by Carola Dunn
Blue-eyed and golden-haired, Doro was an amiable, sunny young lady, not at all vain. Her manners and conduct were above reproach, thanks to her compliant nature and her aunt’s training. Chloe had early realized that to attempt to inculcate anything more profound into that featherhead would be labour lost. She was not at all surprised when her elder niece showed not the least curiosity about the reason for her unexpected visit.
Lady Chingford was taking both girls to pay some calls and visit a modiste. Before leaving, Georgie escorted Chloe up to a small but elegantly appointed chamber, the bed and window hung with rose-pink damask.
“Go properly to bed and sleep,” she urged. “We shall drive in the Park after the modiste, so we’ll be out for several hours. When I come back you will be rested and we can discuss what to do about Sir Lionel. I know you will think of something. Bless you for coming, dearest Aunt.”
“I only hope I can be of some use,” Chloe said wearily.
Her clothes had already been unpacked for her. A maid brought hot water and took away her carriage dress to be cleaned. After washing off the worst of the travel dirt, Chloe unpinned and brushed her long, fair hair, then slipped between smooth sheets, lavender-scented just like at Dene.
The bed was as comfortable as it was elegant, yet slumber eluded her. Her stomach rumbled ominously, reminded by the cup of tea that dinner yesterday was two spoonfuls of lukewarm soup, breakfast a buttered roll hastily downed before the Mail dashed on. It was her own fault. Too timid to assert herself with a demand for fast service in the inns’ coffee-rooms, she had been equally too shy to ask the countess for something to eat with her tea.
There was no getting away from it, she was a milk-and-water person, Chloe told herself sadly. By the age of six-and-thirty she ought to have learned to stand up for herself, or at least to stand up to Edgar rather than shaking in her shoes whenever he raised his voice. Instead here she lay, unable to find oblivion in sleep, filled with dread at the coming interview.
But Georgina relied upon her. She had to compose herself and prepare her arguments. Since she could not sleep, perhaps a walk would calm her spirits, as it always did at home.
When she recalled Lady Chingford’s silk and lace, Chloe’s best walking dress, a blue cambric muslin, seemed woefully provincial. For want of better she donned it, adding a darker blue spencer. She pinned up her hair, put on her chipstraw bonnet with the blue ribbons, found her gloves, and made her way down to the vestibule. A footman in grey livery and white wig stood there, a trifle intimidating in his stiff impassivity.
Lily-livered she might be, but Chloe refused to let herself be intimidated by a servant. “If anyone asks for me,” she said, “tell them I shall be back shortly. I am going for a walk.”
A flicker of surprise was instantly suppressed. “Alone, miss? You don’t wish me to attend you?” he enquired stolidly.
“No, thank you.” On a sudden impulse, she asked, “Do you happen to know where Sir Lionel Tiverton resides?”
“Yes, miss. Sir Lionel is staying with his sister, Lady Molesworth, on Albemarle Street. Number 14, I believe.”
He gave her directions and opened the front door for her. Setting off along the pavement, Chloe thought she might as well go and take a look at the old gentleman’s residence. It might inspire her with some idea of how to approach him when, inevitably, she failed with Edgar.
The traffic in the streets was fascinating. Carriages of every size and description rumbled past with jingling harnesses and hooves clopping on the cobbles; the pedestrians ranged from ladies and gentlemen clad in the height of fashion to a grimy sweep and his black-faced boys; pedlars hawked everything from clean sand for scouring pots to hot pies with a savoury smell that made Chloe’s mouth water. Her empty stomach squawked so loudly she was surprised no one turned to stare. Unfortunately she had left her purse behind, or she would have abandoned genteel manners and devoured a pie right there in the street.
Her mind on food, Chloe came to Number 14, Albemarle Street. She stepped up to the green front door and rapped with the brass lion-head knocker before she recollected she had only been going to look.
Aghast, she was ready to turn and run, but the door swung open.
“Yes, madam?” said the black-clad butler.
Chloe gazed at him in despair. It was no good asking for Lady Molesworth: how would she explain her visit? Her only hope was that Sir Lionel was out or, more likely in view of his age, taking an afternoon nap.
“Is Sir Lionel Tiverton at home?” she asked, heart in mouth.
“If you will step in, madam, I shall enquire.” Closing the door behind her, he proffered a silver salver.
She had no cards. At home, she never called on anyone who expected one. “Pray tell Sir Lionel, Miss Bannister requests a word with him,” she said with dignity.
“Certainly, madam.”
Ushered into a handsome drawing room, flooded with afternoon sunshine, Chloe sank weakly onto the nearest chair. What had she done? Sir Lionel was not out or the butler would have told her so right away. However aged and infirm, he would hardly refuse to see the aunt of the young lady he hoped to marry. What in heaven’s name was she to say to him?
The door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman strode in. In a sun-browned face, tiny lines radiated from the corners of his dark eyes, as though he had often narrowed them against that sun. Creases about his mouth suggested he found the world amusing. His hair was raven-black sprinkled with grey, with pure white wings at the temples--but he could not possibly be much above forty.
“You are not elderly!” Chloe blurted out, starting to her feet in her agitation.
“And you are not Miss Bannister!” he retorted.
His frowning face swam before her eyes. Her limbs turned to water. “I believe I am going to faint,” she faltered, and she did.
* * * *
Sir Lionel leapt forward to catch the stranger as she crumpled. He laid her on a sofa and stood gazing down at her in dismay. What a damnable coil! Here he was alone with an unknown young woman who had fainted in his arms. Surely he was not so great a catch as to be persecuted by marriage-mad females determined to compromise him?
No, it was a genuine swoon, to judge by her pallor. She looked deuced uncomfortable, too, with her straw bonnet between her head and the cushion. He untied the blue ribbons and gently removed the offending hat. Her hair was escaping from its pins, which were more than likely sticking into her scalp, so he pulled out those he could see.
Fair tresses, soft and herb-scented, spilled over his hand. He hastily drew back.
She mumbled something, and her eyelids flickered. Thank heaven, she was coming round! Was there something else he could do for her? He’d heard of loosening the stays of a swooning female, but he drew the line there. Nor was he ready to call for servants with smelling-salts, to observe and spread word of this disgraceful incident.
He could provide a glass of wine, though, when she regained her senses. In the sideboard were decanters of his brother-in-law’s best Madeira and Canary, ready to offer to favoured visitors. Lionel felt he could do with a glass himself. He drained one, and poured another for the girl.
As he set the glass on the small table by the sofa, he noted with relief that a little colour was returning to her cheeks, and to a pair of delectably kissable lips. Studying her, he realized she was not after all a girl. Her face, even smoothed by unconsciousness, had a definite maturity, and her figure, though by no means plump, was pleasingly womanly. Who the devil was she, and what did she want?
And why had she announced herself as Miss Bannister?
Her eyelids flickered again. As though reading his mind, she flushed to the roots of her hair.
“Are you feeling better, ma’am?” Lionel asked. When she did not stir except to stiffen, he said severely, “I believe you are recovering, so quit shamming it.”
Blue eyes flew open. “Oh no, I did not mean to.... I just could not think what to say. I feel such an utter ninn
yhammer.” She struggled to sit up. “I have never fainted before in my life.”
He sprang forward to help her as the colour again ebbed from her cheeks. “Careful, now, or you will go off again. No, keep your feet up. I did not mean to suggest your swoon was not genuine. I am afraid I frightened you when I accused you of not being Miss Bannister.”
“I hope I am not quite so poor-spirited, though I was a little surprised.” She gave him an uncertain smile. “You see, I am Miss Bannister, but I realized at once that you expected to see my niece, Georgina, who is no doubt introduced thus here in Town.”
“You are Miss Georgina’s Aunt Chloe?” Lionel bowed. “I am happy to make your acquaintance, ma’am. But if I did not overset you, then what on earth caused you to faint, for the first time in your life? Oh, I forgot.” He reached for the glass of Madeira. “Here, this wine will restore you.”
“Thank you, sir, but wine cannot be considered advisable on an empty stomach. I fear that must explain why I disgraced myself.”
“An empty stomach is no disgrace, unless you are on a reducing diet such as Byron is said to indulge in.” He ran his eyes over her figure. “You certainly have no need for such a ridiculous affectation as dining on potatoes and vinegar.”
“Heavens no. Is that what Lord Byron does?”
“So I hear. But if not that, then how came you to allow hunger to render you lightheaded?” As he spoke, he crossed to the bell and rang to summon a servant. “Lady Chingford has a famous chef—or do you not stay with the Chingfords?”
“Yes, for a few days, but I only arrived this afternoon and—”
“Oh lord!” Turning, he caught sight of her bare head and tumbled hair. “Quick,” he said, snatching up her bonnet from the floor, “put this on and tuck your hair away.”
Miss Bannister obeyed with admirable promptness. At the same time she swung her legs down from the sofa, revealing a glimpse of a slender ankle. The butler arrived just too late to be shocked by the delightful sight.
“Tea for Miss Bannister, Doan,” Lionel ordered, “with plenty of cakes and biscuits and such. And something more substantial for me, if you please. Cold meat and bread and butter will do very well. I am unaccountably sharp-set.”
Unaccountable indeed, after his substantial luncheon, but the butler did not so much as blink. “Very good, sir,” he said and departed.
Sitting down opposite his visitor, Lionel said with a smile, “The meat is for you, of course, ma’am, sweet stuff being not much better than wine in your state. My prevarication you may lay at your niece’s door as she informed me the other day that ladies are supposed to be seen to eat like birds, whatever their appetites. But that was purely for Doan’s benefit. I trust you will feel able to eat like a horse in my presence. If you have any qualms, tell me so and I shall close my eyes.”
Her laugh was a trifle shaky. “I am a countrywoman, sir, and have not been used to consider a healthy appetite a disgrace.”
“So I supposed, since Miss Georgina spoke with some scorn, and you had the upbringing of her, did you not? But that being so, why did you allow yourself to grow feeble with hunger?”
Miss Bannister blushed. “Because I am a fainthearted poltroon,” she said in a constricted voice. “I travelled on the Mail coach and was too timid to press my claim to be served at the inns where we stopped. And then, when Lady Chingford offered me tea I was embarrassed to request food as well.”
“Goosecap!” Her startled look gave him pause. “I beg your pardon, Miss Bannister, it is not for me to castigate your folly!”
Her lips twitched at this two-edged retraction. “Indeed it is not, Sir Lionel, especially when I have already acknowledged myself at fault. I fear you must think so weak-willed a creature sadly unfitted for the responsibility of raising children,” she added wryly.
“How can I, when you have succeeded so admirably with Miss Georgina? She is charming, the only thoroughly unaffected young lady of my acquaintance.”
For some reason his tribute dismayed her. Puzzled, he recalled that he still had no notion of what had brought Miss Chloe Bannister to call upon him, nor of the cause of her excessively odd greeting.
So shy as to starve rather than put herself forward, she had called, uninvited and unexpected, upon a stranger, and an unattached gentleman at that. To be sure she was beyond the age of missishness, but it must have taken some urgent errand to make her defy both propriety and her own nature.
Dying of curiosity, he was about to probe when the door opened and Doan appeared, followed by a footman bearing a large tray. Enquiries would have to wait.
* * * *
Chloe was glad to postpone the questions she read in Sir Lionel’s eyes. She owed him answers, and since she was here, though unintentionally, she might as well plead Georgina’s case, but she still felt a trifle lightheaded.
He obviously admired Georgina immensely, she reflected as she munched her way through the plateful he set before her, contenting himself with tea and a biscuit. He had not chosen Georgie at random as one of many possible suitable brides. Of course Chloe was pleased and flattered that her niece was properly appreciated, but it was going to make her task much more difficult.
The difficulty was multiplied by the fact that he was by no means in his dotage, as Georgie had led her to expect. Studying him covertly over the rim of her teacup, she decided her first guess was right. Sir Lionel was about forty years of age—more than twice Georgie’s eighteen, so she might be forgiven for thinking him ancient, especially in view of his prematurely greying hair. In the eyes of the world, however, it would be an eligible match, no food for scandal.
What a shame her niece allowed his years to outweigh his manifest qualities, Chloe thought. With every excuse for vexation, he had treated her with the utmost courtesy, kindness and good humour. And besides, the white at his temples made him look very distinguished.
“Do I pass inspection?”
“I beg your pardon? Oh, I beg your pardon! Did I stare?” Chloe felt her cheeks grow hot. Ridiculous! She had outgrown her tendency to blush years ago. “I was woolgathering, I fear.” Stifling a yawn, she added apologetically, “I scarcely slept a wink on the Mail last night, and all of a sudden I am monstrous drowsy.”
“Oh no you don’t!” Sir Lionel’s voice was stern, but he was smiling at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a most attractive fashion. “I want a round tale from you, Miss Chloe Bannister.”
“How do you know my Christian name?”
“Your niece has spoken of you, generally wishing you were here to share her enjoyment of some sight or entertainment. She must be delighted that you have joined her at last.”
“Only for a day or two,” Chloe said wistfully, for the first time regretting the shortness of her stay. “Edgar—my brother—would not countenance my being away from Dene longer. Indeed, he did not like my coming at all, but....” She hesitated.
“Ah, are we come at last to the meat of the matter? To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, ma’am?”
“Georgina wrote to me in great distress.” Chloe poured herself another cup of tea so as to avoid looking at him. “She said her father meant to force her to marry a...an elderly gentleman.”
“And Aunt Chloe bravely rushes to the rescue. But I don’t quite see...or do I? Aha! Am I correct in thinking I am the elderly gentleman in question?”
“Yes,” she said miserably. She risked a peek at him. Unbelievably, he had a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“So Aunt Chloe, claiming to be unable to say boo to a goose, beards Sir Lion-el in his den!” He grinned. “I have been hoping for an opportunity to say that ever since I became Sir Lionel instead of plain Captain Tiverton.”
“Captain?” she asked, diverted.
“I was in the Navy until a distant cousin died, quite recently, and I inherited the baronetcy. Miss Georgina failed to reveal my history? I am disappointed in her. Just think, she wasted the opportunity to inform you she was to wed the Ancient Marine
r!”
“Oh dear,” said Chloe helplessly, then their eyes met and they both burst out laughing.
“That’s better,” said Sir Lionel with satisfaction. “I was afraid you were going to cry, and how should I have explained it to Doan?”
“It’s all very well, but I assure you my errand quite sinks my spirits, and I might have spared myself the worst if I had only stayed with my original plan.”
“How so?”
“I ought to have talked to Georgie first, when doubtless I should have heard a more precise estimate of your age. Then I intended to tackle Edgar—a useless effort, I fear—before attempting to persuade you not to offer for her. You have not yet done so, have you?” she asked anxiously. “No, surely Georgie would have told me at once were she already betrothed.”
“No, not yet,” he assured her, with an enigmatical look. “How did your plan go astray?”
Rubbing heavy eyelids, she explained the course of events which had led her, quite inadvertently, to knock on his sister’s front door. “So, you see, my mind was vulgarly fixed on food, though I daresay I was influenced also by an overwhelming hope of avoiding a scene with Edgar.”
“Ah, yes, the inimitable Edgar. And how, exactly, do you propose to persuade me not to propose to Miss Georgina?”
“I cannot quite recall,” said Chloe, engaged in a struggle to keep her eyes from closing and her chin from sinking to her chest. “I don’t suppose you would just tell me you have changed your mind? Then I could tell Edgar I shall go home tomorrow, and everyone will be satisfied.”
“I fear not. I am prepared to say I am open to persuasion, however. It is up to you to convince me.”
“Oh...yes...well....” Finding words, let alone reasoned arguments, was like wading through cotton-wool. “That is....”
“Not now.” There was an odd laugh in his voice. “You are three-quarters asleep. I shall drive you back to Chingford House, if you think you can stay awake long enough not to fall out of my curricle. Tomorrow I’ll pick you up at two o’clock. We shall go for a drive and discuss Miss Georgie to your heart’s content.”
