Encouraged by the rare warmth of his smile, Helen ventured shyly, “I do not see your friend, Mr. Maret. Is he not with you this evening?”
“Lord, no! Nothing could persuade him to come here!”
“But whyever not?”
“Jacques firmly holds there is only one reason to spend an evening at Almack’s—to find a bride.” As his partner flushed prettily, he asked, “Why else do you think they call this the Marriage Mart?”
She did not answer, feeling more intensely than before the burning where his hand rested lightly on her waist as they twirled dizzily around the room.
“You waltz delightfully, Miss Lawrence,” he said at length.
“I—my sister taught me.”
“Ah, yes, the estimable Rose,” he said cynically.
“Rose loves to dance and she is wonderfully light on her feet. She taught Sarah and Esmond, too, though, of course, it was all wasted on Esmond,” she finished in a rush.
Stratford stifled a yawn. It seemed that the only theme this chit warmed to was her infernal family and, in particular, her eldest sister, Rose. That so-worthy paragon sounded like a perfect match for his stick of a cousin Baldwin, he thought, before adroitly changing the subject.
Upon returning Helen to her aunt’s side, the viscount inquired quietly, “Would you object if I called upon your aunt in the morning?”
“I . . . I would be . . . honored,” she replied softly, her eyes cast upon her lap.
But naturally you would, he thought with a mental sneer. But he merely said a brief thank you before leaving immediately to search out some excitement elsewhere.
Elizabeth Thacker nodded her head when, riding home in their carriage, she learned of his lordship’s intention to call upon her. “Then you may depend upon it, Helen, he means to offer for you. What a blessing for your family!”
“It’s too splendid!” cried Amelia, clapping her hands together. “When you are Viscountess Stratford, will you get Sally Jersey to let me waltz? I swear I was fair eaten alive with jealousy to see you swirling about the room!”
When Helen remained mute, Elizabeth asked with a searching look, “Will you accept his offer, dear?”
“Mama!” Amy shrieked. ‘Of course she will. She must! You will, won’t you, Helen?”
She looked dully from cousin to aunt and said hesitantly, “Yes, I suppose I shall.”
A frown pleated her aunt’s brow, but Amy bounced upon her seat. “How thrilling! My own cousin—the Viscountess Stratford!”
Chapter 4
A blustery wind blew without as winter breathed its last in an attempt to delay the onslaught of spring. Because of the chill, a fire had been lit in the small sitting room in Appleton Cottage—an unusual expense that had greatly displeased Nell Lawrence and surprised her sister-in-law Rose. But Susanna had insisted upon it before allowing her son Griffen to assist her into the room.
The elder Mrs. Lawrence was stretched out upon the threadbare settee before the flickering flames, a light patched coverlet spread across her legs, her vinaigrette clutched in one thin hand and an opened letter in the other. Ranged about her on several ladder-back chairs were her children.
Her daughter-in-law Nell was sourly watching the wood burning and mentally calculating the cost while her daughters Rose and Sarah exchanged quizzical glances. Her sons each sat at an outer edge of the semicircle, Griffen clearly impatient and Esmond soulfully inattentive.
“Here we are, Mama,” Rose said. “What is this all about?”
“Yes, Mother,” Griffen said with his usual air of sobriety, “why have you gathered us together?”
“I have received a letter!” she declared dramatically. “A letter with some very important news.” The effort of her announcement apparently tired her, for Susanna paused to take a whiff from the tiny bottle in her left hand before continuing. “Elizabeth has written that our little Helen is on the verge of contracting a brilliant alliance!”
“What!” Griffen ejaculated.
“With whom?” Nell demanded with a shriek.
Sarah looked inquisitively at her older sister, who gave a brief shake of her head. Of them all, only Esmond seemed unconcerned about his younger sister’s possible nuptials as he scarcely raised his head from the small volume of poems in his lap.
“No one has applied to me for permission to address Helen,” Griffen stated with a hint of anger. Of average height and medium build, Griffen might have been deemed handsome had he but smiled more often. He did not smile now, but stood and said solemnly, “I trust Aunt Elizabeth has not been encouraging some havey-cavey suitor!”
“It is nothing of the sort,” his mother protested, reviving enough to sit up. “Liz writes that he spoke with her—”
“She is not Helen’s guardian!”
“No, of course not, Griffen. He merely expressed his desire to court Helen. And should Helen be willing, Elizabeth writes that the viscount intends to call upon you, as is proper.”
“Viscount!” Nell echoed, her pinched face aglow at the thought.
“Yes! Helen’s admirer is none other than the Viscount Stratford,” Susanna proclaimed with majestic triumph.
“Stratford!” four voices said in unison, though each with varying emotion.
As Griffen frowned and Agnes clamored for details, Esmond continued to exhibit no interest. Sarah alone noticed Rose’s sudden stillness, the color draining for her high cheeks.
“Excuse me,” Rose whispered, standing. “I feel . . . it is very warm in here.”
Concerned about her sister’s reaction, Sarah rose to follow her from the room, but her mother claimed her attention. Rose was thus left to retire in solitude. While below her, the family excitedly discussed the viscount’s whirlwind courtship of Helen, Rose stood before the square wood-framed mirror in her tiny box of a room and gazed at the woman reflected there.
She saw a long, narrow face which to her gray eyes seemed utterly unremarkable. From the wisps of brown hair escaping the confines of her linen cap to the straight, patrician nose and overwide mouth, Rose saw nothing to recommend her face beyond the ordinary. Though her sisters insisted she was pretty, Rose laughingly affirmed she’d been the practice model God had made before presenting the lovely Sarah and then His masterpiece, Helen.
In truth, the elder Miss Lawrence had much to recommend her. Her brown hair was the deep, glossy chestnut that crowned her younger sisters, but rather a warm blend of soft browns much like the shine of a well-polished walnut. The structure of her face was aristocratically delicate. Her eyes were finely cast, even and heavily lashed, though she thought them overly large for her thin face. She covered them for a moment with a pair of long, capable hands.
When Rose removed them, she no longer saw herself in the mirror. She saw a memory of a young girl in her London season, wearing an unbecoming pale gown and a nervous smile. She saw a young, darkly handsome man whose lank black hair scraped his collar as he turned to meet her. She saw a pair of haughty ebony eyes which looked through, rather than at, one. Could it be true, she wondered. Could the same Lord Stratford now be in love with Helen?
It came vividly, distressfully back—the bright lights and brighter laughter of an overcrowded ballroom where she sat at the edge of gaiety. His back had been all she could at first see through the crowd, but from the moment she noticed the way in which his sapphire coat stretched across his broad shoulders, Rose had been irresistibly dawn to Viscount Stratford. Her eyes had casually followed the progress of his superb athletic form and then, at last, he had turned.
A pair of cold ebony eyes pierced her with a brief, bored stare to devastating effect. She was stunned both by the arrogant assurance and the masculine allure of him. His presence became the sole object of her evening. She strained for even the merest glimpse of him and she ached with unaccountable emptiness as she watched him whirl with one beautiful belle after another.
Her attention was momentarily claimed by a buxom matron bearing striking resemblance to an Egypt
ian pyramid when a shadow fell upon her lap. She stifled a small gasp as she raised her eyes to meet Lord Stratford’s haughty gaze. His lordship’s evident ennui became pronounced as their tactless hostess forced the pair to stand up together in the set then forming.
Even now, as she stood before the mirror, Rose’s hands trembled, as they had years ago, when placed into the viscount’s gloved palms for that single, painful dance. She felt again the warmth of the color that stole up her neck as Stratford fixed his chilling eyes upon her. She had stammered out a commonplace and he had slain her with a disdainful lift of his brow. The awkward girl she had been had withered with embarrassment into strained silence. The dreadful hurt of Stratford’s cut returned now to pierce her heart as Rose regarded her pale, stunned image in the glass.
There was a gentle tap at the door, followed instantly by the entrance of Sarah. “Rose, are you all right? I was worried by your abrupt departure.”
“It was nothing. I sat too near the fire, that is all.”
“You’re doing it much too brown,” her sister objected. “You were never overcome by the paltry fire Nell allowed to burn. You ad best tell me the truth, you know, for I shan’t leave off till you do.”
“It wasn’t very convincing, was it?” Rose asked with a rueful smile.
“Not in the least,” Sarah replied cheerfully. She sat on the edge of Rose’s bed, tucking her feet up beneath her in a manner wholly unsuited to the wife of a dignified country curate. “Now what on earth made you look as though you would swoon?”
“Oh, surely not swoon, Sarah!”
“Yes, swoon,” she said firmly, though with a lively smile in her bright blue eyes.
Rose paused, then looking again at her reflection in the mirror, said slowly, “I cannot imagine Helen become affianced to the Viscount Stratford. He . . . he is cold and arrogant, not at all the type of man for Helen.”
“Do you know him, then?”
“I met him during my season in London. He was very contemptuous of those whom he obviously considered beneath his touch. And he was the leader of the fastest set, forever setting the ton on its ears!”
“People change—and that was nearly eight years ago. He must have been quite young.”
“But his reputation has not changed. We even hear tales of his doings up here! How could such a man be considered . . .?” Rose’s impassioned words drifted into a pained silence.
“Dearest, you’ve said yourself that those who listen to the gossip-bearers are even worse,” Sarah pointed out. “How can you possibly judge the viscount without meeting him now? Rose, it’s not like you to prejudge anyone.”
The sisters sat quietly, regarding one another, their closeness saying much that was not spoken.
“Tell me, what does the rest of the family think of Stratford’s offer?” Rose asked after a time.
“Well, Griffen is not overly pleased. He agrees with you that a man of the viscount’s reputation is not entirely suited for our Helen. But Aunt Elizabeth wrote that he’s wealthy almost beyond measure—”
“So Nell welcomes him with open arms,” Rose finished. “She’ll soon bring Griffen round. I’ll wager you.”
“She and Mama have nearly done so already! Poor Griffen. I could almost feel sorry for him. And Esmond, of course, could not understand what all the fuss was about. He left the parlor muttering something about not wishing to be disturbed unless it was important!”
They enjoyed a laugh at this until at last Sarah stood. “I must be getting back to my family. John will be wondering what to do with the baby, you know, and I can only hope he didn’t let Anna make too much mischief whist I’ve been away.”
“Dear Mrs. Charville!” Rose said, giving her a hug. “It is my consolation each time you leave that the rectory is only three miles away.”
Sarah returned the squeeze lovingly. “Promise me you will not continue to fret over Helen. I’m certain she’d not accept the viscount if he displeased her.”
Having a clearer notion of her youngest sister’s malleable temperament, Rose was not so certain of this but she simply said, “Oh, I shall not do so. I was merely indulging in a fit of the dismals—something I am told we spinsters are allowed to do.”
Her sister shot her a look of sharp concern, but said nothing more. Rose had always been the still water in a family more given to open simplicity. Sarah would never intrude upon her true feelings. With a last hug, they repaired to the sitting room where they found their three relations still earnestly discussing the thrilling news.
“You must not let Stratford have Helen until the settlements have been fully completed,” Nell was saying to Griffen with rare animation on her drawn features. She then named a sum which staggered Rose.
She was shocked into protesting, “Helen isn’t some article to be auctioned off to the highest bidder!”
An angry crimson blotched her sister-in-law’s cheeks while her brother hastily disclaimed, “No, no, of course not.”
Making use of the interruption, Sarah bid her family good day. After enduring a tearful embrace from her mother, she was at last permitted to set off in her shabby gig to return home to her own dear husband and children.
Upon her departure, Nell returned to her raptures. “I knew economizing in order to send Helen for the season would be rewarded! With her beauty there was no doubt! Not one pound spent was wasted, unlike . . .” She stopped in sudden embarrassment.
“Unlike the money spent on my season,” Rose supplied, amused at the other’s obvious discomfiture. “To be sure, nothing was every such a shocking failure as that—a pity it couldn’t have been used for Sarah instead!”
“Now, Rose, don’t be nonsensical,” her mother said in an agitated tone. “You know she could not be presented when we were in mourning for your dear, dear papa! And she was so set on throwing herself away on her curate that I dare say it wouldn’t have done the least good if she had gone to Town!”
“No, I dare say not,” Rose agreed dryly.
“At any rate,” Nell continued, “the question of settlements must be gone into thoroughly—however little Rose likes the idea.”
Rose let this pass by, as she did most of the snide comments Nell sent her way. Indeed, she often felt sorry for her waspish sister-in-law, for she knew Nell’s marriage had been a deep disappointment to her. Some three years after taking Griffen’s hand, the death of the elder Mr. Lawrence had saddled Nell with an invalid mother-in-law, a spinster sister, a selfish, scholarly brother, and a young beauty whose sweet temper clearly showed the sourness of her own disposition. That she made them all feel the burden of the cross she bore generally mitigated any sympathy Nell might have otherwise gained from Rose. And today, looking upon the avaricious gleam in those pale eyes, Rose felt quite put out with her sister-in-law.
After trying unsuccessfully to find a suitable husband for her, the family had been greatly relieved when “The Problem of What to Do about Rose” had been settled by the young lady herself some ten months since. At that time, she had taken to wearing mobcaps and austere gowns denoting the matron, thus having declared to the world her spinsterish state. Rose had entered into the role wholeheartedly, becoming her family’s hub without ever seeming to step from the background of things. It was role for which she had little liking, but one she accepted as her fate. At times like these, however, Rose wondered how she would be able to bear the dictates of fate.
She rose abruptly and excused herself to oversee the preparations for dinner, much to the relief of her relations, who wished to return to the one subject that found of consuming interest.
*****
While in Willowley the Lawrence family sat discussing the financial status of the Viscount Stratford, in London, a determined lady was brushing imperiously past his lordship’s manservant.
“Do not think you can put me off,” she said with a wave of one gloved hand. “I shall stay here until his lordship sees me. And nothing, nothing shall budge me!”
“Er yes, Madam. I
f you will just wait in the Blue Room,” said Felton tonelessly, throwing open a near door. Though he remained expressionless, Felton mentally raised his brows at the absence of an attendant as his lordship’s unexpected visitor sailed alone into the sitting room.
She stripped off her gloves, tossing them onto a chair covered in blue satin. They were followed by her fashionably frogged pelisse and Pamela bonnet, for she meant to make good on her declaration to stay as long as might be necessary. She moved restlessly about the elegantly decorated room, her deep green eyes darting from this object to that, her fingers running erratically through her copper curls cropped à la Titus. She did not take a seat, certain that Stratford would soon appear.
She was right, for very shortly after, the door was flung open and his lordship greeted her with a haughty stare.
“Colin!” she cried, starting to run toward him.
“Did you not understand my note, Thalia?” he asked brusquely.
Mrs. Loveday paused, arrested by the harsh tone, but she decided to brazen it out. “The only misunderstanding, Colin my love, is in your thinking you can dismiss me with a snap of your fingers!”
Stratford came into the room, closing the door with a crack. “But indeed I can, Thalia. In point of fact, I have.”
His tone was so contemptuous that anyone else would have conceded at once. But his guest had never been one to yield easily. She took a rapid turn about the room, then faced him.
“But why? Is it that country beauty I’ve heard so much about? Darling, can she offer you what I can?” Her voice dropped to a sultry husk.
He made no answer, but merely stood eyeing her from beneath heavy lids. Little of her shapely form was left to the imagination as Thalia came slowly toward him, her hips swaying alluringly against the thin gown which clung tightly to her dampened petticoat. She raised her arms as if to embrace him, but suddenly Thalia swung her right hand, palm open toward his cheek.
Stratford’s left hand lashed out, grasping her wrist roughly and effectively turning her hand away. His grip tightened painfully. Adroitly he sidestepped and her kid half-boot kicked nothing but air.
Fran Baker Page 4
