by Jane Feather
There was something in that smile and in her tone that caused her father’s frown to deepen. He remembered Lord Douglas Spender’s untimely death. He didn’t care to be reminded of unpleasant things, and Constance had rarely exhibited an excess of emotion over the loss of her fiancé—at least not in front of him. But he was astute enough to realize that with this oblique reminder she was taking him to task for his thoughtless comment.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sure it’s only your business,” he said gruffly. “Let us go in to dinner.”
Dinner passed without further incident. Lord Duncan drank his claret without complaint and made only a fleeting reference to the rather limited selection of cheeses presented before dessert.
“Jenkins, would you ask Cobham to bring the carriage around in half an hour?” Constance asked as she rose with her sisters to withdraw from the dining room and leave their father to his port and cigar.
“Certainly, Miss Constance.” Jenkins poured port for his lordship.
“Ah, I meant to tell you. I have it in mind to purchase a motorcar,” Lord Duncan announced. “No more of this horse and carriage business. We can be at Romsey Manor from the city in less than four hours with a motorcar. Just think of that.”
“A motor!” exclaimed Prue. “Father, you can’t be serious.”
“And why can’t I?” he demanded. “Keep up with the times, my dear Prudence. Everyone will have one in a few years.”
“But the cost…” Her voice faded as she saw a dull flush creep over her father’s countenance.
“What is that to you, miss?”
“Why, nothing at all,” Prudence said with an airy wave. “How should it be?” She brushed past her sisters as she left the dining room, her mouth set.
“He is impossible!” she said in a fierce undertone once they were in the hall. “He knows there’s no money.”
“I don’t know whether he really does know,” Chastity said. “He’s denied every fact of life since Mother’s death.”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it at present,” Constance said. “It always takes him a long time actually to do something, so let’s wait and see.” She hurried to the stairs. “Come on, we don’t want to miss the opera singer.”
Prudence followed her upstairs with a glum expression that did not lighten while they collected their evening cloaks and returned downstairs, where Jenkins waited by the open front door. A barouche stood at the bottom of the shallow flight of steps that led to the pavement. An elderly coachman stood on the pavement beside the carriage, whistling idly through his teeth.
“Evening, Cobham.” Chastity smiled at him as he handed her up into the carriage. “We’re going to the Beekmans’ on Grosvenor Square.”
“Right you are, Miss Chas. Evening, ladies.” He touched his cap to Constance and Prudence as they climbed in beside Chastity.
The Beekmans’ house on Grosvenor Square was brilliantly lit both within and without. Footmen stood on the pavement directing the traffic, and a trio of underfootmen held up lanterns to light the guests’ way up the steps and into the house.
“Ah, if it isn’t the Honorable Misses Duncan,” a familiar smooth voice declared from the steps behind them as they went up. “How pleasant to meet you again.”
Constance was the first to turn and the first to realize that she had responded to the greeting with more than ordinary alacrity. She disguised this beneath a cool smile and offered a small bow of her head. “Mr. Ensor. A pleasure.” She turned unusually enthusiastic attention to the lady on his arm. “Letitia, you look wonderful. Such an elegant gown; is it Paquin? The gold trimming has her look. We haven’t seen you for several weeks. Were you in the country?”
“Oh, yes, Robert insisted we fetch Pamela from Kent ourselves. She spent a few weeks in the country but she gets bored so quickly. Children do.” Lady Graham smiled fondly. “Her governess gets quite distracted trying to keep her occupied.”
Constance inclined her head in acknowledgment but she couldn’t help the slightly disparaging lift of her mobile eyebrows that frequently betrayed her true responses. It was an involuntary reaction she thought she had inherited from her mother. She smiled in an effort to counteract the effect of the eyebrows and continued up the steps.
“May I help you with your cloak, Miss Duncan?” Max Ensor moved behind her when they reached the majestic pillared hall and with a calm and seemingly innate confidence reached around her neck to unclasp her silk cloak.
“Thank you.” She was taken aback. Men did not in general presume to offer her such attentions unasked. She saw that Letitia was in animated conversation with Prudence and Chastity and clearly no longer in need of her brother’s escort.
Max smiled and folded the cloak over his arm, turning to find a servant to take it from him. “I have a feeling you disapproved of my niece’s inability to remain occupied with her governess,” he observed once he’d divested himself of his own black silk opera cloak, its crimson silk lining a jaunty flash of color against the black and white, of his evening attire.
“My wretched eyebrows,” she said with a mock sigh, and he laughed.
“They do seem rather eloquent.”
Constance shrugged. “I have very strong feelings on the education of women. I see no reason why girls should not be expected to learn as well as boys.” She noticed a twinkle in Max Ensor’s blue eyes as she spoke that disconcerted her. Was he laughing at her? Mocking her opinion?
She felt her hackles rise and continued with an edge to her voice, “I can only assume your niece has a poor governess. Either she’s incapable of making her lessons interesting, or she’s incapable of making her charge pay attention.”
“The fault, I fear, lies with Pamela’s mother,” Max said, and while his eyes still contained that glint of humor his tone was now all seriousness. He offered Constance his arm to ascend the wide sweep of stairs leading to the gallery above, from whence the strains of a Chopin waltz drifted down. “She will not have the child subjected to any form of structure or discipline. What Pammy doesn’t like, Pammy doesn’t do.”
Constance glanced up at him. His mouth had now acquired a rather severe twist and the amusement in his eyes had been replaced by a distinctly critical expression. “You don’t care for your niece?”
“Oh, yes, I care for her a great deal. It’s not her fault that she’s so spoiled. But she’s only six, so I have hopes she’ll grow out of it.”
He was speaking with the level certainty of experience. Her antagonism died under a surge of curiosity. “Do you have children of your own, Mr. Ensor?”
He shook his head vigorously as if the question was absurd. “No, I don’t even have a wife, Miss Duncan.”
“I see.” How old was he? Constance wondered. She cast him a quick upward glance as they stood together in the doorway to the large and brightly lit salon, waiting for the butler to announce them.
She guessed his hair had silvered prematurely. He looked to be in his late thirties, perhaps early forties. Either way, a little old to be beginning a parliamentary career, and certainly of an age where one would expect a wife by the fireside and a nursery full of children. Perhaps he had had a wife once. Or some grand illicit passion that had ended in disaster and disappointment. She dismissed the thought as pure romantic nonsense. Not something she indulged in as a rule.
“The Honorable Miss Duncan … the Right Honorable Mr. Max Ensor,” the butler intoned.
They stepped forward to greet their hostess, who regarded Max Ensor with sharp assessing eyes. She had two marriageable daughters and every single male newcomer was possible husband material. Deciding that she approved of this one, she merely nodded to Constance, whose own unmarried status made her presence a possible distraction for any potential suitor, and began to question Max Ensor with artful ease.
Constance, who knew Arabella Beekman’s tactics all too well, accepted her dismissal with a polite smile and moved on to greet other friends and acquaintances, taking a glass of cham
pagne from a passing tray as she did so. She found herself watching Max Ensor as he squirmed on the pin of his hostess’s formidable investigative curiosity and was both surprised and impressed when he managed to extricate himself within five minutes. Something of a record in these circumstances.
He paused, looked around, and instantly made a beeline for Constance. Constance, embarrassed that he had probably sensed her own interested gaze, turned away and began to address a lanky youth whose spotty complexion and hesitant manner generally kept him on the social sidelines at such functions.
“I feel as if I’ve been subjected to the third degree,” Max Ensor declared as he came up to her. “Oh, you’ve finished your champagne.” He took the glass from her suddenly inert fingers and handed it with a firm smile to the young man. “You should always make sure that your companion has everything she needs, you know. Fetch Miss Duncan another glass of champagne.”
Constance was about to protest but the youth stammered an apology and almost ran away with her glass. “I have no need of another glass,” she said, not troubling to hide her annoyance.
“Oh, nonsense,” he said carelessly. “Of course you do. Anyway, how else was I to relieve you of your companion?”
“It didn’t occur to you that perhaps I didn’t wish to be relieved?” she said tartly.
He raised a pair of thick gray eyebrows in incredulity. “Oh, come now, Miss Duncan.”
And despite her very real annoyance, Constance could not help but laugh. “The poor boy is so shy, it’s only charitable to engage him in conversation. Did you realize that Arabella Beekman was sizing you up for one of her daughters?”
“I thought it might be something like that.”
“And are you in the market for a wife?” she queried before she could stop herself.
He took two glasses of champagne from a tray proffered by a footman and handed one to Constance. He caught sight of the lanky youth out of the corner of his eye. The boy stood a few yards off with a refilled glass and a nonplussed air. He looked at the glass in his hand, realized that it was now superfluous, and turned disconsolately away.
“I’ve never given it any thought,” he answered finally. “Are you in the market for a husband, Miss Duncan?”
“I suppose one impertinent question deserves another,” she responded after a second’s hesitation.
“And one honest answer deserves the same.” He regarded her over the Up of his champagne glass.
Constance could not deny the truth of this. She had foolishly started the conversation and she had to finish it. To refuse would only provoke his curiosity, and she could not bear to continue a topic that could only exacerbate a deeply buried pain. She said carelessly with an air of dismissal, “Let’s put it this way, Mr. Ensor. I am not looking for a husband, but I’m not actively against the idea.”
“Ah.” He nodded slowly. “And are your sisters of the same opinion?”
“I wouldn’t presume to speak for them,” she retorted.
“No … well, perhaps that’s laudable. It strikes me as unusual, though, to find three attractive sisters…” He let the sentence fade as if aware that he was about to say something offensive. It had occurred to him that this particular reader of The Mayfair Lady might well share that paper’s political opinions. She struck him as more representative of the broadsheet’s target audience than his own sister and her ilk.
Constance took a sip of champagne. “Three sisters happily facing the prospect of a husbandless future, you mean.” Her voice was perfectly calm and even, but her spirit was dancing at the prospect of a battle. This was much safer ground.
“Spinsterhood is not generally a sought-after goal among women of your age.” He shrugged with seeming carelessness, although he was very curious now to see what he could flush out about Constance Duncan’s views. “Women are not equipped to manage their own affairs. Indeed, I would say, it’s most unsuitable for them to do so.”
For a moment Constance, despite her delight in the challenge, was breathless. Of all the presumptuous, pompous, arrogant male statements. Utterly unequivocal without entertaining the slightest possibility of there being another opinion on the issue. She stared at him. “Unsuitable?” she demanded, no longer able to preserve the pretence of composed nonchalance.
“Well, yes.” He didn’t seem to notice her outrage. “Women are not educated to handle financial matters or business affairs. And that’s how it should be. There should be a division of labor. Men take care of the business side of life and women are best suited to household management, nursery matters, and”—here he laughed—”amusing themselves, of course.”
“And cosseting their husbands … waiting upon them hand and foot, of course,” Constance said, a dangerous light in her eye.
“It’s only reasonable for a man to expect a little pampering in exchange for providing security and all the little comforts women find so necessary to their well-being.”
The man was beyond the pale. He wasn’t worth doing battle with. “I think it’s time for the music to begin,” Constance declared. “I see your sister gesturing to you. I imagine she would like your protection during the arias.”
Max saw the dangerous light in the dark green eyes. He had been testing the waters quite deliberately, but now he had the uneasy sensation of being in a cage with a tiger. Had his provocation gone too far? He said with a placatory smile, “I can see we don’t share the same opinions.”
“How perspicacious of you, Mr. Ensor. Excuse me, I must find my sisters.” She walked off in a swirl of cream silk chiffon, and her dark red hair that had struck him as richly colored but scarcely fiery now seemed to Max to be suddenly aflame.
Definitely a woman to be handled with care. He pursed his mouth thoughtfully, then went to obey his sister’s summons.
VENUS
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Originally published by Avon Books under the tide HEART’S FOLLY / September 1988
Bantam mass market promotional edition / June 1996 Bantam mass market edition / September 2003
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
All rights reserved
Copyright © 1988 by Jane Feather
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Bantam Books, New York, New York.
Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-307-43091-5
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