Bertrice Small

by Unconquered

  That was Saturday evening, and the only public appearance the Dunhams made over the weekend was at early church on Sunday.

  On Monday, Jared Dunham disappeared for several hours. The ladies occupied themselves with the constant fittings insisted upon by Madame Charpentier who began arriving with her two nervous assistants and six sewing girls early each morning, never leaving until late evening. Miranda, pitying the half-starved, overworked young seamstresses, all of whom were just barely out of childhood, instructed the cook to feed them well and insisted they stay in the empty attic servant’s room.

  “If they can sew as good as they can eat, you’ll be the best-dressed lady in London,” observed Mrs. Poultney to her mistress.

  “I begrudge them nothing,” replied Miranda. “Two of those poor girls had tears in their eyes when the footman carried away the tray with the remains of our tea.”

  “Hungry or no, they’re the lucky ones,” said Mrs. Poultney.

  “Lucky?”

  “Aye, m’lady, lucky. They’ve a trade, and a job. It’s more than most. Times ain’t good with us and the froggies fightin’ all the time. There’s many going hungry.”

  “Well,” sighed Miranda, “I cannot feed them all, but I can feed Madame Charpentier’s sewing girls while they’re here.”

  “Voilá!” cried Madame late Wednesday afternoon. “Eet ees finished, m’lady, and eef I do say so, eet is parfait! You weel be the envy of every woman at Almack’s tonight.”

  Miranda stared silently at herself in the long looking glass, and was amazed at the image she saw staring back. My God, she thought, I am beautiful! Its waist high with thin silver ribbons that tied beneath her breasts, the gown was exquisite.

  The gown was made of several layers of pure, sheer black silk. It had short, puffed sleeves and a long straight skirt embroidered in dainty diamanté flowers. The back was cut low, the neckline lower yet. Seeing the clear dark color against her flesh, Miranda realized why Jared had chosen it. It made her skin as translucent as the finest Indian ocean pearls.

  The dressmaker’s discreet cough caught Miranda’s attention. “I am stunned, Madame Charpentier,” she said softly. “The dress is quite magnificent.”

  The Frenchwoman bridled with pleasure. “The accessories for thees gown include elbow-length, black silk gloves, black silk roses with silver leaves for your hair, and a small black swansdown muff.”

  Miranda nodded absently, still somewhat bemused by the woman in the mirror. Was it really she? Miranda Dunham of Wyndsong Island? She turned slightly, lifting her chin, and gazed again at her mirror image. A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she began to grow a bit more accustomed to the beautiful woman in black with the porcelain skin, the pink-flushed cheeks, and the clear sea-green eyes. By God, she thought, I’ll give those dainty beauties a run for their money tonight!

  At nine o’clock that evening the Dunhams, Lord Swynford, and the dowager Lady Swynford gathered in the foyer of the mansion preparatory to leaving for Almack’s. The gentlemen were elegant in the required knee breeches. Amanda was adorable in a baby-blue gown, a strand of perfectly matched pearls about her throat. The two older women were in gray and dark green gowns, respectively, matching turbans on their heads. They turned and gasped as Amanda squealed, “Oh, Miranda! You are absolutely stunning!”

  “Miranda! What has possessed you to wear such a gown? It is highly unsuitable for a young girl,” said Dorothea sharply.

  “I am no longer a young girl, Mama. I am a married woman.”

  “But pastels are fashionable now,” protested Dorothea. “Black is not at all fashionable.”

  “Then I shall make it fashionable, Mama. Milord! Where are the diamonds you promised me?”

  His bottle-green eyes slowly raked her from the top of her silvery-gilt head to the toes of her kid shoes, lingering appreciatively on her creamy breasts, which swelled perhaps a trifle too provocatively above the low, black silk neckline. Then their eyes met in a look of private understanding, and he reached into his jacket and drew out a flat, Morocco leather case. Proffering it, he said, “Madam, I always keep my promises.”

  Miranda opened the case. Her eyes widened but she said nothing, staring at the chain of tiny diamonds with its heart-shaped diamond pendant. He took it from its satin nest and fastened it around her throat. The diamond heart hung just above the cleft between her breasts.

  “You’ll have to do the earbobs yourself, m’lady. I’d be all thumbs.”

  “It’s so beautiful,” she said to him quietly. It was as if no one else were in the room with them. They gazed intently into each other’s eyes for a moment, and then Miranda said, “Thank you, m’lord.”

  He bent and placed a burning kiss on her half-bare shoulder. “We will discuss your gratitude in private, Miranda, at a later date,” he murmured.

  “Oh, I do hope you’re going to buy me diamonds too when we’re married,” said Amanda mischievously.

  “Amanda, you are becoming as undisciplined as your sister!” snapped Dorothea. “Diamonds are not suitable for the young.”

  “Diamonds,” replied Amanda, “are suitable for whomever is fortunate enough to have them.”

  The men laughed and even the dowager Lady Swynford allowed herself a small smile before saying, “Are we to stand here all night discussing the merits of fine jewelry, or are we to go to Almack’s? Must I remind you all we will not be admitted after eleven?”

  They arrived at Almack’s shortly after ten to find the dancing in full swing. Almack’s was actually three rooms consisting of a supper room, a reception area, and a large ballroom where most of the activities took place. The ballroom was a hundred feet long and forty feet wide, and was a chaste cream color. It was decorated with gilt columns and pilasters, classic medallions, and mirrors. Almack’s boasted the newest gas lighting, in cut-glass lustres. All around the dance floor were pale-blue velvet and gilt chairs, and tubbed palms. The orchestra was set in an open balcony above the dance floor. It was London’s most elegant scene.

  Tonight the only patronesses present were Lady Cowper and Princess de Lieven. Miranda and Jared moved across the ballroom to pay their first respects to these two powerful social arbiters, both men bowing elegantly, a fact noted with approval.

  “So, Jared Dunham,” said Emily Mary Cowper, “you return to us in full possession of your inheritance, and with a bride.”

  “I do, m’lady. May I present my wife, Miranda.”

  “Lady Dunham.” Lady Cowper looked closely at Miranda and her blue eyes widened. “Ah, of course! I do remember you! You were the plain, sharp-tongued little girl who pushed that idiot Lord Banesford into a fish pond last season.”

  “He attempted to take liberties, madam,” said Miranda smoothly.

  “You were quite right,” agreed Lady Cowper. “Bless me, you’re not at all plain either, are you? That dress is simply stunning. Much more stylish than all these flowery colors. I do believe you’ll start a fashion.”

  “Thank you,” replied Miranda.

  The other introductions were made, and the young people moved on to the dance floor, while the two mamas sat gossiping. Emily Mary Cowper watched for a while then said to her friend, Princess de Lieven, the wife of the Russian ambassador, “The little Dunham girl will make young Swynford a perfect wife. She has a nice fortune too, I hear.”

  “What do you think of our Jared’s wife?” asked the princess.

  “I think if she’d dressed like that last season, she’d have had a duke instead of a Yankee lordling. I’ve never seen a light hidden so successfully beneath a bushel. She is a beautiful young woman. That gorgeous hair! Those eyes! Her rose and cream coloring! And worse, it’s natural!”

  The princess laughed. “I’d like to get to know her better. I suspect a mind there. She’s no vapid miss. Let’s have her to tea.”

  “Yes, I shall ask her tomorrow.” replied Lady Cowper. “Is Gillian Abbott here tonight?”

  “Not yet.” The princess laughed agai
n. “She’s going to be furious, isn’t she? Old Lord Abbott is on his last legs, I hear. I do believe that she had Jared Dunham singled out to be her next husband. After all, her reputation among the ton is only slightly better than a demirep; and what gentleman with enough money to support her would marry her when so many young ladies of better families and unblemished reputation are available?”

  “Well, I do hope she comes tonight, for I should adore to see that confrontation.”

  “Dear heavens!” exclaimed the princess. “You must be a favorite of the gods, Emily Mary! Look! She is here!”

  The two patronesses turned to the ballroom door, where Gillian, Lady Abbott, stood with three escorts. She was of medium height and perfectly proportioned with a long, swanlike neck and high, cone-shaped breasts. She had ivory skin, short dark red curls, and oval-shaped amber-gold eyes edged in long, thick black lashes. Her gown was pale pink, and quite diaphanous, and she wore the famous Abbott rubies, large glittering stones in an ugly old-fashioned red-gold setting.

  Certain that she had been noted by everyone present, Lady Abbott advanced into the ballroom, trailed by her escorts. She made an elegant but sketchy curtsey to Countess Cowper and Princess de Lieven. “M’ladies.”

  “Lady Abbott,” murmured Lady Cowper. “How is dear Lord Abbott? I had heard he is quite low, these days.”

  “Indeed,” came the reply, “he is. But nothing would do but I come and enjoy myself. ‘I’m an old man,’ he said to me, ‘but you are young, and mustn’t concern yourself with me, Gillian.’ How the dear man dotes on me. I could not disappoint him, for he so adores the gossip I bring back.”

  “How nice for you,” said the princess sweetly. “Let me give you some gossip then. Jared Dunham has returned to London, and is now Lord Dunham, having inherited the island he expected to inherit one day.”

  “I did not know that,” exclaimed Lady Abbott.

  “He is here tonight,” said Lady Cowper, “with the old Lord’s two daughters. The younger is to marry Lord Swynford in a few weeks.”

  Gillian Abbott turned abruptly and surveyed the room. Spying her quarry, she glided off toward it.

  “Emily! You didn’t tell her that Jared is married!”

  “No, I didn’t, did I?” said Lady Cowper innocently, her eyes bright with anticipation.

  Gillian Abbott patted her curls self-consciously, ignoring her swains, who stumbled after her. He was back, and Horace was surely on his deathbed this time. Gillian, Lady Dunham, she thought smugly as she skirted the dancers and scanned the room for Jared. What was the name of his American holding? Windward? Something like that. Not that it mattered. She had no intentions of living in that savage land. He had a decent town house on Devon Square and she’d get him to buy a country place. There he was! God, she’d know that broad, muscular back anywhere!

  “Jared!” she cried in her low, husky voice. He turned. “Jared, darling! You’re back!” She flung herself into his arms, pulling his head down for a passionate kiss. There! He would be publicly committed! she thought triumphantly.

  With a suddenness she hadn’t anticipated, Gillian Abbott found herself removed from the embrace she had so carefully engineered, and pushed firmly away. Jared Dunham was looking at her with that damned sardonic look she’d always hated.

  “Gillian, my dear,” he said. “Do try and behave yourself.”

  “Aren’t you happy to see me?” she pouted. Gillian’s pouts had been known to drive men wild.

  “I am delighted to see you, Lady Abbott,” he said. “May I present my wife, Miranda? Miranda, my dear, Lady Abbott.”

  Gillian felt a chill begin. He couldn’t have married, she shrieked silently to herself, she had plans! She glowered at the tall beautiful woman in black by Jared’s side. Unimpressed, the beauty dared to glower back! Lady Abbott struggled to get hold of herself for it seemed that the entire room was watching the exchange. Damn Emily Cowper and Dariya de Lieven for the two bitches they were.

  “I wish you happy, Lady Dunham,” she managed to choke.

  “I’m quite sure you do,” was the clear reply. A subdued titter ran through the room.

  Gillian felt a red-black rage well up inside her. What right had this smug-faced Yankee chit to speak to her in such a fashion! “What on earth ever possessed you to marry an American, Jared?” Her voice dripped acid.

  The room grew hushed. Though the English and the Americans were feuding again, neither side felt a true animosity toward the other. It was simply another round in the seemingly never-ending battle between parent and child. The insult was, therefore, only the frustration of an embittered woman, yet the ton gathered at Almack’s that evening knew that unless young Lady Dunham met the challenge flung down by Gillian Abbott, she would be socially damaged.

  Miranda drew herself up to her full five feet eight, and looked down her aristocratic nose at Lady Abbott. “Perhaps my husband married me,” she said with devastating sweetness, “because he felt the need of a real woman.”

  Gillian Abbott gasped as the barb hit its mark. “You … you … you …” she sputtered furiously.

  “American?” supplied Miranda cheerfully. Then she turned to her husband. “Did you not promise me this dance, sir?” As if on cue, the orchestra struck up a sprightly country tune.

  “Well, well, well,” chuckled Lady Cowper, grinning at her dearest friend, Princess de Lieven. “It appears the last of the season shall not be dull after all.”

  “It was really quite awful of you not to tell Gillian Abbott of Lord Dunham’s marriage, Emily,” the princess scolded. Then she laughed and added, “The young American is quite an elegant fighter, isn’t she? A really perfect match for Jared.”

  “You knew him in Berlin, didn’t you, Dariya?”

  “And St. Petersburg, too.” She lowered her voice. On several occasions he’s acted for certain interests in his government as an unofficial ambassador-courier-spy.”

  “I knew.”

  “I wonder why he’s in London.”

  “His sister-in-law’s wedding, of course. She is to be married at the end of June.”

  “Perhaps,” said Princess de Lieven. “But I’d wager there is more to this visit. England and America are again close to war thanks to Napoleon’s meddling, and President Monroe’s innocence of European politics. Jared has always sided with those in his government who want peace with honor, and economic prosperity. That is how America will thrive. It’s a vast, rich country, and one day it will be a power to be reckoned with, Emily.”

  “I will ask Palmerston,” said Lady Cowper. “He will know.”

  The dance was ending and the dancers moved off the floor, finding refreshment before sitting down. Amanda, though soon to be Lady Swynford, was surrounded by admirers to whom she parceled out dances with a twinkling charm, while Adrian stood adoringly by. On gilt and velvet chairs the dowager Lady Swynford and Dorothea conversed busily as they planned the wedding and exchanged gossip.

  In the dimness of a secluded box Miranda sipped at the warm lemonade and nibbled at the stale cake that constituted Almack’s effort at refreshments. She was furious, and his cool, amused attitude outraged her. Finally she could no longer bear the thick silence between them, and burst out, “Was she your mistress?”

  “For a time.”

  “Why did you not tell me?”

  “My dear wildcat, no gentlemen discusses his mistress with his wife.”

  “Did she expect you to marry her?”

  “That would be quite impossible for several reasons. The lady is already married, and I never offered her the hope of anything other than a brief friendship. That friendship ended when I left London last year.”

  “She certainly didn’t seem to think so,” muttered Miranda.

  “Are you jealous, wildcat?” he teased.

  “Yes, dammit. I am! If that yellow-eyed cat comes near you again, I’ll claw her eyes out!”

  “Be careful, m’lady. You’re behaving most unfashionably. Showing affection for on
e’s husband is considered very bad form.”

  “Let’s go home,” she said softly.

  “We’ve only danced one dance. I fear we’ll cause a minor scandal,” he replied.

  “Good!”

  “I am putty in your hands, m’lady,” he replied. His green eyes narrowed. The dimness of the box hid them as he pulled her against him. “Say it!” he commanded, brushing his lips against hers.

  “I love you!” she murmured.

  His arms tightened about her.

  “I will never tire of hearing you say that, wildcat,” he muttered roughly.

  “Say it!” she now demanded.

  “I love you,” he replied unhesitatingly. “I love you the way I have never loved anyone. I loved you from the moment I first saw you and I shall always love you, even if you are the most unpredictable, impossible creature I’ve ever known.”

  “O Fiend! You spoiled it!” She hammered against his chest, and his body rocked with laughter.

  “Now, wildcat, it wouldn’t do for you to become overconfident,” he chided mockingly. “Oh, no, that wouldn’t do at all.”

  Chapter 7

  THE HIGHLIGHT OF THE SEASON’S END IN 1812 WAS THE CELEBRATION of the marriage between Adrian, Baron Swynford, and the American heiress, Miss Amanda Dunham. Not only did the bride rank among the year’s “incomparables,” but she was rumored to have an income of three thousand pounds a year. Small wonder, said the wags and wits, that her unfortunate nationality had been overlooked by the Swynfords.

  The young couple had been fêted for several weeks prior to their wedding day, the largest party—a ball—given by Jared and Miranda two nights before the nuptials. Invitations had been at a premium, but the greatest honor done the young people was the attendance of George, the Prince Regent, himself.

  The virtual ruler of England now that his father, George III, had been declared mad, the Prince Regent—or Prinny, as he was known by all—was not as popular as he had once been. Confirmed by Parliament to rule in his father’s place, he had asked the Tories to form the government, thus alienating the Whigs, who had supported him for years and had expected to ride to power on his coattails. The Tories had no love for Prinny either, and the common people saw only his excesses. To their minds he ate too much when many starved. He squandered money on women, paintings, furnishings, houses, and horses. His marriage was an open scandal although he partly redeemed himself by his adoration of his only child, the Princess Charlotte. Only among his peers was the Prince Regent at ease for, whether they liked him or not, being in favor with the prince was the pinnacle of social success.