The Earl’s Intended Wife

by Louise Allen

  ‘Major?’ Hebe looked at him in surprise, but his face revealed nothing.

  ‘I am sorry, Miss Carlton, a sudden cramp in the calf.’ Then the moment passed and they were in the room, exchanging conversation with other guests, helping themselves from the temping platters of food.

  But Hebe’s forehead was creased by a small line. Had she imagined it, or had Alex whispered ‘Clarissa!’ in the moment when he had halted so abruptly?

  He seemed to recover his composure the moment they were inside the room, and Hebe wondered if she had been imagining things. She took care to introduce him to the red-headed young woman at the earliest opportunity, but his face gave nothing away and he chatted to her and her escort, an officer of Dragoons, for quite five minutes without displaying the slightest concern.

  After supper Alex took her back into the salon and gave her a gentle push. ‘Now go on, practise enchantment on that poor Captain of Marines over there. He looks miserable having to talk to the chaplain.’

  Hebe did not think him serious, but before she knew what she was about the Captain was asking if she would be at Mrs Forrester’s ball and the chaplain was enquiring if he might have the honour of a country dance. ‘For I hardly care to waltz, Miss Carlton.’

  ‘Oh, indeed not, Dr Paulin,’ she agreed earnestly. ‘I am sure you are right: someone in your position must set an example. But I would be delighted to join a measure with you.’

  Alex passed at that moment, apparently talking to Miss Smithson about the best place in London to have a harp restrung, but he glanced up, caught Hebe’s eye and his own creased in an encouraging smile. Hebe smiled back, all her earlier awkwardness and butterflies forgotten, except for that puzzling moment in the dining room. Who was Clarissa?

  But she forgot the incident as the evening continued and at last the guests called for their carriages, chairs and linkboys, and vanished into the warm night.

  The two Carlton ladies slowly climbed the stairs, arm in arm, sank down on the daybed in Sara’s room, eased off their shoes and sighed happily in unison.

  ‘My dear Hebe,’ Mrs Carlton declared, ‘I swear I have never been in such charity with you! What an evening: you were so admired, even that old pussy Mrs Winston complimented me upon you. And as for Major Beresford, why, he is positively smitten.’

  ‘Everyone was very kind,’ Hebe conceded, certain that the fact she had received her first kiss must be blazoned across her forehead.

  ‘Well, I will not say any more, for I expect you are feeling quite strange after such an evening,’ her stepmother replied with unusual perception. ‘But we must build on this success: Mrs Forrester’s ball will be crucial. We must give the utmost care and thought to your new gown. Palest lemon silk with white gauze? Or cream with a floss trim? Or…’ Hebe’s eyelids began to droop. ‘We will talk about it tomorrow. Now, off to bed with you, dear.’

  Hebe sank between the cool linen sheets with a sigh of relief and was almost instantly asleep. But behind her closed lids dreams chased each other through the night and a tall girl with her brown hair unbound and wearing only a Grecian tunic whirled and danced in the arms of a tall, dark, beautiful man with fierce blue eyes.

  Chapter Six

  Both Mrs and Miss Carlton expected the early appearance of Major Beresford on their doorstep, and once again they were disappointed. But on this occasion Mrs Carlton at least declared herself satisfied with the reason.

  Sir Richard arrived the afternoon after the party to inform her that he would be absent from her dinner table for the rest of the week and to deliver a note from the Major.

  She broke the seal and spread open the crackling sheet of paper. ‘How well he expresses his thanks for our soirée, and apologises that duty prevents him from calling in person,’ she declared after conning the contents. ‘The more I know Major Beresford, the more impressed I am by his manners and character.’

  Hebe kept her eyes down on her sewing, trying to ignore the constriction of her throat that hearing Alex’s name provoked. Her stepmama hesitated, then passed over a small, folded piece of paper, which had been inside the letter. ‘This is addressed to you, Hebe. I suppose I should read it, but I know I can trust you to behave prudently.’

  The note seemed to curl within Hebe’s fingers as though it had a life of its own. She looked at it. ‘Miss Carlton’ it said in a strong hand. Slowly she unfolded it, knowing full well that her mama would expect her to repeat its contents: no chaperon would dream of allowing an unmarried girl to receive private notes from a man, and Mama was being most indulgent in not opening it first.

  C., it read, I have gone fishing and will be away for several days. I have remembered to pack those items which you advised me to take. A.

  ‘He says he is away on duty for several days, Mama,’ she said, holding out the note.

  ‘Oh, dear, that is a pity,’ Sara Carlton said comfortably, making no effort to take it. She was far too pleased that the Major had written to Hebe to wish to disconcert the girl by insisting on prying. It was not as though Hebe had ever shown the slightest inclination to behave lightly or imprudently with a man—far from it. If she could be encouraged to flirt a little, it might help fix the Major’s interest.

  With a thankful sigh, Hebe folded up the note and slipped it under her sewing. Sir Richard glanced at the clock and got to his feet hastily. ‘My goodness, look at the time! Hebe, my dear, would you care to walk a little with me?’

  The Commodore was already treating Hebe very much as the stepdaughter she would eventually become and, liking him very much, she stood on no ceremony with him. Receiving a smiling nod from Sara, she hurried into the hall and found a bonnet and shawl.

  She slipped her hand under his proffered elbow and allowed herself to be guided out into the sunlit street.

  ‘Are you happy, child?’ he asked her suddenly.

  ‘Happy?’ Hebe blinked up at him and he smiled involuntarily at the charming frankness in her wide grey eyes. ‘Why, yes, I am happy. I am very happy.’ And it seemed to her that, without her realising it, a warm tide of contentment had washed over her these past few days. But it was not just a placid state: within that warm glow there was excitement, anticipation, a frisson of something she did not understand.

  ‘Good.’ The Commodore glanced round as they entered a shady square, so small it might almost be a courtyard. An ancient fountain, its pool edged with the battered arms of the ancient Knights, dribbled water over a moss-covered spout and a stone bench stood under a dusty plane tree. ‘Sit down a moment, Hebe, there is something I want to tell you.’ The little square was quiet, and, with the exception of two women gossiping outside a door, deserted.

  ‘You will not repeat this to anyone, Hebe, and I do not want to disturb your mother yet, but there is a good chance I will be sailing for England very soon. I do not know whether she will prefer to be married here, or when we arrive in London, but I wanted to forewarn you so you can begin to think about what will need to be done with the household.’

  Hebe sat still, absorbing the news. She had known it would happen one day and she had looked forward to returning to the home she hardly knew and the excitements of the long-promised London Season.

  ‘Will you be sad to leave Malta?’

  ‘Yes of course, but London will be wonderful.’ There was a reservation in her voice and he picked it up with an accuracy that startled her.

  ‘And what about your Major?’

  ‘He is not my Major!’ she protested hotly, then caught his indulgent expression and smiled ruefully.

  ‘But you wish he was? Well, you could do a lot worse. Only a younger son, of course, but an excellent family, and a man of very good character. A brave officer,’ he added, watching her face. Not every young woman would want to see a man they were fond of in the thick of danger.

  But Hebe’s chin came up. ‘I know, I can tell.’ She glanced around, but they were still alone. ‘He is an intelligence officer, is he not?’ She took his silence for assent. ‘And that is
very dangerous?’

  ‘Yes, although probably no more dangerous than storming an enemy fort. It has its particular hazards.’ He did not appear to want to add to this.

  ‘Like being shot out of hand as a spy?’ Hebe asked point blank. There was no reply.

  After a moment’s thought the Commodore said, ‘I should probably not tell you this, but he will no doubt sail with us when I leave for England.’

  ‘Alex…I mean Major Beresford…is returning to England?’ A sea voyage, days together through the Mediterranean, sunlight on the water, the flying fish…

  ‘Certainly as far as Gibraltar. After that, I do not know, and we should discuss it no further. Hebe—’ He broke off as though considering carefully what he had to say. ‘Hebe, I have no daughters of my own, so I do not know whether I am doing the right thing in encouraging you in this, but you have a good man there…’

  ‘I have not got him,’ she protested.

  ‘Not yet, perhaps. But I just want you to consider, someone like Alex Beresford will have a long history of, shall we say, entanglements, behind him. More than an inexperienced girl such as yourself might guess. I am sure he would not play fast and loose with you, or I would be speaking to him myself, but I do not want you to build too much upon what may only be a flirtation. If it proves not to be, well, then, no one will be more delighted than I.’

  Impulsively Hebe kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you, sir. And thank you for the warnings about the near future. I promise I will say nothing. Goodbye!’

  She made her way slowly back up the hill, mulling over what Sir Richard had told her, trying to sort out her emotions. Yes she would be sorry to leave Malta, its sunshine, the people, the vivid colours, the ever-present sea. But she was eager for London…or was she?

  Suddenly Hebe’s stomach cramped with the sort of cold dread that came sometimes when she woke in the morning, knowing something was wrong, but not yet awake enough to recall what it was. There had been long weeks of that feeling after Papa had been killed, a very much milder version of it when she had a bad tooth and had to wait a week before the only dentist Mama would trust returned to Valetta and she could undergo a very painful extraction.

  London would be fun, of course it would, especially now she knew she could cut a passable figure in Society and not be regarded as a Plain Jane. But, looking round, breathing in the smells of hot dust, flowering vines, donkey, drains, spicy food, she knew she would miss Malta most dreadfully. London would be grey, formal, cold and she would have none of the freedom she had now.

  But it was the thought of Alex that was filling her with this dreadful apprehension. She wished desperately that the Commodore had not spoken to her. She was frightened for Alex now in a way that she had not been before. And she was also uneasy. The more she thought about Sir Richard’s words, the worse the feeling became. Did he know something? Was he trying to warn her of something in Alex’s past, or even his present? No, surely not, or he would have been more explicit.

  What did Alex feel for her? He liked her, he had seemed to enjoy kissing her, but doubtless he enjoyed kissing many young ladies: men did. Mama and Sir Richard appeared to take it more seriously, but they would obviously be hoping for an eligible match for her and could be wildly over-optimistic.

  And what did she feel? What would she do if Major Beresford turned up with a ring and a declaration? Hebe gave herself a brisk shake as she reached the front door. Stop it, you hardly know the man. It won’t arise so you can stop thinking about it. Enjoy your first flirtation and wave him goodbye with good grace in Gibraltar.

  This admirable good sense sustained Hebe through the days before Mrs Forrester’s ball. Sir Richard started to call in again, so whatever his urgent business had been, it seemed to be done with. A package arrived for Hebe, which on opening contained nothing more than a seashell and a note in a strong black script saying simply, From Sicily.

  Hebe put it on her dressing table and tried not to keep picking it up and stroking it all the time as she sat making lists in her head of things that must be done in order to leave Malta. It was difficult because she did not dare put anything on paper and Mama appeared to have been given no hint by Sir Richard.

  The days were busy, and full of too many secret worries and concerns to allow for much daydreaming. But the nights were different and Hebe dreamt night after night of Alex, of his arms around her, of his lips on hers. Once she dreamt she was running her palms caressingly over his naked chest and woke, quivering with tension, to find she was stroking a silk shawl that she had left lying on the covers when she went to sleep.

  Shaken, she sat up against the pillows and watched the dawn slowly lighting the sky until it suddenly burst out over the island in scarlet and gold streaks. Was she very wanton to have these dreams? Did everyone feel like this after just one kiss? She knew the facts of life of course. One only had to be normally observant of life going on around one, without any help from classical male nude statues in the art gallery or one’s stepmama’s careful explanations, which, Hebe was given to understand, would be expanded upon before her wedding night.

  Malta was full of attractive men, and men made even more attractive by dashing uniforms and an air of military glamour. But she had never tried to imagine what it would be like to push their shirts from their shoulders and run her fingers over their backs, or what sensation their lips on her breast would provoke. It must have been that kiss. Yes, that was it. It was being kissed for the first time and nothing to do with the man who had kissed her.

  But it was the thought of that man that was foremost in Hebe’s mind as she chose her new ballgown. ‘That one,’ she said unhesitatingly as the ladies flipped through volumes of La Belle Assemblée and Ackerman’s Repository of Arts in Madame Eglantine’s dress shop. Madame Eglantine might have been born Susan Eagles in Basingstoke, but she had skill with scissors and needle, a sharp eye for fashion and an excellent business sense and hers were the undisputed gowns of choice for Malta society.

  Mrs Carlton and Madame came to look over her shoulder. ‘But charming,’ Madame opined. ‘Such simplicity, such grace. Naturally, only a young lady with Miss Carlton’s height could wear that gown to advantage.’

  ‘Greek?’ Mrs Carlton said, not at all so certain. The gown was certainly striking, but not in any obvious way unsuitable for a débutante. It was cut with the perfect simplicity of a Greek tunic, falling in soft folds to the floor and secured at the shoulder and under the bosom with cords and ornate knots. Otherwise it was without trimmings if one eliminated from the picture the diamond parure, the feathers, the toque and the gauze shawl the model was hung about with.

  It was the very simplicity that was somehow daring, for it made the observer concentrate on the wearer rather than the gown, and for someone without perfect deportment it would be a disaster.

  ‘Well…Hebe, are you certain?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mama, please might I have that design?’ If Alex saw her in that gown, Circe come to life… The daydream retreated in the face of brisk practicality.

  ‘But your hair, and I do not know what colour…’

  ‘If Miss Carlton’s hair was confined in a very tight knot high on her head, with a few ringlets at the neck and a riband, then she would look like that statue in the hall of the Civil Commissioner’s house,’ Madame suggested.

  Fortunately Sara had not noticed the statue on the last occasion she had been a guest of Lieutenant-General Sir Hilderbrand and Lady Oakes. Hebe had, and tried to suppress the memory of one pert naked breast, a flowing tunic cut all the way up the side and the expression on the marble face of a nymph trying not too hard to escape from a satyr. The hairstyle, however, was unexceptional and would allow her to escape yet another threat of having her curls cut off.

  As Lady Oakes had graciously loaned her house with its fine ballroom to her friend Mrs Forrester for the ball there was a risk that Sara might notice the statue, but by then it would be to late to do anything about it.

  ‘And the matte
silk crepe, in this charming shade of creamy white, will be just the thing.’ Madame snapped her fingers and an assistant hurried forward with the bale of cloth. It was indeed lovely. ‘I have an assistant who has just the touch with ornamental cords and knots—say in jonquil yellow? And with slippers dyed to match, long white gloves and pearls…’ Madame was well away in a trance of creation, sketching rapidly on a piece of paper and holding it up for Sara’s approval.

  The gown was a total success and the hairstyle just as Madame had predicted. On the night of the ball Hebe allowed Maria to pin a few sprigs of orange blossom into the high knot of curls and sat back. Would Alex look at her and see Circe as he imagined the enchantress? He was back on the island, but not after three more packages had mysteriously appeared and the powder bowl on Hebe’s dressing table was full of shells.

  Hebe thought she looked very well, but she knew she had no way of judging what it was that Alex found enchanting in her. The knowledge that she was going to see him after almost two weeks brought the colour to her cheeks. Would he kiss her again tonight?

  ‘Are you ready my dear?’ Sara Carlton swept into the room, a vision in powder blue and silver, the very handsome diamond earrings that Sir Richard had presented to her as a betrothal gift sparking in her ears. ‘Oh, yes! You look…’ She paused, obviously lost for words. Not nice, Hebe pleaded silently, please don’t say nice.

  ‘Enchanting,’ her stepmother pronounced and was taken aback by the warmth of Hebe’s answering smile. ‘Come along now, the chair bearers are here.’

  The square outside the Civil Commissioner’s mansion was ablaze with light from torchères, jammed with carriages and chair-bearers and choked with passers-by all agog to view the guests. Hebe and Sara arrived somewhat breathless from the jolting as their bearers fought their way to the steps, but the slow progress up the stairs to the receiving line gave them plenty of time to collect themselves. Hebe managed to distract Sara’s attention from the wanton nymph with her hairstyle by pointing out the quite outrageous décolletage that Lady Gregson was flaunting and they gained the ballroom without mishap.