by Julia Quinn
“What?” Meg’s mouth dropped open, her eyes wide. She leaped from the settee and was at Royce’s side in a trice. “What happened? Tell me now!”
Royce cursed his rash tongue. “Nothing happened. I just leaned forward at the theater and my arm brushed—” He passed his hand over his eyes. “Forget it.”
“Forget it? If Liza and you have a physical attraction after all, then that’s all you needed since you already lo—”
“Meg, do not read more into this than is there.” God, how he hated this! He should have known better than to tell his sister anything.
She pursed her lips, gazing at him with a damned knowing look that made him want to shout with vexation. “I see what it is,” she said slowly. “You don’t want Liza, but you don’t want anyone else to have her, either.”
“Bloody hell! I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to.” Meg drew herself up to her full five-foot-one-inch height and assumed a lofty air. “Royce, you have made up my mind.”
“What?”
“I am going to Liza’s and I am going to offer to help her ensnare this Lord Durham. I am going to make her the best dressed, most beautiful, most sought after woman in all of London. I can see it now—she’ll be the most talked about woman at my Valentine’s ball. Men will line up for miles just for one dance with her.”
“She doesn’t dance,” Royce said, wondering if he could convince Shelbourne that Meg was having an acute attack of nerves and should be shipped off to the country at the first opportunity.
“She will when I’m finished with her. If you want to help, which you should, considering how boorish you’ve been, then I will let you. I daresay it would be quite impossible to obtain the services of a good dance instructor at this late date anyway.”
“I don’t want any part of this.”
“Fine,” Meg said airily, drifting toward the door. “I’ll find someone else. Perhaps Lord Durham would be willing to assist us. That might make more sense anyway, for certainly there is nothing so intimate as dancing the waltz. Just picture it, Durham with his arms about Liz—”
“Don’t start throwing them together! They see too much of each other as it is.” He scowled at his sister’s too wide grin. “You are leaving me no choice, are you?”
“Not one.”
“Damn you,” he said bitterly. When she didn’t respond, he made an impatient noise. “Very well. I’ll be your bloody dance instructor.”
Meg gifted him with a pleasant smile. “How kind of you!” She opened the door to the foyer and gestured for him to leave. “Thank you for coming to visit. It has been very enlightening. However, I’ve too much to do to sit around and gossip. Be here tomorrow. I’ll make sure Liza’s here as well.”
“Wonderful,” he growled. This was just perfect—now he was going to help Liza become even more attractive so that dirt farmer would be even more smitten than he was. Was there no justice in this world?
Meg left the door to give an excited twirl about the room. “This is going to be such fun! Oh, but I have so much to do. We’ll need to work on her clothing, her comportment—really, the dancing is the least of our worries.”
“Liza’ll never agree to any of this.”
“Leave that to me,” Meg said smugly. “I know just what to say.”
Royce swallowed a very rude retort and rubbed his neck, suddenly too weary to argue. At least by helping Meg, he could keep his eye on Liza. And perhaps…His tired mind began to churn, an idea lurking. Perhaps this was a good opportunity for him to show Liza the error of her thinking. She wouldn’t be satisfied with such a dull, pompous boor. She needed someone with more sophistication and a deeper appreciation for who and what she was. Someone like…well, like him, for instance. Only not him, of course.
“Meg, you are absolutely right,” Royce said slowly.
Her joyous expression darkened with suspicion. “What are you thinking now?”
“Only that I’m glad I’ll be here to help Liza. You win, Meggie. I’ll be your dance instructor and anything else you want. What time do we begin?”
“I don’t want to learn how to dance.”
“Liza, you must,” Meg said earnestly. “It’s crucial.”
George made a loud, disgusted noise, then scratched his rump and yawned. Liza hid a grin. That was exactly the way she felt about dancing. “I tried to dance when I was younger and I was a complete and utter failure.”
“No one is a failure,” Meg said earnestly. “At least say you’ll try.”
Liza stifled a sigh. Meg had arrived just ten minutes ago, looking so petite and pretty in a pale blue pelisse with matching swansdown hood, that Liza’d begun to rethink wearing her walking dress of burnished orange, though it did contrast nicely with her new lavender boots. She peered over at Meg’s half boots of blue kid. “Where did you get those? I love the heels.”
“I found them on Bond Street in that new place near the—wait. We are not talking about shoes, we are talking about dancing.”
“You may talk about dancing all you wish. I, meanwhile, will talk about shoes.”
Meg looked hurt. “Liza, I only want to help.”
“You can’t help me with dancing. I’ve had private lessons. Monsieur DeGrasse completely gave up.”
“That was years ago. Besides,” Meg said with a mischievous look, “I have a better instructor than Monsieur De-Grasse. Royce is going to teach you.”
Liza’s heart gave a queer leap so sudden that she pressed her hand to her chest. Raspberries and cream, was that an honest-to-God heart palpitation?
“Liza? What’s wrong? You look very strange.”
“I’m fine,” Liza said. She was dying of some strange heart disorder, of course, but other than that, things couldn’t be better.
“Liza, listen to me. I’ll admit I wasn’t too thrilled with Durham when I first met him, but he seems very worthy.”
Worthy. If he was so worthy, then why did the thought of spending the rest of her life with him make her stomach ache? “He’s a very nice person.”
“Yes, and he would make a lovely match for you. You’re both very distinct and your coloring is quite similar—”
“Similar coloring? You make us sound like matching mittens.”
“That’s not a bad way to think of it. Come, Liza. Let me help you. With just the right tweak here and there, Durham will be on bended knee before you know it.”
“I don’t want him on bended knee. I want—” What? To die in peace? She already had that. To be left alone? She had that, too, if she desired. “I don’t know what I want, but I do know that I don’t want to learn how to dance. If Lord Durham cannot accept me the way I am, then I’m not the wife for him.”
Meg gave a disgusted sigh. “Now you sound just like Royce! Everyone changes when they get married.”
“You didn’t.”
“No, but Shelbourne did. He was so reticent when I first met him. Never a word. You remember, don’t you?”
Liza thought about Shelbourne, who was usually asleep or hiding behind a newspaper. “He’s quite the talkative sort now, isn’t he?”
Meg gave her a reproachful look. “Not in public perhaps. But in private he rattles my ear off.”
Liza found that hard to believe, but she kept her tongue still. She wasn’t in the mood for an argument, not that she and Meg ever argued. They usually just agreed not to agree. Unlike Royce, who would match her snip for snip whenever they brangled over something.
Liza liked that about Royce. He never spoke down to her, or treated her as if he was afraid she might break in two if she heard a bit of racy language. Instead, he treated her as an equal. Her mind drifted to the play. She hadn’t slept a wink after arriving home. She’d lived over and over the way Royce had brushed against her, awakening feelings she was quite certain she’d never have for…well, for anyone. Or would ever have again, for that matter.
Meg clapped her hands excitedly. “Royce is willing to start tomorrow. You can practice
in my sitting room and then surprise Durham at my ball.” A beatific expression crossed her face. “Perhaps we will even announce the engagement there. I vow, but my ball will be a night no one will forget!”
“I don’t know,” Liza said, trying to feel some enthusiasm, when all she felt like doing was crawling back into her bed and pulling the covers over her head. Perhaps she could fake an illness. Like dropsy. She frowned. No, that had a distinctly unpleasant sound to it. If she was going fake an illness, it would be something more exotic. Like the Westchester ague. Now that was a distinctive sounding illness.
“Oh, at least try it,” Meg urged. “It will be fun. Royce is going to help and—”
“What does Royce think about all this?”
“Oh. Well, it was practically his suggestion. I’m certain he feels the same way I do—if you’ve set your heart on Lord Durham, then you shall have him.”
Liza found that she couldn’t smile. She couldn’t even move her lips for fear of loosening a sudden sadness that pressed against her throat. Royce knew of Meg’s plan to help her win Lord Durham. And he approved. He’d even offered to assist in remaking her so that she was more palatable to eligible males. It was the most lowering thought Liza had ever had.
“I suppose it won’t hurt,” she heard herself say in a toneless voice. “I’ll do whatever you suggest.” And she would. If Durham was the only man she could have, then she’d take what she could get and make the best of it.
The logic of the thought should have buoyed her spirits—logic usually did. But this time it only made her sadder. And the sadder she felt, the madder she got.
Damn it, she was only thirty-one years old, not a hundred! She was trim, attractive, and didn’t squint a bit, except in very strong light. Meg was right—Liza deserved more. Why shouldn’t she try to attach Durham? Or any other eligible soul, for that matter? What could be the harm in improving oneself? None. None at all. And if, in the meantime, she managed to attract the attention of a certain hard-hearted rake who needed to be taken down a peg or two, well, that would just be so much the better.
“Meg, you’re right. What do you want me to do?” Thus it was that Liza entered into Meg’s scheme the same way she did everything else in her life—heart and soul.
Chapter 6
As for Lord Durham, This Author confesses that very little is known of the gentleman, as he prefers country living and does not spend much time in town. What is known:
He is a dutiful son.
He owns many cows.
Whether those are marks of an ideal husband, This Author leaves up to you, Gentle Reader.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 FEBRUARY 1814
Royce arrived at the Shelbourne town house at three the next day, exactly as Meg had requested. The butler took Royce’s coat and hat and escorted him to the sitting room.
Upon entering the room, Royce came to an abrupt halt.
Liza sat alone on a settee, arms crossed over her chest, looking somewhat forlorn. As soon as she saw him, she hopped nervously to her feet. “Royce! I—I daresay you are looking for Meg. She is with Mr. Creighton, who is responsible for procuring flowers for her Valentine’s ball. Apparently there is some problem with getting pink roses at this time of the year.”
“I see.” Royce could use this time alone with Liza to his advantage. He didn’t dare say too much about Durham in front of Meg, since that traitor had decided to support that insufferable boor’s suit. But here he was, alone with Liza…He smiled. “How are you this morning?”
“Miserable. Meg wants me to wear this to her ball.” Liza dropped her arms to her sides. “What do you think?”
“Good God,” he said, as the full impact of her gown hit him. The woman was wearing yards and yards of pink sarcenet. And not a soft, feminine pink, either. More of a rabid pink. Like one associated with a cow’s udder. “Where did she find that?”
Liza smoothed her hands down the bow-laden skirt, an uncertain expression flittering over her face. “Meg thought the pink would go marvelously with the draperies.”
“Draperies or no,”’ he said, lifting his quizzing glass and regarding her from head to foot, “it’s ridiculous.”
“But very feminine.” Liza grabbed the pink ruffled skirt and held it out to both sides. She craned her neck so that she could see as much of the gown as possible, presenting him with the top of her head, where an improbable mass of curls was rather ruthlessly tacked. After a moment, she dropped her hands to her sides and sighed. “It is rather hideous, isn’t it? I was afraid it was just me. The modiste said it was all the crack.”
“I daresay your precious modiste saw an opportunity to get rid of a gown that had no doubt been haunting the place for four or five years. One ordered by some pathetic country miss and then returned once they realized their error.”
“Oh dear. Am I out of fashion?” She plucked at a loose string that hung from the neckline. “What if we add more ruffles? Perhaps that would make it appear to advantage.”
“Add a ribbon and you can wear it as a hat.”
Her face crinkled in merriment as she chuckled. It was an unladylike sound, rich and low, and extremely hoydenish. But it suited her, and he found himself responding in return. God, how he was going to miss her.
But no, he wasn’t going to miss her, because he was going to see to it that she never left. “I am here to instruct you in the fine art of dance.”
“It’s very kind of you to help.”
“Oh, I like helping. In fact, I plan on helping until it hurts.”
She lifted her brows. “That doesn’t sound very pleasant.”
“Trust me, it will be very pleasant indeed.” He looked her up and down. “I suppose that, besides allowing you to trod upon my toes while instructing you to dance, I shall have to go shopping with you, too.”
“I thought you detested shopping.”
“I do. But I will make an exception for you.”
“You really are determined to be helpful, aren’t you.”
Was that a note of discontent he sensed? “I want what’s best for you. I’m not certain it’s Durham, but…We shall see, won’t we? Meanwhile, that dress is not adequate. And your hair…” He frowned. “Did you have it cut?”
“Oh, that. The iron was too hot.” She fingered the hair over her left ear where some of her short-lived curls had broken off. “I don’t know how women put up with such silliness. It’s enough to put one in a temper.”
“Most women stay in a temper. Perhaps you’ve hit upon the very reason that is so. Still…” He regarded her narrowly. “You don’t look that bad.”
She crossed her arms and fixed a steady gaze on him.
He tried to keep from grinning, but couldn’t. “You never were one for dissembling, were you?”
She plopped back on the settee and stretched her feet before her so her blue shoes were evident. “Dissembling wastes time. And time is what I do not have.”
He joined her on the settee, turning so he could see her face. “Liza, just what is your hurry? Why the rush to find the right man?”
She hesitated a moment, then sighed. “I just turned thirty-one, Royce. And it dawned on me that I’m not getting any younger.”
He shrugged, genuinely perplexed. “So? I’m thirty-nine and could easily say the same. You don’t see me rushing to the altar, do you?”
“No, but you are a man. Men can wait until they’re sixty and still…” A faint heat touched her cheeks and she said primly, “Women aren’t so fortunate.”
“You want…” He straightened. “Good God, Liza. You want to get married because…because you want a child?”
That’s not quite what she’d meant. She’d meant that men didn’t lose their looks at such an early age, which only proved that the Creator was a male, or he’d have seen the injustice in it. Still, now that Royce mentioned it, Liza thought she might indeed like a child. A boy. With black curls and blue eyes.
The heat in her cheeks exploded into a conflag
ration. “Oh, I don’t know what I want,” she said irritably. “Women tend to desire things like children and…” What? A house? She already had a house. A fine one, at that. And she had a lovely life, very fulfilling, with friends like Meg and Royce. But somehow, that wasn’t enough. Not anymore.
Not that she enjoyed this, either—the flounces and the ribbons and bows. And she could definitely do without the silly courtship games and mindless flirtations, thank you very much. She wanted someone to hold, someone who was all hers.
“Liza, I’m not one to give advice on such things, but don’t you think you should discuss this with someone before you…” He gestured vaguely at the pink dress.
“Before I what?”
“Before you do something silly.”
“All I want is to find a pleasant husband. A companion. That’s not silly.” She sent him an exasperated look. “Don’t you ever think about getting married and having children?”
He sighed, then crossed his arms. “There are times when I’ve wondered—” He frowned. “But it was nothing that a good glass of port couldn’t fix. I suggest you try the same.”
“Port makes me gaseous.”’
His lips twitched, his blue eyes twinkling. “We really are going to have to do something about your tendency to blurt out whatever it is you’re thinking. If you cannot have port, then have some sherry. I vow that this urge to procreate will pass.”
“I don’t want it to pass. But I do want a drink. Sherry is too sweet, so perhaps I’ll just have some brandy.” She stood. “Would you like some?”
“Now?”
“It may be only three in the afternoon, but I rose at ten, took a very hot bath, burned off all the hair over my left ear, and dressed in a pink gown completely covered with flounces. You may not need a drink, but I do.”
“You’re never going to get a man talking like that.”’
“Well, I’m not talking to a man,” she returned lightly, “I’m talking to you.”
His amused expression vanished so quickly that she was somewhat taken aback. But before she could say anything, he offered her a bland shrug. “I suppose one drink won’t hurt anything. Maybe it will get you to relax a little when we dance.”
