Regency Debutantes

by Margaret McPhee

  Kathryn pushed herself upright, and sat back against her pillows. ‘No, I’m quite well, thank you, just tired. The coffee shall revive me admirably.’

  Not by the look of the dark shadows beneath Miss Marchant’s eyes it wouldn’t, thought Betsy, and then remembered the other message that she had been instructed to impart. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot miss, her ladyship would like to see you in the drawing room at ten o’clock.’

  Kathryn glanced at the clock on the mantel. ‘It’s half past nine now!’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Heavens! How on earth could I have slept so late?’ Kathryn swung her legs out of the bed.

  ‘I’ll fetch you some warm water, miss.’ And Betsy disappeared.

  Kathryn drank the coffee down and ate two bread rolls smeared with honey. There would be no room for weakness in today’s dealings. She was under no illusion as to what the dowager wanted to say. The old lady could hardly be expected to keep on a companion whose name had been linked so scandalously with the lady’s own grandson. Even Nicholas had said as much.

  Nicholas. The mere thought of him made her feel uncomfortably warm. The uncomfortable feeling expanded at the memory of what had passed between them yesterday. Kathryn’s cheeks flamed. It was bad enough to offer herself like a common trollop. His rejection was a thousand times worse. She blew out air from between her lips, feeling the sting of shame yet again. He had offered her marriage. Marriage, for goodness’ sake! Better than all of her dreams put together. To spend the rest of her life as his wife. How very easy it would have been to say that one tiny word, yes. Yes.

  Yes! She should have shouted it from the boughs of the trees. But she had thought better, and now the offer was gone. As was his desire. He had said she was ruined, and so she was. With little money and nowhere to go, Kathryn knew her options were limited. She could only pray that the gossip would not reach Hampshire. Her mother’s relatives were her last hope. With a heavy heart she moved to fetch the old trunk she had brought with her from Green Street.

  It was only a little after ten when Kathryn was washed, dressed and ready. She had turned a deaf ear to Betsy’s protestations and worn her old blue muslin dress. The trunk sitting ominously by the door was as empty as when it had arrived. Madame Dupont’s skilfully fashioned dresses, for which Kathryn had not yet fully reimbursed Lady Maybury, were left hanging in the clothes-press. The pearl necklace and earrings gifted by her ladyship sat neatly in the jewellery box on the dressing table. Kathryn was unadorned. Her fingers carefully skimmed her hair just to check that none of her neatly pinned curls had escaped. A deep breath, a squaring of her shoulders, one final smoothing of her skirt, and then she opened the door and walked towards the drawing room…and Lady Maybury’s dismissal.

  The scene within the drawing room was not what Kathryn expected. She stood for a moment, unnoticed, staring, drinking in the sight before her. The dowager sat in her usual chair by the unlit fireplace, chatting ten to the dozen. Her expression was warm and lively, her manner familiar as if she knew the young woman who was seated demurely upon the nearby sofa very well indeed. In a glance Kathryn could see that the girl was tall and willowy, with silky dark brown hair worn in an elaborate coiffure. Two tiny white pearls dangled from her ears. Her white-and-pastel-blue dress was well cut and fashionably stylish. Everything about her bespoke money and breeding, and she wore it all with an air of effortless relaxation. Kathryn’s fingers strayed self-consciously to her own shabby gown. By the window stood two men, both tall, both with the same green eyes, both wearing the same defiant arrogance, one with hair as dark as night, the other whose head had silvered with age. Kathryn’s heart skipped a beat as it did whenever she saw Nicholas. It was not hard to guess the identity of the older man standing by his side.

  The little group looked comfortable, at ease, like they belonged together. There was only one outsider. For a minute she felt the urge to turn and run, and then the moment was gone. Before she could think any further as to what was going on, she heard Nicholas’s voice.

  ‘Miss Marchant,’ he said, and made his way to her side. ‘Come in.’

  She ignored the hammering of her heart and held her head high. ‘Lord Ravensmede,’ she replied politely, and gave a small curtsy. And then turning to his grandmother, ‘Lady Maybury.’

  Although she was careful to keep her gaze averted from his, she could feel his scrutiny. Just his voice was enough to set her insides aquiver. She set her face determinedly and prayed that her cheeks did not appear as scalded as the rest of her felt.

  He wasted no time in the introductions. ‘This is my father, Earl Maybury.’

  The man by his side bowed. ‘I’m pleased to welcome you to our family, Miss Marchant.’ Pleased did not describe the expression on his face. Appraising came closer.

  Kathryn froze at the implication of his words. It was clear that Lord Maybury misunderstood the situation. She glanced at Nicholas, waiting for his reaction.

  Ravensmede made no notice of having heard anything untoward. He met her gaze with a strange look, as if he was poised, as if he was waiting. There was a pause that was slightly too long for comfort, and then he said, ‘Kathryn, this is Miss Francesca Paton.’

  Kathryn stifled the gasp, blinked back the black dots swimming before her eyes and breathed deeply. The dizziness diminished. A warm hand pressed against the small of her back. Without looking she knew it to belong to Nicholas. She forced herself to step towards Miss Paton, away from the support that Nicholas offered. ‘Miss Paton,’ she said, and was relieved to hear that her voice sounded a deal calmer than she felt.

  Miss Paton made her reply.

  An awkwardness followed.

  Then the dowager rose to her feet, and smiled. ‘There’s something to which I must attend. Please do excuse me.’ And she tottered out of the door.

  Nicholas stepped closer. ‘My father and I must also take our leave of you…for now.’ Then they too were gone.

  A pair of fine hazel eyes turned upon her. ‘Miss Marchant, please do come and sit beside me.’ She patted a hand to the cushion to her left. ‘Nicholas has told me all about you.’

  Not all, Kathryn sincerely prayed. ‘Thank you, Miss Paton,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster, and seated herself on the sofa.

  Miss Paton leaned forward and smiled. ‘Please call me Francesca.’ Her expression was open and honest and sincere. ‘You must be wondering as to the reason for my visit at such an early hour.’ Without waiting for an answer she continued. ‘Firstly, I came to wish you happy.’

  Every muscle in Kathryn’s body stiffened. She wetted her lips, unsure of what to say.

  ‘And, secondly, I wished to meet for myself the lady that has finely succeeded in capturing Nicholas’s heart.’ Her smile broadened and there was a definite twinkle in her eyes.

  Kathryn tried to smile, but her mouth seemed unwilling to respond. Something akin to a grimace stretched across her face. ‘I fear that you may have misunderstood the—’

  Miss Paton let her get no further. Her hand touched to Kathryn’s in a gesture of friendship. ‘Miss Marchant,’ she started, and then said as an aside, ‘Or may I call you Kathryn?’

  ‘Of course,’ murmured Kathryn.

  ‘Kathryn, let me tell you how heartily relieved I am that Nicholas has at last decided to marry. You know my father and Lord Maybury are great friends, and have for years been trying to force a match between Nicholas and myself.’ She laughed. ‘Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous?’

  It did not sound in the least ridiculous to Kathryn. Miss Paton was heiress to a considerable fortune. Lord Ravensmede was heir to an earldom. There was no disputing that the two were well matched. Kathryn held her tongue.

  ‘Why, my dear Kathryn, Nicholas and I would not suit at all. He’s a dear man, and a very great friend of the family, but that is all.’

  ‘I thought…’ Kathryn found her voice at last. ‘I thought that there was an informal betrothal between you both, an understan
ding that you would marry.’

  ‘Oh, no, not at all!’ Miss Paton exclaimed. ‘Besides, my interest lies elsewhere.’

  Kathryn watched as two pink patches suddenly appeared on Miss Paton’s cheeks. ‘You have a tendre for someone else?’

  Miss Paton’s cheeks dimpled, and her face lit up. ‘There is a certain curate. He’s kind and diligent and of quite the most admirable character. But he’s a little shy of approaching my father. Little wonder, for although Papa is the best of fathers, he can appear a tiny bit intimidating in his manner to those with whom he is unfamiliar.’ Worry washed across Miss Paton’s face. ‘I beg you will not speak of it, Kathryn. We have told no one, though now that you’ve taken care of Nicholas for me, the way is clear for Thomas to speak to my papa.’

  A weight lifted from Kathryn’s shoulders. ‘Your secret is safe with me. And I sincerely hope that you and Thomas find happiness.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Miss Paton.

  ‘No, thank you, Francesca,’ Kathryn said, and meant it.

  They moved to talk of the weather, and then discussed the Duke of Wellington’s recent victory against Napoleon. Miss Paton told Kathryn all about the magnificent firework display at Vauxhall Gardens to celebrate the event. From there talk led on to the latest fashions, and then the birth of Lady Harrington’s twins. Never once did she make the slightest mention of the most scandalous rumours sweeping every drawing room in London, especially those concerning Lord Ravensmede and his grandmother’s companion.

  Indeed, when Nicholas returned, alone, it was to find the two women chatting as if they were the best of friends.

  Within a few minutes of the Viscount entering the drawing room, Miss Paton took her leave.

  Nicholas leaned against the mantel above the fireplace.

  Kathryn stayed where she was upon the sofa.

  He was careful to keep his face expressionless. ‘Did you and Miss Paton find anything interesting to discuss?’

  Her face raised to his and he could see that much of the earlier tension had vanished. The silver eyes held a glimmer of mischief. ‘Perhaps.’

  He moved from the fireplace to take up the seat that Miss Paton had so recently vacated. Kathryn edged closer to the opposite arm of the sofa. He arched an eyebrow. ‘Scared?’

  ‘No. Should I be?’

  A nearly smile pulled at his mouth. ‘Most definitely so. I’ve just neatly disposed of two of your objections to marrying me. Two more to go and then you’re mine, Kathryn Marchant.’

  Shock rippled across her face. ‘You still wish to wed me?’ There was a definite breathy catch to her voice. ‘Even after…’

  ‘Especially after your proposition.’ His eyebrow twitched.

  Colour flooded her cheeks. ‘It was not a proposition,’ she said stubbornly.

  He gave her a knowing look. ‘If you say so.’

  Her gaze fluttered away, and her fingers picked at the skirt of her dress.

  He couldn’t afford to let himself touch her…not yet. He produced a letter from his pocket and threw it on to the sofa between them. It was addressed to Miss Kathryn Marchant. No other direction had been added.

  She peered at it suspiciously.

  ‘Open it.’

  A moment’s hesitation, and then she did. The wafer broke beneath her fingers and the paper unfolded to reveal the lines of black flowing script. Disbelief creased her forehead. Slowly, concentrating on each word, she read the letter’s contents again. ‘It’s from my uncle. He has enclosed a banker’s draft for five hundred pounds…as a dowry.’ The paper fluttered to her lap. She stared at him. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You’re his brother’s daughter. It is only to be expected that he would supply you with a dowry.’

  ‘But…the scandal…my uncle and aunt have disowned me.’

  ‘It would appear that they have changed their minds.’

  Her eyelids shuttered momentarily. She pressed her fingers to her lips, as if to stopper any flow of emotion.

  ‘So it seems, Kathryn, that you now have a dowry…if you should choose to use it as such.’

  ‘I…’ He could see her confusion.

  His voice gentled. ‘Which leaves only your last excuse…your family.’

  ‘You cannot change that, nor would I wish you to,’ she said softly.

  ‘Why would I want to, when you have such good connections?’ A wry smile curved. ‘I have it upon the best of authorities that your mother was a Thornley of Overton.’

  She wiped the emotion from her face, fixed her expression to one of blandness. Several heartbeats passed. ‘Before you say any more, Nicholas, there is something I should tell you.’ Not one movement. Not one betraying flicker of her eyes. ‘This is not the first scandal to be attached to my family name. My father…’ An image of her papa lying slumped upon his desk, a spent pistol in his hand. She stopped. Cleared her throat. The blink of her eyes lasted just fractionally too long. ‘My father…’ Again it seemed she could not bring herself to say the words.

  ‘I know, Kathryn,’ he said, wishing to spare her the worst of it.

  Her gaze clung to his. ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  She shook her head, inadvertently dislodging a few curls. ‘No. I suppose not. It’s just that I’ve never spoken of it. Never. But not one day has passed without its memory. So much blood…and the pistol still in his hand…and his face…’ She caught at her lower lip with her teeth.

  He moved then. Closed the space between them, until their legs touched together on the sofa. Took her hands in his. Gripped them firm. ‘I did not mean to remind you.’

  ‘I cannot forget,’ she said. ‘But with time it grows easier, and there are other things that help me not to think of it.’ Such as daydreaming and the man who sat so closely by her side, but she would never say so.

  Her fingers were small and cool beneath his. His thumb stroked at the back of her hand. ‘Your father’s death was a tragedy, but the blame is not yours. It has no bearing on our marriage.’ He leaned back against the sofa, keeping her within his gaze, watching the emotion cloud the brilliance of her eyes. ‘So,’ he said, ‘Kathryn Marchant, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’ Blood pulsed through the pulse point at the side of his neck. Thud. Thud. Thud. His hand still covered hers. Everything was still. Motionless. Breath caught and held, waiting to exhale.

  She looked at him, really looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time.

  His grip unwittingly tightened.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, in a whisper. And a small sigh escaped her.

  Whether it was a sigh of sadness or resignation or relief, Nicholas did not know. He pulled her into his arms and dropped a kiss to the top of her hair.

  It was Kathryn who pulled back. Kathryn, whose free hand touched to his cheek, her thumb brushing against his lips, tracing down to his chin. He saw her eyes drop to his lips, sensed her need. And then her mouth touched to his, her lips moving in sweet tentative enquiry.

  The green eyes sparked. His lips answered her call, sliding and teasing, caressing and tickling.

  Her mouth opened in sensual invitation.

  The hot moisture of his tongue penetrated. She met his probing with her own. Tongue lapped against tongue.

  He groaned and pulled her fully into his arms. ‘Kathryn!’ The rawness of emotion rendered his voice hoarse. His hands moved upon her back weaving patterns of age-old magic that she could not ignore.

  Her fingers threaded through the burnt umber of his hair. Deep within her was an ache of longing. The hardness of his chest grazed her breasts, and she thrust against him and felt the thrum of his heart beneath that warm solid wall of muscle.

  His hand moved to claim first one breast and then the other. Much more of this and he would be lost. The last vestige of reason pulled him back from temptation. Gently he eased himself away, looking her full in eyes that smouldered with passion and emotion. ‘Sweetheart,’ he said, ‘it’s a good thing I already ha
ve the special licence. I don’t think my restraint will last much longer.’

  With only two days to go before the wedding Lady Maybury decided a mammoth shopping expedition was in order. ‘It’s such a shame that there’s not time to have a new gown made for you. We’ll have to make do with a new bonnet and gloves. Oh, and a bandeau perhaps, and stockings…and a matching reticule.’ The dowager was warming to her theme. ‘And most definitely a new and rather exciting nightdress.’ She slid a mischievous look at the young woman by her side.

  Kathryn ignored the heat rising in her cheeks. ‘It’s very kind of you to offer such luxuries, but I already have more than enough.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ replied Lady Maybury. ‘I can’t have my granddaughter dressing in rags. We shall start with Miss Walters, move to Madame Devy, and Mills, then work our way along to Mrs Shabner, not forgetting Millards.’

  A sigh was stifled as Kathryn allowed herself to be led into first one shop, then many more.

  The day was warm in the extreme. Lady Maybury did not appear to notice. She was busily immersed in yards of ribbons and lace, and had just dispatched their footman to empty his arms of the multitude of parcels into the carriage.

  ‘How dashed inconvenient!’ Lady Maybury’s nose wrinkled with irritation.

  The woman serving behind the counter looked up, shock displayed across her face.

  ‘James has taken the turquoise turban and I need it in order to select the best matching feathers.’

  ‘I’m sure we can make a very good guess at which colours will suit,’ Kathryn said.

  The dowager raised an imperious white brow. ‘Indeed we will not. When he returns, I’ll send him back for it.’

  Kathryn thought of the rising heat of the day. She thought of the footman’s warm woollen coat, and the long walk he would have to reach their carriage. ‘He’s only just left and cannot have gone far. Perhaps I could stop him in time.’

  ‘My dear gel—’

  But the slender figure was already disappearing through the doorway.