Slightly Scandalous

by Mary Balogh

  But the memories were too much for her composure. She spread her handkerchief over her face and rocked with merriment.

  “He knew that I would do it,” Freyja said, thinking with indignation of the grinning marquess, whose immaculate good looks had only fueled her wrath. “That was why he did not insist upon telling me the truth in the park.”

  “And if you could have seen Mama trying to make herself invisible,” Charlotte continued, “and that horrid Mrs. Lumbard swelling to twice her size and Miss Lumbard's eyes fit to fall out of her head and—oh, everyone.” She went off into whoops again.

  “At least,” Freyja said, “I have given everyone enough to talk about and write home about for a month or more. The letters will all be book-length, I daresay.”

  “Oh, don't!” Charlotte rocked back in her chair.

  “The Pump Room is going to seem deadly dull forever after,” Freyja said, “even to those who have never realized that it always is. They will all be looking to me for an encore. I will be famous.”

  Charlotte giggled.

  “Actually,” Freyja admitted, “I would have loved nothing better, Charlotte, than to have punched the Marquess of Hallmere in the nose again for leading me into that trap. But I really thought I had better not. Perhaps he will offer me some provocation to do it tomorrow.”

  She looked at her friend with a frown for a few moments before her lips twitched at the corners and she first chuckled and then laughed aloud.

  He was a worthy foe. She must admit that much about him.

  Lady Holt-Barron left her room sometime after noon, looking pale and martyred, though she smiled cheerfully and assured her daughter and Freyja that she was quite rested and had only the smallest of headaches remaining. She did not believe she would go out calling on anyone during the afternoon, though, and she did not advise the younger ladies to go out walking. She rather fancied it was going to rain, and they would both catch chills if they were caught out in it.

  She looked sharply at Freyja for a moment.

  “My dear Lady Freyja,” she asked, “what on earth were you doing alone in Sydney Gardens yesterday? Why did you not wait for Charlotte to accompany you? Or why did you not at least take your maid with you?”

  “I felt like air and exercise, ma'am,” Freyja told her. “And I am far too old for chaperones.”

  Lady Holt-Barron looked somewhat shocked, but she did not pursue the matter. Freyja rather suspected that her hostess was a little afraid of her.

  “Perhaps,” Freyja continued, “you would be happier if I left Bath, ma'am. I can see that I embarrassed you this morning.” And that was doubtless a massive understatement, she thought. She had embarrassed even herself, and she did not embarrass easily.

  “Oh, no, Freyja,” Charlotte cried.

  “It is a generous offer,” her hostess replied. “But I will not accept it, Lady Freyja. Within a few days the unfortunate incident will have been forgotten, I daresay. Tomorrow morning we will put a brave face on it and make our usual appearance in the Pump Room. Perhaps the Marquess of Hallmere will be tactful enough to remain at home.”

  “I am certainly not afraid to face him,” Freyja said. “And of one thing I am quite convinced. He was about to steal a kiss from that serving girl. I would like to hear him deny that.”

  “Oh, my dear Lady Freyja,” Lady Holt-Barron said, her voice faint with anxiety again, “I beg you not to confront him with any such accusation.”

  She jumped with alarm at the sound of the door knocker coming up from below, and she stood up to do a hasty hand-check of her dress and hair.

  “I do hope this is not a caller,” she said. “I really do not feel up to entertaining today. I expected all our acquaintance to leave us in peace until tomorrow.”

  As if her behavior this morning had plunged them all into quarantine, Freyja thought.

  But a caller it must be. The housekeeper scratched on the door and handed her mistress a calling card.

  “Gracious me!” Lady Holt-Barron exclaimed after reading the name on it. “The Marquess of Hallmere! And he is waiting below, Mrs. Tucker?”

  “Waiting to see if you are at home, ma'am,” the housekeeper explained.

  Now what was he up to? Freyja wondered, her eyes narrowing.

  Lady Holt-Barron glanced nervously at her. “Are we at home?”

  “Oh, absolutely.” Freyja raised her eyebrows. She was not going to hide from anyone, least of all him.

  “Show his lordship up, Mrs. Tucker,” Lady Holt-Barron said.

  It was plain to see as soon as he set foot in the room that the Marquess of Hallmere patronized the famous Weston as a tailor. So did Wulfric and Freyja's other brothers. The marquess showed to distinct advantage in a green superfine coat that was so close-fitting that it looked as if he must have been poured into it and in gray pantaloons that clung to every impressive curve and muscle of his long legs. His linen was snowy white, his Hessian boots so shiny that he might have used them as twin mirrors if he looked down. His hat, gloves, and cane must have been left below.

  Clearly the man had come here intending to impress them. And he did look impressive, Freyja was forced to admit. Even his teeth were perfect, just crooked enough to be interesting, but very white.

  Lady Holt-Barron was obviously impressed too. She fluttered, a tendency she had when in the presence of someone of superior rank. She was also simpering, an unfortunate reaction to the sight of a handsome man. Charlotte was also impressed. She blushed.

  Freyja crossed one leg over the other in a posture that a string of governesses during her growing years had told her was inelegant and unladylike, swung her free foot, raised her chin, and stared haughtily.

  “I thank you, ma'am, for admitting me when I was not expected,” he said, addressing himself to Lady Holt-Barron.

  She fluttered and simpered more than ever and assured him that he was most welcome. She offered him a chair and he seated himself.

  Just don't apologize for me, Freyja urged her hostess silently. And if he expected any apology from her he might wait until hell froze over.

  “I will not take much of your time, ma'am,” he said, still addressing Lady Holt-Barron. “I have come with an invitation from my grandmother for you and Miss Holt-Barron and Lady Freyja Bedwyn to join a small party for dinner tomorrow evening. We both consider it desirable to dispel any lingering fear anyone may be harboring that there is lasting animosity between Lady Freyja and myself over our, ah, slight misunderstanding this morning.”

  Freyja bared her teeth.

  “I am sure there can be no such thought in anyone's mind, my lord,” Lady Holt-Barron assured him. She was even batting her eyelids, though it was probably a nervous reaction rather than a flirtatious one, Freyja conceded.

  “I feel no animosity,” he said, finally turning his head and looking with wide, guileless eyes at Freyja. “I trust you do not, Lady Freyja?”

  “No, why should I?” she said with studied nonchalance. “You gave a satisfactory explanation for what I observed in the park—for most of what I observed.”

  For a moment she saw laughter in the depths of his eyes and knew that he understood her meaning perfectly well. He had certainly been about to kiss that girl. But this afternoon he was playing the part of impeccably courteous gentleman and did not see fit either to grin at her or address her as sweetheart.

  “I trust you will all come to Great Pulteney Street tomorrow evening, then?” he asked.

  Lady Holt-Barron almost tripped all over herself in her eagerness to accept. The marquess took his leave five minutes later after they had all—with the exception of Freyja—engaged in a lively discussion of the weather.

  “Lady Freyja!” Lady Holt-Barron said, clasping her hands to her bosom, her headache apparently dissipated. “I do believe all will be well after all and no shadow of scandal will be allowed to hang over your head. I even sense that the marquess is smitten by you.”

  Freyja snorted.

  “He is gorgeously h
andsome,” Charlotte said with a sigh.

  “My love,” her mother said reproachfully. “Remember Frederick.”

  The absent Frederick Wheatcroft, Charlotte's betrothed, was off shooting with her father and brothers.

  Gorgeously handsome, indeed! Too handsome by half. And doubtless he thought now that he could charm her out of her indignation over his trickery—he had oozed charm from every pore of his body. They would see about that.

  She should have let him be caught in that wardrobe like a mouse in a trap.

  She should have been sure to take an inn room with all the ivy shaved off its outer walls.

  She should have punched him in the nose again this morning while she had had the chance.

  She should have . . .

  She was so desperately glad that there was at least something of interest to look forward to tomorrow. The Marquess of Hallmere might be—and undoubtedly was—all sorts of nasty, unsavory things, but at least he was not bland.

  CHAPTER IV

  The planned dinner at Lady Potford's was turning into a grand affair as she kept adding names to the guest list.

  “You have been the Marquess of Hallmere for longer than six months, Joshua,” she explained when he asked if she had one more leaf to add to the dining room table—and perhaps one more wing to add to the dining room itself. “It is high time you took your rightful place in society instead of chasing all over the country in search of amusement with low companions.”

  “But amusement is so . . . amusing, Grandmama,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. He did not add that some of his “low” companions were aristocrats and the sons of aristocrats.

  “It is time too that you returned to Penhallow,” she said, not for the first time. “It is yours, not just as a possession, but as a responsibility too.”

  “My aunt lives there,” he reminded her, “and my cousins. It would only upset them—and me—if I went to live there too. My aunt always had the running of the place, you know, even when my uncle still lived. He did not mind. I would.”

  “Well, and so you ought,” his grandmother said, rather exasperated as she folded the last invitation and rang the bell to have a servant take it and deliver it. “You must go and exert yourself and make other arrangements for the marchioness and her daughters, Joshua. There is a dower house at Penhallow, is there not? Goodness! When your grandpapa died and Gregory became Potford, I would no more have dreamed of remaining at Grimley House than I would of flying to the moon. Gladys would not have liked it, and I would have liked it less.”

  Joshua stretched his legs out in front of him along the sitting room carpet and crossed them at the ankles. “Exert myself?” He grinned at her. “That sounds remarkably painful, Grandmama.”

  “Joshua.” She turned in her chair at the escritoire and regarded him with some severity, “I have always chosen to believe that you were in France and other countries of Europe during the past five years risking the dangers of capture in an enemy nation merely for the amusement of indulging in such a prank. But I have always realized deep down that there was a far more alarming explanation for your presence there. Do not think now to convince me that you are a lazy care-for-naught intent upon nothing but your own amusement.”

  He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. He had, of course, been spying for the British government on the military forces and maneuvers of Napoléon Bonaparte, but not in any official capacity. He had no military rank or diplomatic status.

  “Ah, but it was amusing, Grandmama,” he told her.

  She sighed and got to her feet. “What you should do,” she said, “is choose a suitable bride, take her to Penhallow, and begin the new life that is yours whether you ever wished for it or not.”

  “I did not,” he said decisively. “Albert was the heir and I never envied him his future prospects.”

  “But your cousin died five years ago,” she reminded him—as if he needed reminding. “It is not as if your new status was sprung unexpectedly upon you when your uncle died.”

  “Except that he was a robust man when I went away,” he said, “and died far sooner than I expected.”

  “Despite that ghastly scene in the Pump Room,” she said, taking a seat close to his, “I cannot but admire the forthright manner in which Lady Freyja Bedwyn confronted what she had perceived as an unpardonable offense. Most ladies would have turned a blind eye or gossiped privately and blackened your name before you had a chance to defend yourself.”

  Joshua chuckled. “Most ladies would not have been walking alone in the park or would have turned tail and fled at the first sound of some other poor female screaming.”

  “She is Bewcastle's sister,” his grandmother continued. “There is no higher stickler than the duke, or one of greater consequence unless one ascends into the realm of the princes themselves.”

  He looked more closely at her, suddenly alerted.

  “You are not, by any chance,” he asked her, “suggesting Lady Freyja Bedwyn as a bride?”

  “Joshua.” She leaned forward slightly in her chair. “You are now the Marquess of Hallmere. It would be a very eligible match for her as well as for you.”

  “And that is what this is all about?” he asked her. “This grand dinner?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “This dinner is to restore the proprieties in the eyes of all doubters. It really was a ghastly scene though I must admit to having enjoyed a private chuckle or two since over the memory of it.”

  “She throws a mean punch,” he said, “as I have twice learned to my cost. Yet you think she would be a suitable bride?”

  “Twice?” She looked sharply at him.

  “We need not make mention of the other occasion,” he said sheepishly. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Grandmama, but I have too great a regard for my health to launch into a courtship of Lady Freyja Bedwyn. Or of any other lady, for that matter. I am not ready for marriage.”

  “I wonder why it is,” she said, getting to her feet again, “that every man when he says those words appears to believe them quite fervently. And why does every man appear to believe that he is the first to speak them? I must go down to the kitchen and see that all is proceeding well for tonight's dinner.”

  And why was it, Joshua thought somewhat ruefully, that all women believed that once a man had succeeded to a title and fortune he must also have acquired a burning desire to share them with a mate?

  Lady Freyja Bedwyn!

  He chuckled aloud and remembered her as she had looked yesterday afternoon in Lady Holt-Barron's sitting room—on her haughtiest dignity and bristling with barely suppressed resentment and hostility. And unable to resist at least one barbed gibe by implying that she knew very well he had been about to kiss that serving girl.

  He wondered if she would appreciate the joke of his grandmother's preposterous suggestion. He really must share it with her, he thought, chuckling again—and keep a wary eye on her fists as he did so.

  There was no one at Lady Potford's dinner that Freyja did not know. She felt perfectly at ease in the company. It took her a while, though, to realize that most of the other guests were far from at ease in hers. They must be wondering, she thought, whether she was about to make another spectacularly embarrassing spectacle of herself tonight.

  How foolish people were. Did they not understand that gentility had been bred into her very bones? She conversed with her neighbors at the dining table with practiced ease and studiously ignored the Marquess of Hallmere, who was seated at the foot of the table looking handsome enough in his dove-gray-and-white evening clothes to seriously annoy a Greek god or two. He ignored her too if one discounted the single occasion when their eyes met along the table. She was sure it was not a trick of the flickering candlelight that made it appear as if he blinked slowly—with one eye.

  Well, every day brought something new, she thought, renewing her efforts to be sociable to the very deaf Sir Rowland Withers to her right. She had never been winked at before, unless it was by one of her b
rothers.

  But she and the marquess ignoring each other was not, of course, the purpose of the evening. As soon as the gentlemen had joined the ladies in the drawing room after dinner, entertainment was called for and Miss Fairfax obligingly seated herself at the pianoforte and played a couple of Bach fugues with admirable flair and dexterity.

  “Lady Freyja?” Lady Potford asked when she had finished. “Will you favor us with a piece or a song?”

  Oh, dear—her close acquaintances had learned long ago that Lady Freyja Bedwyn was not like other young ladies, willing and able to trot out their accomplishments at every social gathering. She decided upon candor, as she usually did—it was easier than simpering.

  “After I had had a few lessons at the pianoforte as a young girl,” she explained to the gathered assembly, “my music teacher asked me to raise my hands and declared himself amazed that I was not in possession of ten thumbs. Fortunately for me, two of my brothers were within earshot and reported the remark with great glee to our father—intending the joke, of course, to be at my expense. The music teacher was dismissed and never replaced.”

  There was general laughter, though Lady Holt-Barron looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  “A song, then?” Lady Potford asked.

  “Not alone, ma'am,” Freyja said firmly. “I have the sort of voice that needs to be buried in the middle of a very large choir—if it is to be aired at all.”

  “I sing a little, Lady Freyja,” the marquess said. “Perhaps we can join our voices in a duet. There is a pile of music on top of the pianoforte. Shall we see what we can find while someone else entertains the guests?”

  “Oh, splendid,” Lady Potford said, and there were a few other murmurings of polite interest.

  She should, Freyja realized belatedly, have made mention of rusty saws in connection with her singing voice, but she never liked to be quite untruthful. Hallmere was, as she expected, looking at her with polite interest—and a gleam of amusement in his eyes. And everyone else was observing with keen interest this first exchange between yesterday's antagonists.