupted. ‘Do you think I have enough shawls? I should so hate to catch a chill. They do say that the sea air is rather invigorating.’

  ‘Perhaps we could check this afternoon, and if you’re not happy we could go shopping for some more.’ Kathryn ignored the flush that had leapt to her cheeks and turned her attentions to the dowager. ‘Are you warm enough just now? If not, I could fetch you a thicker shawl.’

  ‘I’m pleasantly warm and cosy,’ said the old lady.

  A subtle knock at the door and a footman appeared. ‘Lady Kiddleby to see you, my lady. I’ve taken the liberty of showing her to the drawing room.’

  The dowager’s brow wrinkled. ‘Frances here? I wasn’t expecting her.’ She turned to Kathryn. ‘This is not like her at all. I had best go to her at once. Come along, gel.’

  The footman gave one delicate cough. ‘Lady Kiddleby asked that she see you alone, my lady.’ He coughed again. ‘Her ladyship appears somewhat distressed.’

  ‘Dear, oh, dear,’ muttered Lady Maybury. ‘No doubt Harriet has been upsetting her mama again. This shouldn’t take long.’ She drew her grandson a warning stare. ‘I trust Nick shall not make a cake of himself in my absence.’ She stared at him a moment longer before rising from her chair and leaving.

  A silence.

  The moss green eyes were on Kathryn.

  ‘Would you like another glass of Madeira? Some more cake, perhaps?’ She lifted the bottle.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Another silence.

  ‘I wondered if I might speak bluntly to you, Kathryn.’

  The butterflies flocked within her stomach. She netted them down. ‘Certainly, Nicholas.’ She saw the tug of his mouth at her use of his name.

  He touched a finger to his lips in a gesture that she had not seen him use before. ‘I’m concerned about my grandmother’s health. You see how much she hates to admit the slightest weakness and would never tell either of us if she were unwell. All these late nights are taking their toll on her. For all her protestations, she’s in her eighty-first year with a weak heart, and I fear her hectic lifestyle of late is in danger of making her ill.’

  The hand of guilt laid heavy on Kathryn’s heart. ‘I’m afraid you may be right. I know Lady Maybury enjoys going out but…I cannot help but wonder that she has my interest too much at heart.’ She nibbled again at her lip and wondered if she should be confessing such things to her employer’s grandson. ‘At many events she’s insistent that I accept every invitation to dance. Indeed, it’s now quite common that I spend the evening upon the dance floor and not in Lady Maybury’s company at all.’ The grey eyes raised to Lord Ravensmede’s with mounting anxiety. ‘I have tried to refuse, but she won’t have it. I feel that her fatigue is, in part, my fault.’

  ‘My grandmother is forthright in her opinions, and once set upon a course is not easy to dissuade. You must not blame yourself, Kathryn, and, indeed, I did not mean that you should do so.’ He reached across the table and gently took one of her hands.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to remedy the situation?’ She thought she saw something akin to guilt flicker within his gaze and then it was gone.

  ‘The only way my grandmother would be persuaded to stay in on an evening is if you, yourself, Kathryn, were to feel unwell.’ It was there again, an uneasiness in his eyes.

  She understood very well what he was asking her to do. ‘Yes. The odd headache…’ Her words trailed off and she stared at the charcoal dust smears upon his face. She touched a finger to those imprinted places, but upon her own face instead of his. She couldn’t let him leave like that, and the dowager’s poor eyesight was unlikely to notice. Her finger tapped very deliberately against her chin. ‘You have a little…’ The finger tapped harder.

  Ravensmede’s focus sharpened like that of a starving man shown food.

  ‘And here.’ The finger had moved to poke a spot on her own cheek.

  ‘Kathryn?’

  ‘A little charcoal, just here.’

  The dark head shook its denial. ‘No, your face is quite clean,’ he said slowly, and licked his lips. The green eyes had darkened considerably and were watching the movement of her fingers intently.

  ‘But yours is not,’ she replied with a wry smile. ‘Somehow you must have touched the charcoal dust. And it’s now on your face.’

  A large hand rubbed ineffectually at a clean patch of skin on his cheek.

  ‘No, it’s over some more.’

  ‘Here?’ The fingers slid too far to the left.

  ‘No, back a bit.’

  Again he missed the mark.

  ‘Move forward a little.’ Before she could contemplate and dismiss the impulse she half-rose from her seat, reached across the table and moved her hand to touch his face. Then slowly and with what amounted to a caress she rubbed her thumb against the square edge of his chin until no trace of the charcoal remained. From there her fingers slid to his cheek. She could feel the roughness of the first hint of stubble on his skin, was so close she could smell the bergamot of h
is scent. With calm deliberation she kept her gaze fixed on the charcoal-shadowed skin. A sharp intake of breath that was not her own made her forget her purpose. His eyes were a deep, dark green, and in them was a hunger that made her forget where she was and just what she was doing.

  ‘Kathryn,’ he whispered. And contained in that single word was both pain and longing.

  She could not speak, could not move, just stared into those dark mesmerising eyes.

  His face crept towards hers until she could feel the warm stir of his breath tickle her cheek.

  Chest compressed. Heart expanded. A sudden rush of blood to her head.

  The smouldering gaze dropped to her lips.

  Yes, she wanted to shout, but no words came. His skin brushed hers. Cheek touched cheek.

  ‘Kathryn,’ he said, and it was almost a growl. The need in his voice mirrored that in her soul.

  Yes! Please. Did she have to plead? Their noses nestled. Lips so close to imagine their feeling. Touching…almost. Nothing existed outside that single moment. Locked in time, alone. ‘Nick!’ her voice was hoarse, barely recognisable as her own. She wanted him, nothing more.

  His mouth claimed hers in sweeping possession.

  A sigh and her lips opened in sweet surrender. Wanting all he would give, giving all he would take. Urgent. Demanding. The table jabbed at the front of her thighs as he pulled her into his arms. She felt the press of his hands upon her back, warm, caressing.

  Footsteps sounded outside the door. A knock.

  Before she could even register what was happening, Kathryn found herself quite suddenly pushed back into her chair.

  By the time the footman entered the library it was to find a rather startled-looking Miss Marchant sitting bolt upright in her chair, and Lord Ravensmede lounging rather too comfortably back in his. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but her ladyship has asked if Miss Marchant would be so kind as to come through to the drawing room.’

  Kathryn’s legs were shaking so badly that, had she not already been seated, she was positive she would have fallen. Her heart pounded in her chest. ‘Yes, certainly. I’ll come right away.’

  Lord Ravensmede gave a nod of his head, and the footman retreated. ‘Kathryn.’

  A blush coloured her cheeks and her fingers plucked at the material of her skirt. She did not raise her eyes. ‘I…I must go.’

  Ravensmede stood. ‘Until Thursday then,’ he said politely and bowed.

  Only when she reached the door did Kathryn look back to meet his eyes and see that they held a most determined promise.

  Mrs Marchant was busy at her needlework within the drawing room of the house in Green Street when the visitor arrived. No sooner had the maid whispered the lady’s name in Mrs Marchant’s ear than the lady herself appeared in the doorway.

  ‘My dear Mrs Marchant!’ gushed the female voice. ‘Anna. I came as quickly as I could. I’m only just returned to town as of last night.’

  Anna Marchant’s eyes widened momentarily and then she regained her composure. ‘Amanda.’ She smiled. ‘Please do come in and take a seat.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re too kind,’ said the widow and arranged herself on a stylish gold-covered armchair.

  ‘How was your visit to the country?’ enquired Mrs Marchant with politeness. ‘I trust your sister is well again.’

  ‘I cannot stand the country,’ confided Mrs White. ‘The roads are in a terrible state—it takes an age to travel anywhere; there is a dearth of anything remotely interesting; and the assemblies are positively backward in terms of their fashion and the clodhoppers who patronise them. All in all a thoroughly boring experience.’ She did not mention that her ennui more specifically arose from the absence of rich young men to fawn over her beauty. The country squires and parsons in the vicinity were all elderly or grossly overweight or both. Amanda White had found much time to brood upon matters in Amersham…and subsequently the insult Ravensmede had dealt her in that little room at Lady Finlay’s ball had become honed and magnified in her memory.

  ‘And your sister?’ prompted Mrs Marchant again.

  ‘Delivered of a bawling son,’ came the curt reply. ‘But that is not of what I came to speak. My letter—’

  ‘Came as a great shock to me. I must confess I’d no notion of that which you suggested. My niece has always behaved with the utmost decorum,’ Anna lied.

  ‘My dear Mrs Marchant, it pained me to have to be the bearer of such bad tidings; I felt I had little choice but to warn you of the danger.’ The afternoon dress was cut to display Amanda White’s curvaceous figure to perfection, its deep ruby-red coloration complementing the lush darkness of the widow’s elegantly coiffured hair, and the smooth sheen of her pale skin. ‘Not long after I’d sent the letter I learned that Lady Maybury has indeed taken the girl up as her companion.’

  The accusation hung in the air between them.

  ‘Your letter arrived too late,’ said Mrs Marchant crisply. ‘Kathryn had already accepted the position, and, whatever you might suggest, Lady Maybury has a lineage without blemish. The Mayburys are not without influence.’

  The widow pouted her pretty lips while a sly expression slid across her eyes. ‘Indeed, but it makes no difference to what Miss Marchant is about.’

  Much as Anna Marchant disliked her niece, she realised full well the consequences of any slur on Kathryn’s name. The Marchant family would not escape unscathed. And so it was with this in mind that Mrs Marchant prepared to defend her niece’s reputation. ‘Kathryn is a young lady of impeccable values. I must insist that your fears as to any improper behaviour are quite mistaken, Mrs White.’

  ‘I saw her with my own eyes, Mrs Marchant, behaving little better than a common whore.’

  A sharp inhalation of breath. ‘Mrs White! I must protest!’

  Both women rose to their feet.

  ‘I thought to tell you only because I know you hold a fine and respectable standing within society; I did not think that you would want your own reputation jeopardised by your niece’s scandalous behaviour.’ She shrugged her beautiful shoulders. ‘But if you are not interested in your niece’s dealings…’ Mrs White made to leave.

  ‘There is no need for such haste,’ said Anna Marchant with feigned sweetness, as she moved swiftly to block her visitor’s exit path. ‘Your concern for my family is admirable.’ It was a lie, of course. The pretty young widow had no concern for anyone other than herself. Anna knew quite clearly that Amanda White’s world revolved singularly around herself and her pretty looks. Not that it made one blind bit of difference to Mrs Marchant. But it did make her wonder as to exactly what game Amanda White was playing with her letter and her visit. A smile moved across Mrs Marchant’s lips. ‘Sit down again, Amanda,’ she said. ‘I would hear what you have to say.’ Before the afternoon was out Anna Marchant intended to have the answer to all of her questions in full.

  Mrs White swished her skirts and sat back down before the words were even out of her hostess’s mouth. It was clear that she had had no intention of going anywhere. Mrs Marchant’s smile stretched wider. ‘If you can bring yourself to tell me all, my dear,’ she added.

  ‘Dearest Anna,’ simpered Amanda White. ‘I shall strive to do what is right.’ And proceeded to describe the scene she had interrupted between Lord Ravensmede and Kathryn Marchant at Lady Finlay’s ball. Every possible embellishment was added, so that not only was Ravensmede kissing Miss Marchant with a passion (which of course was true) but he was kneading upon her breast and clutching her against him in the most carnal of manners. Mrs White gave no mention as to her own assignation with the Viscount and said she had wandered into the room quite mistakenly.

  ‘Why did you not tell me at the ball?’ asked Mrs Marchant, barely able to hide the rise in her temper.

  ‘Lord Cadmount whisked me away just as I was about to. And then Ravensmede practically bullied me into going to the country. I was fearful to do anything other than he bid.’

  Anna Marchant had trouble in believing that
. The young widow was a woman more used to controlling men than being controlled by them.

  ‘You must have enough influence over the girl to bring her to her senses before it is too late. Surely you can make her give up this ridiculous affair and move back here with you? You’re her aunt; she’ll listen to you. Forbid the girl any further contact with Ravensmede. It’s not too late to salvage some semblance of her reputation. The fact that she’s his mistress has not yet become common knowledge. There’s still time, if you act now.’

  So that was what Amanda White wanted: Ravensmede…for herself. Mrs Marchant said somewhat coldly, ‘Kathryn has always been disobedient and stubborn. There is, and always has been, little love lost between us.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Amanda without the slightest emotion. ‘It would be such a shame if anyone else was to learn of your niece’s indiscretion. Especially now that she’s Lady Maybury’s companion, it wouldn’t take much for the whole town to deduce that she’s Ravensmede’s mistress. Poor Lottie, I suppose she shall not remain unaffected by Kathryn’s shame.’ Mrs White looked slyly at the older woman. ‘And you had such hopes of a good match for your daughter.’

  Anna Marchant’s teeth clamped tightly shut. Her top lip curled with unconcealed contempt. She knew very well exactly what Mrs White was about: blackmail. Get Kathryn back to Green Street, or the widow would spread her gossip. And the thought that Kathryn had allowed her to be put into such a position fuelled the hatred already burning in Mrs Marchant’s breast. ‘Very well, Amanda. Since you place me in an untenable position, I will do as you ask, but I must warn you it may take some little time.’

  ‘The longer you take, dear Anna, the more chance there is that I may inadvertently let something slip. I can be such a forgetful puss at times.’

  ‘Then the sooner I start, the better,’ said Mrs Marchant.

  Mrs White took the hint and soon only Anna Marchant sat alone in the drawing room, cursing the widow, trying to think how she could lure Kathryn back from Lady Maybury, planning just what she would do to her when she did.