Pretty Polly

by M C Beaton

  Surprised that her own voice sounded so even and calm, Verity said, “Have you time to invite some other gentleman to make up the numbers?”

  “No, but it does not matter. I have two extra gentlemen as it is. I always did like an excess of gentlemen at dinner,” added the countess, as if discussing cookery instead of guests. “Have you a new gown to grace the affair, or have you been spending all your time racketing about the shops with the poisonous Mrs. Manners?”

  “Charlotte has been amusing company of late,” said Verity. “But I have made myself a gown that will be eminently suitable, although I did not anticipate your dinner party.”

  “What color?”

  “Green. A sort of leaf-green. Vastly pretty. The finest India muslin.”

  “Then you shall borrow my emeralds. No, No. I insist. It is good for jewels to have an airing. And talking of airings, you should not run in the park with the dog and the cat. Most unbecoming. Mrs. French said she saw you the other day running about and throwing sticks for the dog. She said she could see your ankles.”

  “Then she must have been lying on the ground,” said Verity tartly. “My skirts are long enough.”

  “You are too old to frolic, and you will soon be wearing caps.”

  “Yes,” said Verity dismally. She had a sudden vision of herself as an elderly eccentric in a high muslin cap with a parrot on her shoulder.

  The Duke of Denbigh raced toward London at breakneck speed. It seemed as if one minute he had been helping at one of his tenant’s farms with the drainage, standing dressed only in leather breeches, top boots, and his shirt open at the neck; and the next he had found himself running like a madman toward his home, shouting for his racing curricle to be brought around.

  In order to reach the Countess of Wythe’s in time for her dinner party, he would need to ride through the rest of the day and all of the night, only stopping briefly at a posting house outside London on the day after that in order to change into his evening clothes. His town house was closed up and all of his servants had removed to the country. Of course, he could have gone to his town house and unlocked it himself. He had his valet with him. But he could not bear to think of the time it would take to heat cans of water, and a posting house would have such luxuries ready and waiting.

  He made such good time that he presented himself in Green Street a full half hour before anyone was expected. The intelligence of his arrival was conveyed upstairs to the startled countess.

  “Do not tell Miss Bascombe,” she said to her butler, fearing that Verity might run down to see him. “Serve him wine and biscuits and tell him I shall be with him directly.”

  Feeling rather silly, the duke sat in the countess’s drawing room and sipped a glass of canary. Why had he come? Now that he was here, he doubted whether he even wanted to see Verity, let alone hear her voice again. Who was she, anyway? Some little provincial, not precisely pretty, hardly a Circe. But then he found himself thinking of the soft sensuality of her body. It was a wicked body, he thought crossly, and ought to be chained and padlocked. There was nothing precisely remarkable about her figure, but there was something in the way she moved that whispered promises of unbridled passion such as men dreamed of and hardly ever found.

  A rattling sound disturbed his thoughts. He looked up. The parrot was sitting in a large gilt cage on a stand at the other side of the fireplace. As he watched, it put one claw through the bars and deftly unclicked the lock of its cage. It fluttered down onto the floor beside him, put its head to one side, and looked up at him.

  The duke was amused. He thought the parrot looked like an elderly barrister surveying the jury with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Good evening, Polly,” said the duke politely. “Say something.”

  “Urk,” said the parrot.

  “Say Pretty Polly.”

  The parrot turned its back on him.

  “You are like your mistress,” said the duke bitterly. “There’s no understanding you. Bloody women!”

  The parrot turned around and looked at him. “Pretty Polly,” it squawked. And then it began to talk in Verity’s voice. The parrot had listened in to many of Verity’s sad monologues, for she often consoled herself by talking her thoughts out loud to the parrot. It proceeded to treat the duke to one of the best examples.

  “Oh, Pretty Polly, I think my heart is breaking,” said the parrot-Verity. “I love Denbigh so much and I only turned him down out of loyalty to Charlotte. Charlotte tricked me in her usual dizzy way by claiming to be in love with Denbigh herself, and I believed her. If only he would look at me again. But he won’t, Polly, for I told him a stupid thing about a lot of men having kissed me, but he was the only one, the only one ever, Polly.”

  The duke put his glass down with a sharp click on the marble table next to him, his heart hammering. Had he imagined it? He must have imagined it. But the parrot had spoken. “Say something else,” he urged, “so that I know I am not dreaming.”

  The parrot gave him a bored look and began to preen its tail feathers.

  “What started you off?” wondered the duke aloud. “Was it something I said? Mistress? Women?”

  “Erk,” the parrot said obligingly. It fluttered onto his shoulder.

  “Get your bloody claws off my best evening coat,” snapped the duke.

  “Pretty Polly,” said the parrot. The hand that the duke had raised to shove the parrot away remained in midair.

  In an imitation of the countess’s voice, the parrot said scornfully, “I am going to give a dinner party for the highest sticklers in London society, including Denbigh. Mark how we go on, mark the difference between us and you, Verity Bascombe, and wonder that you ever thought to marry a duke!”

  The stairs outside creaked as the countess made her way down slowly. The parrot flew into its cage and slammed the door behind it.

  The duke looked at it in awe. He felt a primitive desire to cross himself.

  Lady Wythe came into the room and he stood to meet her, giving her his apology for arriving early.

  “No matter,” said the countess. “My own apologies for leaving you so long to amuse yourself.”

  “I was not alone. I had the parrot.”

  “All that thing ever does is eat and excrete. Nasty thing.”

  “It is a quite amazing mimic,” said the duke.

  “Do not tease me. That creature cannot say a word. I am glad you have come, Denbigh. It will show little Verity that you are prepared to forget that painful incident. I have arranged a beau for her, but I did not tell her—you know how stubborn and wayward girls can be these days. Eminently suitable. Mr. Sutcliffe, a rising young barrister. Very clever and bright. Just the thing for Verity.”

  She looked up crossly at the duke wondering whether he was foxed. The duke was turning over the parrot-Verity’s words in his mind. A glow was spreading through his whole body.

  The door opened and Verity came in. She was wearing a leaf-green muslin gown over a white silk underdress. Her slim neck was encircled with a choker of emeralds set in gold; emerald bracelets encircled her gloved wrists. She wore a coronet of dull gold silk flowers with green silk leaves.

  She stopped short at the sight of the duke, then rallied and dropped him a curtsy.

  He bent over her gloved hand and kissed it, then raised his head and smiled down into her eyes, still holding tightly on to her hand. She looked up at him warily. How beautiful her, black eyes are, he thought. “I had always thought black eyes expressionless, Miss Bascombe,” he said softly, “but yours are like a summer night. Tell me I am forgiven and smile on me. I would not harm you for the world.”

  “What are you saying?” snapped the countess.

  “You are forgiven,” said Verity. “I must apologize. I said that nonsense about gentlemen kissing me. I said the first stupid thing that came into my head. I gave you the wrong impression.”

  “Then we are friends?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Other guests were c
rowding into the room. “Miss Bascombe,” commanded the countess, glaring at the duke, who was still holding Verity’s hand. “Here is someone I want you to meet.”

  The duke released her hand. Verity turned to face a handsome young man. He was correctly, if soberly, dressed, quite short in stature but with a slim figure, and a strong, square face and black hair cut in a Brutus crop. The countess introduced him as Mr. Sutcliffe and then drew the duke away to talk to her other guests.

  Verity listened to Mr. Sutcliffe in an abstracted way. A footman handed Verity a glass of lemonade—the countess’s instructions. Ever since Verity had drunk brandy with Charlotte, the countess had suspected her of being too heavy a drinker. But Verity felt as if she had drunk a bottle of champagne. A dizzying happiness was taking hold of her.

  Mr. Sutcliffe liked to talk. He thought Verity’s silence meant she was listening to his every word and began to enjoy himself.

  When they went in to dinner, he was disappointed to find that he was not to sit next to the charming Miss Bascombe. The countess had placed Verity next to the duke, thinking that proximity would do the couple good and persuade Verity that a man like Mr. Sutcliffe was much more suitable. She was pleased to note that the duke talked mostly to the old lady on the other side of him and Verity to the gentleman on her left. Nothing to worry about there. The countess firmly believed that any interest the duke could have in Verity could only be of the dishonorable kind and was relieved to see he was betraying not a sign of that nonsense. She often blamed herself for having raised false hopes in Verity’s bosom.

  But there were all sorts of things going on that the countess could not see.

  Verity’s elbow brushed against the duke’s and she shivered with emotion at this lightest of touches. Her napkin slipped from her lap. She moved her hand quickly to retrieve it, the duke moved his hand at the same time and his hand fell on her thigh. He apologized quickly and turned his attention back to the elderly lady on his other side, who was wont to claim long after that the Duke of Denbigh suffered from asthma, for his breathing at times was quite ragged.

  Verity had planned to drink very little wine, but Mr. Sutcliffe decided to ask her to take wine with him. This taking of wine happened when one of the other guests raised his or her glass and said to someone, “Will you take wine with me?” Verity was put in the position of having to drink a great deal, for Mr. Sutcliffe kept raising his glass and toasting her and manners decreed that Verity had to toast him back and drain her glass. She hoped the wine would dull her emotions, but instead it seemed to make them more intense.

  The countess had twenty-four guests seated around a table that could only hold sixteen in comfort. They were all pressed together, elbows colliding with elbows as they ate. The duke found his leg pressed against that of the old lady, who looked up at him with a surprising look in her eye that could only be described as come-hither. The duke apologized and swung his knees in the other direction and collided with Verity. Verity started and moved away from him, only to find herself pressed too close to the man on her other side, who smiled at her and moistened his lips in a way she did not like. She shifted away from him and was back to being pressed against the duke. She stayed where she was and gave herself up to the quite dreadful emotions that were tearing through her body.

  At last, the countess rose to lead the ladies to the drawing room. Mr. Sutcliffe poured himself a glass of port and laid forth. He was excited to find himself in such exalted company. He had a great fund of rather warm stories and he planned to air them all.

  To his great irritation, the Duke of Denbigh interrupted one of Mr. Sutcliffe’s best offerings and said they should join the ladies.

  The countess moodily watched the duke crossing directly to Verity’s side. She wished she had invited some younger women. There was no one to take the duke’s attention away from Verity. The countess even began to wish she had invited Charlotte. She walked over and placed herself firmly next to the duke, then ordered Verity to the pianoforte and made her play to entertain the guests for the rest of the evening.

  But the countess decided the evening was not a total disaster. Mr. Sutcliffe asked her permission to take Verity driving in two days’ time, and the countess gleefully agreed.

  The duke was wearing a large signet ring. When no one was looking, he took it from his finger and slid it behind the back of the sofa cushions.

  At last the guests made their farewells. Verity looked at the duke’s retreating back with her heart in her eyes. He had said nothing about seeing her again.

  She sat up over the tea tray, bravely pretending to be pleased over the proposed drive with Mr. Sutcliffe but relieved beyond measure when she was allowed to retire.

  She tossed and turned, trying to sleep, turning the duke’s words and how he had looked over and over in her head.

  Then there came a scratching at the door. “Come in,” she called, sitting up in bed. James, the footman, came in. “The Duke of Denbigh is below-stairs, miss,” he said in a whisper. “His Grace is in ever such a taking. He says he must have lost his signet ring here and suggested you might remember where he was sitting. He doesn’t want her ladyship roused.”

  “Tell him I will be with him soon,” said Verity. When James had left, she pulled on a frilly wrapper over her nightgown, took off the plain nightcap she was wearing and changed it for a frivolous lace concoction, and then made her way down to the drawing room.

  The duke was seated on the sofa. “That will be all, James,” he said firmly. James, fingering a sovereign in his pocket, bowed and went out and closed the door on them.

  Verity went to open the door, but the duke’s voice stopped her. “Come here, my love,” he said.

  “Your ring?”

  He held it up. “I knew where it was all the time. And we are chaperoned.” He pointed to the parrot, which had flown into the room as Verity entered it. He had debated whether to tell Verity about the parrot’s speech but had decided against it. He felt Verity would be terribly embarrassed if she learned what the bird had said.

  “You are not going to attack me again?” said Verity nervously.

  “No, my heart, but I cannot sleep until I know your answer. Will you marry me?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Verity, flying toward him.

  His arms closed tightly about her. “I do not think one kiss would do any harm,” he said huskily.

  His lips were cool and firm against her own. There was nothing to alarm her there, only a quiet tenderness. She gave a happy sigh and wound her arms about his neck and kissed him back. It was like a match thrown into a dry forest. Flame met flame. Passion met passion; hot body fused with hot body as they swayed like wrestlers, insatiable and desperate.

  They slowly sank together onto the floor, wound tightly about each other, freeing their mouths only to gasp endearments, pressing hard against each other, and driving each other to distraction.

  “This will not do,” he said shakily. “A special license, Verity. I shall send for your father. Marry me very soon.”

  “Yes, Charles.”

  “Come driving with me tomorrow. We shall face the countess together after that and tell her our news.”

  “Yes, Charles.”

  “What a good wife you will make. Are you going to say yes to everything?”

  “Yes, no…I don’t know…kiss me again.”

  The countess was startled when the duke called the next day. But she could hardly cry out against him taking Verity out for a drive in the park in an open carriage. He could not possibly get up to anything in the middle of Hyde Park.

  As they drove off, Verity let out a little cry of dismay. “I promised Charlotte I would go shopping with her this afternoon. I am to be her bridesmaid.”

  “Then I shall drive you to Berkeley Square and you may tell her you are otherwise engaged,” said the duke. “I do not approve of your friendship with Mrs. Manners, my love.”

  “Oh, she is really very fond of me under all her nonsense,” said Verity.r />
  “I am glad you are not a man, Verity,” said the duke as he swung his carriage in the direction of Berkeley Square, “but if you were, I think I would find you very like a professor I knew at Oxford.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, he was very well read and academically very clever. A highly intelligent man. But when it came to people, he was quite lacking in common sense. He lived with a spinster sister. She made sure he stayed unwed and yet he refused to believe a word against her, for she would cry most pathetically and say how devoted she was to him.”

  “It is not like that at all!” exclaimed Verity. “I know Charlotte can be devious and lie. I am not a fool. But there is a very real affection there.”

  When they reached Berkeley Square, the duke helped her down from the carriage. “Do not forget to tell her the glad news,” he said blandly. “I am sure she will be delighted to be the first to know. I shall wait here in the carriage for you.”

  Verity ran happily up the steps and knocked at the door. Charlotte was pacing up and down the Yellow Saloon, her hat in her hand. “Oh, there you are!” she cried when she saw Verity. “Where have you been?”

  “My dear friend,” said Verity. “I cannot come with you, but for a wonderful reason. I am engaged to Denbigh.”

  “You’re what?” Charlotte’s eyes had narrowed into slits.

  “I am engaged to be married to Denbigh.”

  Charlotte took a deep breath. “You sly and devious creature,” she raged. “You have been plotting and scheming behind my back. I see it all now. He would have been mine had it not been for you. Now you are to be a duchess and you will take precedence over me. It is past bearing. Get out of here and never let me see your treacherous face again.”

  The duke looked sympathetically at his beloved’s white face as he helped her back into the carriage.

  “I heard a crash,” he said. “What was it?”

  “A very pretty ornament,” said Verity sadly. “Fortunately, she missed me.”