Lord Wraybourne's Betrothed

by Jo Beverley

  Jane leaned forward, eyes keen. “Do you mean that all those things she wanted me to do were malicious rather than stupid?”

  Sophie laughed. “Poor Maria. You thought her stupid? She is not exactly needle-witted, but not so gawkish as that. She has taken one of her dislikes to you. Fortunately, she underestimated your natural good sense. For a while it seemed I would have the unlikely task of teaching you good behavior.”

  “But why should she dislike me?” asked Jane in bewilderment.

  Sophie shrugged. “Maria does not need a reason. She was cross as a crook when you said you wouldn’t go to the masque as a nymph.”

  “How could she think I would?” asked Jane in amazement. “I thought her funning. To appear in public in a short tunic of transparent gauze, I would need be mad.”

  “And what of her suggestion that you rouge your nipples under your spangled sarcenet?”

  “I thought she had merely forgotten my position. After all, she does rouge her own. I paid no attention. Anyway, that dress is far too flimsy so I always wear two shifts beneath it.”

  Sophie laughed and hugged her friend. “I do love you, Jane. No one else could have rolled up Maria so completely and with never a cross word.”

  Jane returned the hug warmly. “Do you think we ought not to attend the masque, Sophie?”

  “Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away!” cried the girl, executing a gay pirouette. “It will be tremendous fun. Your costume can cause no outrage. Nothing could be more decent than medieval garb. It is positively nunlike.”

  “And what of yours?” responded Jane with raised brows. “A page in knee breeches?”

  “Deliciously wicked,” admitted Sophie.

  “Why is it,” asked Jane, trying on Sophie’s page’s hat with the long, curling plume, “that I must be careful not to overstep the line while you run riot?”

  Sophie grabbed back the hat. “It is like this hat. It simply does not become you, whereas it is devilish on me.” She considered her friend a moment. “I suppose it is partly because you are so new to the ton, and we are disposed to be critical. Secondly, you yourself are not at ease being wicked. But thirdly, you appear so much more mature than I.” She gave her gamin smile. “If you were to overstep the bounds you would be wicked. I would merely be naughty.”

  Jane ruefully acknowledged the accuracy of this assessment. She would, nonetheless, have protested the unfairness of it had they not been interrupted by Lady Harroving calling them to the drawing room for the receiving hour. It soon became obvious that they could expect even more callers than usual. Half the Town wished to find out more about the Wraybourne affair. Lord Randal arrived in the company of his two sisters and raised comical brows at the crowded room. After settling his sisters with Jane, he drifted to the corner where Sophie held court and managed to draw her apart.

  “All the tabbies, I see. Tell me, Sophie, is a large black hat for afternoon receptions all the rage?”

  Sophie raised a finger to flick the plume. “I am trying to get the feel of it for the masquerade. Do you think the plume should come forwards or go backwards?”

  “Neither one. I think you should wear something more suitable. Besides, now everyone will recognize you.”

  She glanced up mischievously. “Goodness, are you grown stuffy too? That is the point, my friend. Or else how would I shock them? And, if I keep shocking people, perhaps boring suitors like Trenholme will cease bothering me.”

  He looked at her quite seriously for once. “The wilder you act, imp, the more determined David will be to shackle you to a stick-in-the-mud.”

  As quickly as it had come, the sober mood left him. He appropriated the hat, set it upon his golden locks, and considered his reflection in a large gilt mirror. The brim cast an unusually sinister shadow over his sensual eyes.

  “I should have been a Cavalier, with long golden curls and a deadly rapier,” he said.

  She snatched the hat back. “You should be forced to wear sackcloth,” she declared. “Then perhaps so many poor females would not be making cakes of themselves over you.”

  He glanced round in amazement, catching the eye of an innocent young miss who went immediately pink with confusion when he winked at her. His gaze returned to the table close by.

  “Is that where all these cakes came from?” He picked up a pink confection. “My goodness. This must have been Miss Forbes. She always did look terrible in pink. And this meringue was Lady Stevenham. I recognize the shape—or lack of it.”

  Giggling, Sophie picked up a long, thin sponge finger dusted with fine sugar. “Why Mrs. Danvers. Fancy meeting you here.” With relish, Sophie sank her teeth into the confection.

  “Cat!”

  “Well, she positively drooled over you at The Middlehouse. Did you see the announcement? She’s to marry Dromree. Beauty and the Beast.”

  “They will suit very well,” he remarked with his secret smile.

  Sophie turned startled, hurt eyes to him and was amazed to see a touch of color tinging his fine-grained skin.

  “How do you always trap me into having such improper conversations?” he said sharply. “It is fortunate that virginity is a physical and not a mental state, or David would be after me with a pistol. Come and talk genteelly with my sisters.”

  Jane had been watching Sophie with concern. She was determined to bring some decorum into their affairs. Now, on the very day when the Town was agog for gossip, Sophie had to behave so strangely, wearing that hat and standing apart for so long with Lord Randal. As the couple moved to rejoin a group, Jane couldn’t help remarking Sophie’s eyes, as they rested a moment on her companion.

  In Jane’s own heightened state, she recognized the affliction immediately. Oh poor Sophie. No wonder Lord Trenholme, with all his attributes, was making no headway. How could he compete with the glittering brilliance of Lord Randal? Jane wondered again about his feelings. She knew by now how unsuitable Lord Randal was considered to be as a partner for a young innocent. What a coil this was likely to be.

  She turned to Lady Caroline Ashby. “Your brother is a fascinating man, Caroline.”

  “Randal? He has the Ashby charm. The only one in our generation to be so gifted. Coupled with our mother’s looks—she was a great beauty, you know—it is alarming. I feel so sorry for all the poor women who fall victim. He is careful, you know, only to entangle himself with a certain type of married lady. Still, the others hurtle after him like moths to a flame. At least you are safe, my dear Jane.”

  “Yes. I am fortunate, for he is a pleasant friend.”

  “And a wonderful brother. If only Father would let him join the hussars. Or rather, if only Chelmly would marry and get an heir.”

  Jane was bewildered until the twins gave her a quick and quiet-voiced briefing on their family troubles.

  “But why does your elder brother not marry?” she asked at last.

  “He used to come to Town on occasion, many years ago. He fell in love. Then he found that she was only interested in him for the dukedom. So now he stays home and grows turnips. He is quite impossible. Our poor father’s wishes mean nothing to him.”

  “How sad for you all,” said Jane, but she was thinking of Sophie.

  If Lord Randal were permitted to go to the war, perhaps she would recover her wits. Jane wished Lord Wraybourne were here so she could lay the problem before him, but then she realized it would be impossible to betray her friend. Perhaps she could speak to Lord Randal? No. That she could not handle.

  Jane wondered why she felt so disturbed. It was an unfortunate situation, but unrequited love was hardly novel. Sophie would eventually recover and fix her affections elsewhere. Despite that rationalization, Jane felt a tremor of alarm and impending disaster. Sophie could never be depended on to do the predictable.

  For the moment, however, Jane was forced to put the matter out of her mind and return to the business of convincing Society she was really a perfectly behaved young lady, soon to be married to an excellent young man. Sh
e could congratulate herself that most of the callers left convinced their recent speculation about the match had been unfounded. She had managed to drop into conversation mention of his many gifts to her and of the occasions upon which he had escorted her, so that many even began to doubt he had, in fact, been so much absent from Town. When all the callers were gone, Sophie picked up her feathered hat and placed it on her head. She tipped it to Jane in salute.

  “Excellently done, my friend,” she said. “Maintain your saintly rectitude for a few more days, and you will have the ton believing they have been subject to a fit of spring madness.”

  “What can you mean, Sophie?” asked Lady Harroving, who had, as usual, paid no attention to anything except herself.

  “Did you not notice, Maria?” asked Sophie innocently. “Jane and David are busily convincing Society that she is a prettily behaved young lady and he is a man in love. Droll, is it not?” Since Lady Harroving appeared to be speechless, Sophie added, “Particularly as it is true.”

  This caused Jane to color slightly as she snatched at the hope Sophie so casually offered.

  Meanwhile, Lady Harroving turned brick red. “I wish you would not be so ridiculous, Sophie,” she snapped. “And take off that hat. It is quite unsuitable.”

  “I like it,” said Sophie unrepentantly. “I think I will set a new style. It could go very well with a riding habit.”

  “Indeed it would,” said Jane, hoping to turn the conversation.

  “But would it attract Sir Edwin Hever?” asked Sophie. “If so I must forgo it. He is such a dreadful bore.”

  “If you play the honeypot you must expect the bees,” said Jane.

  “Wasps,” corrected her friend. “Sir Edwin is a wasp. He is actually going to ask David for permission to address me. Conceited prig! I told him it was pointless, and he went pale with affront. And, speaking of nasty insects, what will Mr. Carruthers think of your exploits?”

  Jane feigned ignorance. “Whatever can you mean?”

  “I am sure the poor man believes he is going to sip your nectar,” replied Sophie with a naughty twinkle.

  “Sophie, you go too far!” exclaimed Lady Harroving.

  Receiving neither acknowledgement nor repentance she swept out of the room.

  “Poor Maria,” said Sophie sweetly. “She must be between lovers.”

  “Sophie!” exclaimed Jane.

  Sophie merely grinned. “I am not sure she has had a beau since The Middlehouse.”

  “Sophie, you really should not speak of such things. What is the matter? I have never known you so outrageous before.”

  “But then you do not know me very well,” said Sophie rudely. “Maria goes from one lover to another. Sir Marius was her lover at The Middlehouse. My maid told me. I am sure she has had all the other men as well—Verderan, Lord Randal, probably even David.”

  “No.” Jane’s denial was emphatic.

  Sophie glared at her. “What of Phoebe Danvers then?”

  Jane made the effort to meet the other girl’s eyes and could see beyond the shocking talk to the hurt beneath.

  “It is not unusual for men to behave so, though in truth I scarcely know what such behavior involves.”

  “Shall I tell you?” said Sophie nastily.

  “No,” replied Jane. “I would rather you tell me what is bothering you. You act as if your heart were breaking.”

  Tell me, Sophie, she pleaded silently, and we can discuss this. But Sophie just stood there as tears rolled down her cheeks, then dashed them angrily away and summoned a smile.

  “I apologize. I have been hateful. It is just that you are to be happy, and so many people are falling in love. What is for me?”

  Jane hugged her. “You have more suitors than can be counted.”

  “But not the one I want.”

  Sophie broke away and wandered over to a plate of cakes to study them. Jane watched amazed. How could Sophie become suddenly so interested in food? She picked out two cakes and turned with them in her hands. One was covered in blue icing, the exact color of her own dress. The other was a yellow sponge very like the color of Jane’s muslin with a topping of chocolate cream.

  “Behold,” said Sophie with a bitter smile, “how we all make cakes of ourselves!” She crumbled them both onto the carpet, then dusting off her hands, walked briskly from the room.

  For the first time Jane was seriously concerned about her friend’s sanity. She recalled all she had learned since coming to London of the affairs of Lord Byron and Lady Caroline Melbourne. They had entertained the ton the year before with a public and passionate entanglement which had left the lady, so it was said, mad when Lord Byron rejected her and turned to Miss Annabella Mil banke for consolation.

  Was Jane wrong to detect some similarity between Sophie and the wild Lady Caroline? But then, Lord Randal was no Byron. Jane had met the poet, and, though his work was brilliant and he was very handsome, he seemed himself to be a most unstable character. Besides, Lord Randal was not encouraging Sophie’s infatuation. Was he even aware of it? Jane pondered this thought and decided he couldn’t be. He was too kind to torment Sophie by his teasing if he knew how she felt. Jane wished she had the courage to tell him. Marriage between Sophie and Lord Randal was so impossible, it would be better he left her to form other attachments.

  The two maids came in just then to clear the room and exclaimed at the pile of crumbs in the middle of the carpet. Jane only sighed and left to follow Sophie upstairs.

  12

  As JANE ANTICIPATED her evening with her betrothed, her sense of disquiet disappeared. The mere thought of his company set her nerves tingling in a most delightful way. Despite her moment of jealousy the night before, she now realized she had nothing to fear. He was now hers alone, even if there had been another woman for a while. Sophie had spoken the truth, or close to it. He might not yet love his bride-to-be, but he was far from indifferent. Though inexperienced, Jane recognized a strong and genuine feeling in him.

  Lady Harroving had been happy enough for them all to cancel their engagements that evening, for there was nothing special arranged. Sophie had been reluctant but eventually agreed to accompany her brother and Jane and was in good spirits as the coach rolled through the dusky streets into a quieter part of town, very like Clarke Street. Jane had a moment’s alarm as she wondered what she would do if Lord Wraybourne introduced her to that woman, then told herself he would do nothing so ill-bred.

  Lord Wraybourne explained they were to visit Peter Medcalf, a composer and musician, who held open house for his friends and patrons every Friday. When David saw Sophie pull a face, he laughed.

  “You will enjoy yourself, Sophie. There are all kinds of people. The food is excellent, and there are cards for those who do not wish to attend to the music. It is time you met true artists instead of pretentious appreciators and boring teachers.”

  Certainly, the noisy, vibrant house they entered was very unlike the hushed reverence of some musical soirées. People were talking and laughing and calling across the room for comments. The trio which played in one corner could not be heard but obviously did not care, as they were stopping and starting and trying out something new. A tall, ruddy man surged forward to wring Lord Wraybourne’s hand.

  “David, my dear friend! It has been too long. And whom have you brought? One of these beauties must be your bride-to-be. At least, I hope so or you are a rogue, Sir!” His bright eyes scanned them both and then he said, “I can detect your sister. The resemblance is remarkable. Welcome Lady Sophie! So this must be Miss Sandiford. An honor to meet you, my dear.”

  With a broad smile, David introduced the young ladies to their host, who promptly appropriated them both, one on each arm.

  “Go away, Wraybourne. You have these two beauties every day and must now share them for a few moments at least.”

  Lord Wraybourne obeyed and was quickly absorbed into a welcoming group.

  The musician turned to Jane and Sophie. “Do you like music, my dears?
No, that is a silly question. Everyone likes music. What kind of music do you like best?”

  Sophie raised her chin. “I do not like music very much. It is all right in the background, but I can do without it well enough.” She smiled up at him, but with a challenge in her eyes.

  “Ha! Ruined by a bad teacher. I can detect the signs. You will see, young lady. I will convert you. And you, Miss Sandiford?”

  “I like music very much, Mr. Medcalf, particularly symphonies with very large orchestras, for I have heard them so rarely.”

  “Ah, yes! The vibration seems to shake the bones. Now, I have someone I wish to introduce to you. I am sure you will be pleased.”

  With gentle pushes and a word here and there he eased them across the room to where a tubby little man was talking animatedly to a small group.

  “Ah, Lane,” exclaimed Mr. Medcalf. “Here I have some admirers, I am sure. Young ladies, may I present Mr. William Lane of the Minerva Press. Mr. Lane. Lady Sophie Kyle and Miss Jane Sandiford.”

  In a moment Medcalf was gone off to greet other new-comers, and Jane and Sophie were happy to be left in the company of the publisher of their favorite books. They were soon privy to a list of upcoming titles. Sophie was resolved to order Subterranean Horrors while Jane felt drawn to a novel entitled Bewildered Affections.

  All too soon, Lord Wraybourne collected them and took them around to greet the other guests. The new poet laureate, Mr. Southey, was there and the famous scientist, Sir Humphrey Davy. Jane was enthralled by his talk of the strange effects of something called laughing gas, and Lord Wraybourne promised to take her to the Royal Institution to witness Sir Humphrey’s next demonstration. She was not surprised to find the earl kept his own box there for the lectures.

  He also introduced them to the famous miniaturist, Mr. Andrew Robertson, and Jane gathered he had been commissioned to paint her portrait soon after the wedding. However, she found the way he studied her alarming. He seemed to be looking beneath her skin, stripping off each layer of bone and tissue.