A Lady's Point of View

by Diamond, Jacqueline

  He turned on his heel and stalked away.

  After a stunned moment, Meg retreated, shaken, to her room. Standing before the mirror, she removed the sea-green silk, her fingers smoothing the soft material. How beautiful it had seemed before, and how she hated the sight of it now. The most splendid evening of her life had ended in disaster. All her self-justification and excuses had come to naught. She had been exposed in the most humiliating manner possible.

  Why did it have to happen just when she was on the verge of the greatest happiness of her life? Tears slid unchecked down Meg’s face as she recalled the tenderness in Lord Bryn’s eyes when he proposed to her. Then she burned with shame, recalling the wanton manner in which she had allowed herself to be caressed.

  He could ruin her forever, her and her family, if he chose to make common gossip of her conduct. As for her heart, it remained his possession to cast into the dust heap if he wished. Falling across the bed in her cambric slip, Meg buried her face in her arms and wept.

  A rustling at the door announced Germaine’s arrival. The woman sank onto the bed. and stroked Meg’s hair sympathetically. “Bravely done,” she declared. “No harm in a bit of a prank.”

  “Andrew will never forgive me.” Meg tasted his dear name on her lips, salty and bitter. “You must believe me, I never intended a prank. It was weakness that kept me here, but he refuses to see it.”

  “Damn fool!” said Germaine. “He’s fallen in love with you, ain’t he? Don’t bother denying it. I have eyes in my head. Would he have preferred that you’d gone on about your business? It was a rare stroke of luck, you landing here by mistake and not stalking off in a huff. Anyone else would claim they’d been kidnapped!”

  “Do you think he might calm down by morning?” Meg asked without much hope.

  “If he has any sense, he will.” Germaine kicked off her shoes, which hit the wall with a thump. “Men are such fools. Even Squire Roberts. But he’s a bit of all right, all the same.”

  “Do you suppose word of this will get back to London?” Meg asked. “I don’t mind so much for myself, since I’m already in disgrace. But my sister—”

  “No one will hear of it from my family,” Germaine assured her. “And I doubt his lordship will want this awkwardness bruited about. Unless I miss my guess, he’ll lecture his servants soundly on the importance of keeping quiet.”

  “And your mother? She was scandalised.”

  “My mother may prose on about propriety, but she despises gossip.”

  “That’s a mercy.”

  “Indeed it is.”

  Meg lay awake for a long while after her friend left, until the music ended downstairs and she heard carriages rattle away through the night. Some of the guests were staying until morning, and she heard them rustling and laughing as they went to their rooms.

  The next day, she breakfasted in her room and waited. The summons from the marquis didn’t come until the overnight guests had departed. Then, at a word from Mrs. Franklin, Meg trailed reluctantly down to his lordship’s study, which held such tormenting memories from the previous night.

  Lord Bryn remained seated behind his desk as she entered. His face looked thin and stretched, as though he hadn’t slept.

  Meg paused in the doorway, longing to reach out to him. “My lord—”

  “Be seated, Miss Linley.” His voice snapped at her like a lash.

  She perched on a chair. Not for the world would she have touched the settee. “I know I’ve done wrong, but it was always my intention to tell you the truth. I meant to, that night Miss Geraint arrived, and again yesterday before I—” She couldn’t bring herself to say “accepted your proposal” and so finished, “before I gave you my answer.”

  “I have devoted some consideration to this matter.” The marquis closed his eyes for a moment, as if to gain better control. “I realise that from your point of view, as Squire Roberts said, your conduct constitutes nothing more than a lark of the sort so popular among the ton.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “I’m not finished.” The words rapped out with harsh authority. “I believe it would be best for both of us, if nothing more were said of this unfortunate incident.”

  Including his proposal of marriage. Meg stared at Lord Bryn in misery.

  Taking her silence for assent, he continued, “Tomorrow I will arrange for you to be driven to Manchester, where you may take the mail wherever you please. We shall return you to where we claimed you. Does that suit you, Miss Linley?”

  Her hands clenched into fists. “There are other matters I wish to discuss before I depart, Lord Bryn.”

  He shifted, clearly ill at ease. “Naturally, in the light of these revelations, you cannot expect me to honour the offer I made to you last night.”

  “I certainly don’t hold you to that.” As she spoke, Meg tried to store up every detail of his face. Lifting her glasses from their ribbon, she observed the way the light from the window played across his high cheekbones, the slight irregularity that gave his nose distinction, the deep brown of his eyes. Must she be content with only memories the rest of her days?

  “What is it you wish to say?”

  “First, I would appreciate it if the children weren’t advised of this development,” Meg said. “They already know that I’m leaving, and it might upset them unnecessarily.”

  “I agree,” said the marquis.

  “And, my lord—” she leaned forward, desperation wrenching the words from her heart “—I made no pretence when I told you my sentiments last night. My feelings have not changed.”

  “Mine have,” he replied.

  “I cannot believe that!” She caught hold of the chair arms to keep herself from leaping to her feet. “You can have cared little for me to have changed so quickly, and I do not believe you would have proposed to a governess if you did not care for her a great deal!’’

  “You presume too much, Miss Linley,” he snarled.

  “I love you!” The cry came from Meg’s heart. “I think I loved you from the start, and that is why I stayed.”

  “Is this another of your jests?” Fury blazed across his face. “You have no intention of keeping your success a secret, have you, Miss Linley?”

  “What can you mean?”

  “My proposal is to be made sport of in the drawing rooms of London.” He stood and gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles whitened. “What a tale you shall have to amuse your frivolous companions.”

  “I would never dream of such a thing!” She jumped to her feet, furious that he would misconstrue her actions.

  “You shall continue your journey to Derby, then?” he inquired.

  “No,” she admitted. “My mother writes that I may return to London. I left because of a minor scandal—I cut Beau Brummell, because I failed to see him.”

  “Serves the jumped-up popinjay right.” A trace of a smile vanished quickly. “Was that another of your tricks?”

  “I think you misunderstand me willfully!” She glared at him. Never had she dreamed the man could be so impossible.

  “Allow me to explain something to you, Miss Linley,” he said coldly. “I abandoned society because I could no longer tolerate its emptiness and its selfishness. It is precisely to avoid young ladies like yourself that I have remained in the country these past two years.”

  “You didn’t wish to avoid me yesterday!” she retorted before she could stop herself.

  “There’s no need to remind me of my folly.” What a stranger he had become, this tall, angry man. “In any event, I will honour my word by saying nothing about this affair. If you choose to make it one of your on-dits, however, I assure you I shall reconsider. It wouldn’t do your reputation any good to have certain matters spread about, would it?” His gaze trailed meaningfully down to the collar of Meg’s gabardine dress, and her body flamed at the memory of their passionate embrace the previous night.

  She gasped. “You’d do such a thing?”

  “Only if you are the
first to speak.” A thin smile touched his face—not of happiness but of satisfaction. He was convinced that she meant to make sport of him, that she had trifled with his affections. How could she ever persuade him otherwise?

  Meg stood in a ray of late-morning sunlight, trying to think of a way to plead her case. To argue, beg, threaten, say anything to break through this wall he’d thrown up between them. Before entering the study, she’d vowed not to leave until she’d reawakened his affections. But she had declared her love and he had only twisted her words back on her.

  Gazing into his unrelenting eyes, she knew that she had lost.

  “I’ll say nothing, nor had I planned to, my lord,” she replied. “You have a false opinion of me, but I see nothing I can do will correct it. If you should change your mind, I will leave my direction with Mrs. Franklin.”

  “You may do so if you wish,” he said. “But you will not correspond with the children, Miss Linley. I don’t care to have them exposed to someone of your character.”

  She would have thrown something at him then, but nothing came to hand. Instead she turned and stalked out the door.

  Someone of her character! She would write to the children as she’d promised, and if the marquis wished to intercept the letters, at least she would have done her best.

  Anger propelled Meg all the way back to her room, and then she burst into tears.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ironically it was not Lady Darnet who succeeded in creating trouble for Angela. It was, unintentionally, Helen.

  She was deeply fond of her young cousins, who were visiting the Cockerell household, but Rachel at age twelve had developed an obsession with society and its ways. The child pestered Helen from morning till night with questions. When could she toss aside her round kerseymere frocks for satin and sarcenet? Did she have to wait until eighteen to have her come-out? The youngster whined and pleaded for consent to try on Helen’s clothes, or chattered for hours about the fashions in La Belle Assemblée and The Lady’s Magazine.

  The house contained only one room into which the girl was not permitted to follow her, and that was Edward’s study. So, when he was from home, Helen developed the custom of retreating there to write her letters and read novels. She was careful to remove all her possessions each time, and Edward gave no sign of noticing.

  It was in the study that Helen took refuge on Monday when she received an unusually long letter from Meg, and sat digesting its contents with growing amazement. Meg mistaken for a governess, and by Lord Bryn! What a delightful, if shocking, story. Helen had never before had a friend half so interesting.

  She was pleased to see that her bosom bow was coming back to London. How unfortunate that Meg’s gowns had been made over for Angela; of course Helen would be glad to spare some.

  At this point, the butler rapped politely on the door and informed her of visitors in the morning room.

  Helen tucked the letter into her book, and then realised the problem. If she placed it downstairs in the house, Rachel would discover it. She had a bad habit of reading Helen’s letters, and repeated scoldings had no effect.

  Not wanting to keep her guests waiting while she ran up to her bedchamber, Helen laid the volume on one of the low bookshelves, where it would go unnoticed and she could reclaim it later. What she failed to observe, as she hurried out of the room, was that the hem of her skirt brushed against the book, tumbling it onto the carpet so that the letter fell free.

  There it lay when Edward returned home a quarter of an hour later. He made a point of avoiding the morning room, as his marriage preparations left scant time for idle chitchat. In fact, he had just come from discussing the arrangements with Lady Mary. She planned an engagement ball at her home at week’s end, and had informed him happily that almost all of the invitations were accepted. For his part, Edward would have been gravely offended had his friends declined.

  They had also dealt, perfunctorily, with the matter of the marriage portion and Angela’s dowry. She had a respectable if not overlarge one, left in trust by her grandfather before the war raised prices. Fortunately Edward didn’t need the money; it was only that a girl of good family was expected to bring into marriage some funds of her own.

  The ceremony was to take place in two weeks’ time, allowing for the banns to be read. Edward hadn’t been pleased to learn that the elder sister was returning to London, but he had been assured that she would remain a demure figure in the background.

  He wished, as he pushed open the door to his study, that there did not remain one niggling doubt. It derived from the conviction learned in childhood that one’s duty and one’s happiness rarely coincided. It did not seem possible that he could both marry the charming, lovely, sweet Angela, and meet his familial obligations. But what could be wrong?

  Edward’s eye fell upon the displaced book and the letter. He frowned, and then stooped to investigate.

  The novel, he saw from the title, must be Helen’s. As for the sheets of paper covered with writing, they might have blown onto the floor from his desk. Perhaps one of the maids had opened the window while cleaning.

  Edward picked up the letter. Phrases leaped up at him. “Mistaken for a governess... this deception... return to London.” And the signature. “Meg Linley.”

  With a sensation of dread, Edward sank onto a chair and began to read.

  Lady Darnet was in a foul mood, and she saw no reason to moderate her temper in the presence of her cousin.

  “The ball can mean only one thing!” She kicked viciously at the leg of a Chippendale chair. “They plan to announce their betrothal!”

  Sir Manfred was none too gladdened by this observation, for his own reasons. “I cannot credit it, Cynthia. The chit has gone riding with me half a dozen times. I saw no sign of any courtship by Mr. Cockerell, although he did visit with his sister.”

  “Nevertheless, a marriage is afoot. Why did you not expose her sooner, you green goose?” The countess glared daggers at him.

  “Expose? Ah, yes.” The baronet had almost forgotten their original scheme to place Angela in a humiliating situation. It began to appeal to him again. Had she not placed him in a position of some embarrassment, accepting his attentions while setting her cap for another man?

  “You must contrive something.” Anger turned Lady Darnet’s features into a hard mask. “At once! While there is still time for Edward to call it off.”

  “I shall consider the matter.” Sir Manfred poured himself a sherry. He was not given to rapid action, particularly when one might contemplate one’s course over a drink.

  “Merely consider it?” She smashed her fist upon a mahogany tea table, clattering the cups and saucers. When Cynthia was angry, the furniture and china suffered. “Today, I tell you! It must be done immediately.”

  “We have no assurance the fellow will throw himself at your head, even if he calls it off with Angela.” The baronet waited cautiously to see if his cousin were about to launch another assault upon some hapless piece of the woodworker’s art.

  Lady Darnet confined her response to a rather nasty smile. “I know how to bring a gentleman round. Or force his hand if necessary. See that you do the same with that girl.”

  This was outside of enough, Sir Manfred reflected as he finished his sherry. He might have told Cynthia to shake her skirts elsewhere but for his annoyance with Angela. He could not bear to be made a fool.

  “I shall call upon her now.” He set aside his glass. “And I expect you, dear cousin, to arrive half an hour later.”

  Angela was surprised but happy to learn that her fiancé had returned scarcely more than an hour after he departed.

  She flew past the butler on her way to the parlour and burst in, her face glowing with welcome. “Edward! What a delightful surprise!” Only then did she notice the scowl that lay heavily across his fair features. “Whatever is the matter?”

  In response, he held out a letter. Angela took it, trying to quiet the trembling in her hands. She recognized the handwri
ting at once. Meg’s. A letter to Helen.

  It took only a swift perusal to confirm what she feared. “Edward—”

  “Did you know of this?” he demanded.

  “She wrote to us only this week.” Angela hesitated. “I know it seems scandalous, but—”

  He spoke as if he hadn’t heard. “Leaving aside the indiscretions that no one of good breeding should countenance, is your family so badly dipped that they cannot afford gowns for both sisters at once, and she must go begging to her friends?”

  Angela felt the blood drain from her face. “We are not so well off as some might think, but my dowry is intact.”

  “There was a rumour—a lie, I’d thought—that you were wearing your sister’s made-over gown to the Opera.” Edward might have been carved from stone for all the note he took of her distress. “Fool that I am, I defended you. So outrageous did I think the story that I lied to Lady Jersey, and told her Helen had accompanied you to the dressmaker.”

  “I regret you were put in such a position.” Angela didn’t know how to reach him; she could only wait while the storm played itself out, and wonder about the reference to a lack of breeding. Surely he could not have meant that as it sounded.

  “I find that I have been cheated and deceived,” Edward continued. “The woman I took for an innocent young girl is revealed as a schemer, interested in my money rather than my person.”

  “Edward!” Angela’s hand flew to her mouth. “That’s not true!”

  “You are unsuitable to be my wife and to live with my family. I can only attribute Helen’s complicity to the undue influence you and your sister wield over her.”

  “Helen has a kind heart!” Angela cried. “And as for you, Mr. Cockerell, you are seeing plots where none exist.”

  “You’re an artful liar,” he pressed on. “You persuaded me, in spite of the evidence of my own eyes, that your sister was blameless in the matter of Mr. Brummell.”

  “She was!”

  “And in the question of Lord Bryn, as well?” He stood his ground, unmoved and unmoving. “I will be interested to hear how you excuse her intolerable behaviour. Your entire family is a disgrace.”