‘Lord Ravenswood would never dream of doing such a thing,’ gasped Effy.
‘The properest of gentlemen’ll do anything once their passions are roused,’ said Amy. ‘Look at Byron and Lady Caroline Lamb.’
‘Lord Ravenswood is not a poet. Poets are not to be trusted,’ said Effy primly. ‘Shh! Felicity is coming.’
But it was the Marquess of Ravenswood who walked into the room. He was looking very fine in black evening coat and black silk breeches. His cravat was intricately tied and a large sapphire shone from amongst its snowy folds. His fair hair gleamed like newly minted guineas. As he walked to the fireplace, Amy studied the ripple of hard thigh muscle revealed by the skin-tight breeches and let out a faint sigh.
‘Where is that girl?’ asked the marquess. ‘I want this evening over and done with. I should never have promised to go. Miss Andrews is quite upset by my desertion of her.’
‘But it was very kind of you,’ said Effy, ‘for if you dance with Felicity, it will make her the fashion.’
‘I doubt if I have the power of a Brummell,’ he said with a reluctant smile. ‘But where is the tiresome child?’
Effy flashed a triumphant look at Amy. No man interested in a woman would refer to her as a tiresome child.
The door opened and Felicity walked in.
Effy noticed the hooded brooding look on the marquess’s face and her heart sank. She resolved to have a sharp word with Mamselle Yvette. There was such a thing as being too clever with the needle. Felicity was wearing a pale-pink silk gown with an overdress of pink tissue embroidered with gold. The bodice of the dress had been cleverly cut to reveal the deep V between Felicity’s excellently rounded breasts. It was of the new short length and showed tantalizing glimpses of ankle. Her masses of thick black hair had been dressed in a Roman style and ornamented with pink silk roses. She moved differently, too. The almost gawky, abrupt movements she had had when she had first come to London had admittedly been schooled away by a teacher in etiquette and a dancing master, but there was a new suppleness to her body, a new sensuousness. Effy began to wonder anxiously whether there might be something in what Amy had said.
But when they reached Almack’s, both sisters’ worries disappeared. Felicity behaved beautifully and was surrounded by a group of courtiers and without any help from the marquess. The gentlemen did not seem to find her beauty unfashionable.
The marquess watched her success with a cynical eye, feeling sure all this charming behaviour of Felicity’s was merely an act. He would have been very surprised had he been able to know that Felicity was deeply grateful to the gentlemen who paid her compliments. She thought they were the kindest men in the world and not what she had been led to believe about London bucks. The marquess had decided to waltz with her once and then take his leave and escape to his club.
‘You see,’ hissed Effy behind her fan, ‘Ravenswood’s only interest in Felicity is a desire to please us.’
‘You are probably right,’ said Amy. ‘After all, I know almost nothing about gentlemen. And neither do you,’ she added waspishly.
Effy began to sob, and, conscience-stricken, Amy began to apologize and so they did not see the Marquess of Ravenswood lead Felicity onto the floor.
The dance was the waltz, which had finally been sanctioned by Almack’s. He placed his arm at her waist and all at once the ballroom went away and he was back in his bedroom and he was wet and naked and he had Felicity in his arms.
He realized she was staring up at him in a stunned way and that he had pulled her against him. He muttered an excuse and held her the regulation twelve inches from him.
‘Say something,’ said Felicity crossly, ‘and stop looking down your nose at me as if I am a bad piece of meat. The reason for this dance, my lord, is to secure my social success.’
He smiled into her eyes and she caught her breath. ‘You do not need my help,’ he said softly. ‘You already are a success.’
‘I hope nothing gets out about my elopement,’ said Felicity in a low voice. ‘I am not used to being a success with the gentlemen and I must confess to enjoying the novelty.’
‘Bremmer will not talk,’ he said. ‘Why should he? If he tattled, he would have to marry you.’
A shadow crossed her face.
‘Do not look sad,’ he said quickly. ‘He is only a boy. Too young for you.’
For some reason that remark made Felicity feel gloriously happy and she floated round the floor in his arms.
‘No, there’s nothing to worry about there,’ said Amy, after she had soothed Effy. ‘Ravenswood merely seems to have taken a liking to her. He thinks of her only as a little girl.’
That night, the Marquess of Ravenswood lay awake in his bedchamber. He was very conscious that Felicity was under the same roof. He wondered if she had enjoyed her evening and almost persuaded himself it would be the correct thing to do to step along to her bedchamber and ask her. He had not been able to leave for his club after that dance with her, but had stood near the entrance, watching her, telling himself all the while it was just to see she was behaving herself.
He gave himself a mental shake. He had never held Miss Andrews as intimately and passionately as he had held Felicity. That was the problem. He would try to get Betty away from that dragon of a mother of hers so that he could make love to her. That way, Felicity would once more become a tiresome young thing instead of this seductress who kept him awake.
8
If I speak t’ye again for six months (mark the day!),
May you call me a fool, sir, as long as I live!
Do you think one has nothing to do but forgive?
Anonymous, Delia Very Angry
They arrived after sunset, and so the magnificence of Ramillies House, home of the Duke and Duchess of Handshire, which was supposed to strike the first frisson of terror into the common soul of Miss Betty Andrews, was lost on her.
As it was, she was too fatigued from the journey and too upset by the presence of the Tribbles and Lady Felicity as well to take any notice of her surroundings. Mrs Andrews had not been invited by the marquess’s parents. Lord Ravenswood had said firmly that the Tribbles were chaperones enough and that his parents had neglected to include Mrs Andrews in their invitation.
The Tribbles were distressed for different reasons: Amy because she felt it was a waste of valuable time during which Felicity might have been better employed attracting suitable beaux; Effy because she hated the countryside with a passion and was plagued by a niggling suspicion that Amy, despite her vehement protests to the contrary, had orchestrated the whole thing so as to remove her, Effy, from Mr Haddon’s company. Effy was convinced the nabob had formed a tendre for her and that Amy was jealous.
The lamps round the courtyard, steps, and portico of the great ducal mansion had been lit. On the steps were stationed all the stable people, and inside, in the vast hall, were ranged all the indoor staff. After being conducted to their respective rooms, the visitors were told to reassemble in the hall in half an hour, where they would be conducted to supper. The marquess went in search of his parents to tell them the party had dined en route and would prefer an early night, but the duke and duchess sent word to their son that they were unavailable and would see him at supper.
When they had gathered in the hall, the butler led the way through a sort of guard of honour of liveried footmen out of the hall, across the Bow Window Room, through the Grand Cabinet, and then through a chain of state saloons to the dining room. An orchestra, which had been playing in the hall when they arrived, were now playing in the dining room. The duke and duchess, as was their eccentric habit, were already there, one at either end of a long table groaning with gold plate. When the members of the party were seated, they found they were such a long distance from each other that they had to shout.
Felicity was surprised at the appearance of the marquess’s parents. She had expected them both to be tall and rather grand, like their son. But the duke was small and fat and cross-looking and
his duchess was equally small, though thin and cold of eye. She had a steady, unnerving stare, which she fixed first on one guest and then on the other.
The only one who appeared to brighten up was Betty Andrews. She was mentally redesigning the dining room and shortening the table and replacing the blue morocco of the dining-room seats with petit point. Betty was secure in the knowledge that when she became mistress of all this, the duke would be dead and, if his duchess did not smartly follow him to the grave, she would be packed off to the dower house. Betty was not intimidated by Ramillies House. But she was intimidated by her fiancé. He had whispered in her ear in the hall that he wished to be private with her later. The gleam in his eye had told Betty he expected some love-making and she felt he might at least have waited until they were married, during which happy state women were expected to endure ‘all that sort of thing’, as Betty described the more tender side of a relationship to herself.
She found herself wishing that there were some young gentlemen present with whom she could flirt and chatter. She had met Lord Bremmer at the play one evening and had told him of her proposed visit to Ramillies House and he had pressed her hand and had said intensely he wished he could go with her, which was all that it should be and just how a gentleman ought to behave. But the marquess never said romantical things like that. Probably because he was so old, thought Betty, feeling waspish. Still, it was worth enduring. When she was duchess, she would set about making this barn of a place comfortable. And with these thoughts Betty whiled away the suppertime and did not bother to converse with anyone.
Felicity, on the other hand, did try. She roared politely at the duchess and then at the duke. They did not shout back. They had low, carrying voices, like trained actors. Felicity wondered wildly whether, as children, they had been taught to throw their voices so that they might converse amicably down the length of their monstrous dinner-table.
At last the duchess rose to her feet to lead the ladies to the drawing room. The orchestra packed up their instruments and followed along, to reassemble themselves outside the door of the drawing room. There was a large fire burning in the marble fireplace and the room was very warm. The walls were hung in peach-blossom cloth and the carpet was the same colour. The curtains were of rich purple silk, intermixed with peach-blossom sarsenet and trimmed with fringe, lacings, and tassels of gold-coloured silk. The furniture was covered with purple satin, woven to represent embroidery. The duchess drew Betty down on a sofa next to her and flashed a cold look at the Tribbles and Felicity, as if to warn them to keep clear.
‘Tell me, Miss Andrews,’ said the duchess, ‘how you prepare rose-water?’
Betty blinked. She belonged to the new generation who allowed the servants to do everything and never went near the still-room.
‘I do not know, your grace,’ she said, stifling a yawn and glancing at the clock.
‘But you do know how to prepare cordials and medicines?’
‘No, your grace. Mama has an excellent still-room maid.’
‘That will not answer,’ said the duchess severely. ‘You must learn. It is the first duty of every lady. I shall teach you myself.’ She raised an imperious hand and a footman came forward with several enormous ledgers, which he placed on a low table in front of them.
The duchess opened the ledger on the top of the pile and extracted a piece of paper. ‘I wish you to observe these rules, Miss Andrews.’
Betty looked dismally at a list of rules and began to read.
‘The Servants are all to dine at one o’clock before the parlour Dinner, both Upper- and Under-Servants, and to Breakfast and Sup at nine. No hot dinners.
‘The Butler or Groom of the Chambers to see that the Servants’ Hall, and Powder Room, are cleaned and locked up every night before eleven o’clock.
‘The plate to be washed by the Still-room Maid and in the Still-room, whence the Under-Butler must fetch it.’
Betty read on through the long list, which ended up, ‘Should any objections be made to these rules, those persons may retire.’
‘Now,’ said the duchess, ‘I wish you to study this first housekeeping book and tell me of any economies you can suggest.’
Poor Betty felt it was like being back at school. She bent her head over the ledger and prayed that the marquess and the duke would not stay long over their wine.
‘And you, Lady Felicity,’ commanded the duchess. ‘Come here and take this other book and see what economies you can suggest.’
Felicity looked amused. ‘I would not dare, your grace,’ she said. ‘I am sure you have done all that is necessary. We are all fatigued after our journey, and you cannot possibly expect any of us to enjoy household mathematics at this hour.’
‘Quite right,’ said the duchess, looking surprised. The books were taken away just as the marquess and the duke entered the room.
Betty was now beginning to feel as out of place as the duchess had hoped she would. She envied Felicity’s easy dismissal of the household accounts but knew that she could never have brought herself to say such a thing. If only Ravenswood would press her hand or look at her with adoring eyes. But he was prosing on about fields and phosphates.
The Tribbles were talking quietly to each other. Amy was daring Effy to be the first to rise and say they must go to bed, and Effy was daring Amy. Then Amy noticed a spider climbing up a picture frame and said she thought it would reach the top in fifty seconds. Effy said a minute, and both sisters agreed the loser should propose retiring to bed to the duchess.
Amy took a watch like a turnip out of her reticule and began to count softly. The spider stopped its climb and hesitated.
‘Go on, you fool,’ roared Amy suddenly.
The others fell silent. Amy turned as red as a beetroot.
‘You said something?’ queried the duchess frostily.
‘It is very late, your grace,’ said Felicity. ‘I fear Miss Amy had fallen asleep and was having a nightmare.’
‘Then go to bed . . . all of you,’ said the duchess huffily. ‘Not you, Charles,’ she added, detaining her son.
The marquess held open the door of the drawing room for the ladies. He pressed a note into Betty’s hand.
When Betty reached her room, she opened the note and looked at it gloomily. It read, ‘Meet me on the terrace in front of the Grecian Room in an hour’s time. R.’
Betty felt tired and miserable. He should not expect her to wait up. She was exhausted. Tears filled her eyes. She wanted her mother. Felicity, now, would have known how to cope. She would no doubt send back a note saying, ‘Gone to sleep. Don’t be silly,’ or something forthright like that.
Then let Felicity cope, thought Betty maliciously. They had all been crowded in the doorway when he pressed that note into her hand. Let him think he had given it to Felicity by mistake. All Betty’s jealousy of Felicity had gone. On the journey, the marquess had barely said a word to the girl and it was obvious that not only did he have no interest in her, but that he actively disliked her.
Betty knew that Felicity had the room next to her own. Her maid came in to prepare her for bed, and as soon as the woman had finished her duties and retired, Betty darted out into the corridor and slid the note under Felicity’s door. Felicity would probably be asleep. The note would lie there until the morning. She, Betty, would tell the marquess in the morning when he asked where she had been that she had not received any note.
Felicity was not asleep. She was sitting reading when the note suddenly appeared. She read it and her eyebrows rose in amazement. Then she thought that Ravenswood was probably terrified she would tell Betty about that scene in his bedchamber and wished to be reassured. Well, she would torment him a little to pay him back for his bearish treatment of her on the journey. She had been longing to have an opportunity of telling him how much she detested him and now she had it.
The marquess had had difficulty in escaping from his parents and he was weary of defending Betty. ‘No character and no breeding,’ they had complai
ned. As he hurried in the direction of the Grecian Room, he pulled out his watch and studied it in the light of an oil lamp. It was well over the hour. He hoped she had waited for him.
A full moon shone through the long windows of the Grecian Room, shining on Ionic columns and on the floor of Sienna marble. He opened the long window and walked out onto the terrace. The night was very quiet and still. The lawns rolled smoothly down in front of the terrace to a sheet of ornamental water. There was a scent of lilac in the air, mixed with the piny smell of the evergreens by the lake.
He waited and waited. He wondered what on earth was keeping the girl. He wanted to prove to himself that the searing passion he had felt for Felicity was only the result of a long period of celibacy. Betty Andrews was beautiful and dainty, all that a man could desire.
A dark bank of cloud covered the moon, plunging the terrace into thick darkness. He heard a soft movement behind him and swung about.
Felicity had spent some time trying to find the Grecian Room and had at last come across a little lamp boy who had directed her. She had a gauzy gold scarf wound about her hair. The marquess saw the faint glimmer of gold and took it for Betty’s blond hair.
Felicity opened her mouth to speak as he wound his arms about her waist, but he felt for her chin and pushed her face up and sank his lips into her own. The marquess’s mind dimly registered that she must be standing on something, for Betty Andrews was small in stature, but passion then clouded his reason and senses. Felicity, shocked and stunned, heard the mumbled endearments between the searing kisses and thought with a sharp stab of pure rapture that he loved her. And so she kissed him back with great enthusiasm and energy, adding fuel to the already raging fire. The increasing intimacies felt so right that all Felicity did was accommodate her throbbing body to his searching hands.
He had just prized one delectable white bosom free from its moorings in the neck of her gown and was bending his head to kiss it when Felicity sighed, ‘Oh, Charles.’
Refining Felicity Page 11
