An Extraordinary Flirtation

by Maggie MacKeever

  It was very shabby of her aunt to scold when Zoe had behaved herself quite well this evening thus far. She hadn’t spun around the floor for two successive dances with any gentleman, or granted three dances to any of her beaux; hadn’t done anything without being told she might; hadn’t screamed with boredom until she was purple in the face.

  She thrust out her lower lip. “I hope you don’t mean to load me with reproaches, Aunt Cara. It would be far too great a bore. ‘Shocking,’ ‘imprudent,’ ‘displeasing’—I’ve heard it all before. Since I haven’t a grain of proper feeling, you might as well save your breath. Anyway, I don’t plan to make a byword of myself. And what would it matter if I did?”

  “I thought you had a partiality for Lord Mannering,” Ianthe interrupted, faintly. “Don’t you wish to be a marchioness?”

  “Of course I have a partiality,” retorted Zoe. “Lord Mannering is so very manly, don’t you think? He may even turn out to be my True Love. But Beau says I am too young to marry, and he should know, for he married young himself.” Although Zoe did not rule out an elopement. Perhaps she would run off to Gretna Green with Lord Mannering, and then leave him languishing somewhere pale and brokenhearted, which would be a feather in any maiden’s cap. “I mean to Experience Life before I marry. If I’ve learned anything from Beau, it is that one should try on the shoe to see if it fits before purchasing it.” She snickered. “Look at the two of you, gasping like a pair of fish!”

  No wonder Ianthe had turned into a wet-goose. Cara felt somewhat whimpery herself. “Because you are behaving badly!” she retorted. “Strive for a little conduct, or I shall take you home.” Zoe’s lip protruded further. Cara added, “And if you pout at me much longer, your face will freeze that way.”

  Zoe didn’t wish to be forever pouting. She nibbled on her lower lip instead. Nor did she care to leave the rout so early. She had not yet contrived to waltz with Lord Mannering, stand face-to-face with him, with her hand on his shoulder, and his hand on her waist, at which point the feeling of her in his arms would doubtless tempt him to yearn to take liberties.

  The evening was not over yet. Nor was dinner. Perhaps during dinner Lord Mannering might be so bewitched by the pulse fluttering daintily in her throat that he would lose his appetite, or at the very least drop his fork on the floor.

  * * * *

  “But I don’t want to have dinner with that little baggage!” protested Baron Fitzrichard, as Nick steered him inexorably through the crowd. Reluctant as he may have been to attend Lady Miller’s rout, Fitz had risen sartorially to the occasion, the highlight of his costume a pale pink waistcoat patterned all over in roses, worn over a second of plain rose, with a corbeau-colored coat boasting exaggerated shoulders and gilt buttons, Florentine silk breeches, white stockings, and buttoned shoes. He had additionally contemplated a patch at one corner of his mouth until his valet persuaded him that so dramatic a fashion statement should be preserved for a more important affair. Instead, he had settled for the quizzing glass, which he wielded frequently to good effect. In contrast, Lord Mannering was almost somber in a dark blue evening coat, white waistcoat, black pantaloons buttoned tight to the ankle and strapped over varnished black shoes.

  Fitz glimpsed the Loversall ladies then, and stared. Granted, they were all three lovely, but his attention was primarily for Ianthe, not because of her overwhelming beauty, but because she had taken too much to heart Fitz’s instruction that there should be one predominating color in a lady’s costume to which the rest should be subordinate, as in a piece of music there was a relation between the successive sounds or notes. Fitz wouldn’t go so far as to say Ianthe looked jaundiced, but in all those varying shades of yellow she did bear more than a passing resemblance to a primrose.

  He hurried forward. Too late to repair tonight’s damage, alas, but it was clearly incumbent upon him to offer several words to the wise. How most diplomatically to phrase it? “Delicate colors require to be supported and enlivened, and therefore are best relieved by contrast,” perhaps. No, Ianthe had already demonstrated herself entirely too susceptible to contrast. Perhaps a reference to the relationship of the fundamental keynote to the series of other sounds constituting a musical chord.

  Zoe placed herself in Lord Mannering’s path, cutting him off as neatly from the others as an American cowboy with a steer. He looked at her quizzically. Very much a creature of impulse, Zoe dimpled and went straight to the point. “I know I shouldn’t ask you this, Lord Mannering, but why haven’t you married? Aren’t you concerned that you should get yourself an heir while you still can?”

  The chit really was appallingly rag-mannered, as well as highly conceited to think she would be forgiven anything in a society where all other hopeful misses behaved just so. “Young ladies aren’t supposed to talk about such things,” said Nick. “As you know very well. But to satisfy your curiosity, since you did go so far as to ask: I already have an heir, my nephew Colin, with whom I’m quite content. He is at Oxford now. Perhaps you would like to meet him? Colin is an amiable fellow, and agile enough to get down on his knees and spout all sorts of nonsense.”

  Zoe chose to overlook this unchivalrous attitude. “I’ve shocked you,” she said.

  Had she known what it would take to truly shock him, Miss Loversall might have been shocked herself. She really was the most outrageous child, fluttering those long lashes at him, her lips drawn into a luscious pout.

  Her voice had dropped almost an entire octave. Nick said solicitously, “Are you taking a chill? Such a pity. I was going to ask if you wished to accompany me onto the balcony for a breath of fresh air.”

  Zoe wished very much to go out onto the balcony with Lord Mannering. Perhaps he would attempt to seduce her there. “It's nothing!” she said hastily, in her normal voice. “I merely had a lump in my throat. And yes, I would like a breath of fresh air, for it is so very close in here.”

  Lord Mannering was all solicitude. “No, no, my dear Miss Loversall. You must not be so reckless. Just because I have my heir doesn’t mean that you should take chances with your health.”

  Dubiously, Zoe regarded him. Was the marquess making fun of her? Perhaps it was time for a change of subject. “I thought perhaps you would not—” And then she broke off and very nearly stamped her foot. Instead of paying attention to her, Lord Mannering was intent on her family and his friend.

  Ianthe was twinkling at Fitz. “I’ve disappointed you, Baron. I fear I’m not in the habit of thinking much about my dress. But now I shall remember what you’ve told me, and when next we meet you will see that I am a veritable symphony.”

  Fitz flushed. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Nor did I!” Ianthe said quickly. “I was just teasing you a little bit. Allow me to make you known to my family. My niece, you have already met. This is my cousin Cara, Lady Norwood.”

  Fitz tried hard not to stare. Lady Norwood was even more goddess-like at close range, tall and lush and glorious, with a bosom that beggared description, and a pair of sparkling sapphire eyes. Somewhat jerkily, he bowed. When he straightened up, she was still studying him, with an expression that was both amused and oddly kind. “Peonies,” she said.

  He blinked. She laughed. “Forgive me, Baron Fitzrichard. I have been so long out of Society that I’ve gotten in the habit of saying what I think. Your waistcoat reminded me of my garden. I miss it very much. Are you aware of the color-changing properties of the hydrangea? Could you work that into a waistcoat, it would be a masterpiece indeed. Not that I mean to infer that this waistcoat isn’t, because of course it is.”

  Fitz beamed at her. Ianthe also smiled, revealing her own version of the family dimples, which were very fine. Zoe wished that she might poison both her cousin and her aunt. Not fatally, of course, just enough to make them ill enough that she might slip away. Not that she wished to slip away alone. Was Mannering ravishing her with his eyes? He was not.

  “Have you noticed the baron’s neck-cloth?” said Ianthe. “It is of his own des
ign. He is pondering a name for it. I had another notion, Baron. Perhaps, the Amourette?”

  Cara eyed the neck-cloth, which Fitz’s long-suffering valet hadn’t been able to prevent him from tying himself. “The Coup de Grace,” she said.

  Fitz, who had been demonstrating his unique left-handed style of manipulating his snuffbox—that damned Byron had taken the credit for it away from him, alas—inhaled abruptly, and sneezed. Nick chuckled and moved forward. “I think your creation has been christened, Fitz.”

  Zoe trailed after him. “This is my aunt,” she said, so gracelessly that Ianthe’s brief good humor fled.

  “No introductions are necessary.” Nick bent over Cara’s hand. “Your niece has told me all about you, Lady Norwood. You’re the pattern-card of propriety who is to show her how she must go on.”

  Chapter 6

  A pattern-card of propriety! Cara ground her teeth. She would go down in the family annals as the only member of the family to have never blotted her copybook. Even Ianthe would be remembered as having had her youthful disappointment, as a result of which she had foresworn all other amours and devoted herself to Zoe, although she would have been better advised to go into a nunnery, like their ancestor Francesca, who had nevertheless ended up being captured by corsairs and flung into the harem of the Grand Turk. Since the world didn’t know about them, Cara’s own romantic disappointments didn’t count.

  Surely she was not now regretting that she had failed to act like a Loversall! Cara tried to instill order upon her chaotic thoughts. Conflicting emotions assaulted her at each turn she took in London. Mocking memories lurked around every corner. It was far from comfortable to recall her younger self.

  If only she hadn’t allowed Beau to persuade her to accompany him. Cara had been happy where she was, or if not happy, certainly not discontent. She leaned against a sadly weathered classical maiden who retained possession of only one breast and wondered if Beau’s garden would benefit from a Gothic ruin.

  In truth, Beau’s garden was a Gothic ruin. Wide and overgrown stone paths led through what had at one time been lovely beds of plants and flowers surrounded by circles of white, blue, and red sand. Cara remembered the posies that had bloomed here in her mother’s day. Now the pool was dry, and the garden dominated by nature in so profusely weedy a manner that even her enthusiasm faltered. Cornflower, broad-leafed spurge, fingered speedwell, pheasant’s eye—she frowned at an especially fine example of groundsel. Between Beau’s garden and Beau’s daughter, Cara foresaw that she would be required to stay in town far longer than she wished. Wistfully she recalled her clematis and wisteria, her lilacs and her yew tree; her cows and chickens and sheep. She dreaded to think what mischief the head gardener was getting up to behind her back.

  Cara walked along the crushed stone path, pushing aside branches and vines. At least the roses still flourished, many of them grown six feet high. Later in the summer they would erupt in glorious bursts of white and pink and yellow. More than one of the bushes was already in bud, which according to the French, was a sign of ill luck. She touched a bird of paradise flower that had miraculously managed to survive alongside a maidenhair tree. Daisy burst through the undergrowth, a stout stick in her mouth.

  After a brief tussle for possession, Cara threw the branch. Daisy raced happily in pursuit. The setter would need a good brushing after this adventure. Already her silky coat was tangled with twigs and burrs. Cara wouldn’t be surprised if she’d acquired some vegetation in her own hair.

  Along a weathered garden wall—stone, with niches for statues that had either disappeared altogether or deteriorated sadly with time and neglect—bloomed a lone pink peony. Cara smiled, remembering Baron Fitzrichard’s waistcoat. Thought of Fitz reminded her in turn of Lord Mannering, and Zoe. As well as of her sudden role as the family expert on propriety, which was a sad comment on her life. Cara grabbed a handful of weeds, and yanked.

  A pattern-card of propriety! The odious man had laughed at her. Zoe could hardly be blamed for setting her cap at Mannering, for the marquess was handsome as the devil, with his dark hair that gleamed gold and russet in the candlelight, his high cheekbones and chiseled jaw; the lines of laughter and sensuality around his dark eyes and wicked mouth; that muscular body that wasn’t camouflaged a whit by finely tailored clothes.

  Cara decimated a passion flower. Daisy burst out of the bushes, stick clenched between her teeth. Cara reached out to throw the stick, but Daisy was off and barking before she had the chance.

  Beau, who was making his wary way along one of the stone paths, heard the barking and flinched. Like Baron Fitzrichard before him, Beau had the devil of a head. His excesses of the previous evening had naught to do, however, with macao and champagne, but rather resulted from a romantic tryst. What had happened there—or rather, hadn’t happened—had led him to drown his disappointment, and the lady’s, in drink. Beau supposed he should not be surprised that his amatory skills had begun to fail him, though in all the history of the family such a thing had never happened before. It was just another part of the general misery that seemed determined to assail him from all sides at this stage of his life.

  As Daisy seemed determined to assail him. “Down! Quiet!” he said. Daisy dashed off and returned, tail eagerly wagging, with her stick in her mouth. Gingerly he grasped the sodden thing and threw it a good distance. Daisy dashed off in pursuit.

  Beau continued along the path. Widdle had informed him that “the lady” was in the garden. Beau assumed that “the lady” was Cara, since Widdle referred to Zoe as “the demoiselle” and Ianthe as “the mistress,” despite all attempts to gently persuade him to do otherwise. Even Zoe hesitated to distress Widdle lest he take umbrage, because heaven only knew what sort of butler they might end up with next.

  Beau found Cara contemplating a dense and spiny evergreen shrub ripe with clusters of golden yellow flowers. “What are you doing here?” he said irritably. “Why didn’t you go with Zoe and Ianthe to visit the shops?”

  Cara brushed dirt off her hands. Beau’s legendary tight-fistedness didn’t extend to his daughter, who had vowed she would expire if denied a new dress. “I sent Barrow in my place. She knows my measurements. And I suspect her tastes are more refined than mine.”

  Widdle’s tastes were more refined than Cara’s. Beau eyed her ancient morning dress. “Bad enough that you went about like a dowd in the country, but you’re in London now.”

  Cara, as has been established, was in no good mood herself. She plopped her hands on her hips and glared, “Perhaps I shall introduce a haystack or a woodpile to your garden. Since my preferences are of so rustic a bent! Or perhaps I shall just take my provincial self back home.”

  “Perhaps you should.” With his lower lip thrust out, Beau looked remarkably like his daughter in a pet. “You’re here to look after Zoe, are you not? A trifle difficult to do while hiding in the garden, don’t you think?”

  There was truth in his accusation. Cara reined in her temper. “Please try and understand. It is very difficult for me to present myself in public when I am constantly being recognized and quizzed. People ask the rudest questions, and what they think is no doubt even worse than what they say.”

  There was truth in her words also, but Beau chose to overlook it. “If you hadn’t secluded yourself in the country with your sheep and your kumquats and your blasted chickens, Zoe might not have turned into such a strong-willed minx.”

  “And perhaps she would have, with you indulging her every whim!” But Cara didn’t wish to war with her brother, and so she changed the subject. “Did you know that Mannering was at Lady Miller’s rout?”

  Beau didn’t wish to quarrel either, not with his last hope. “Mannering was at Lady Miller’s? Good God, where will he show up next?” He looked around the garden as if expecting the marquess to pop out from beneath a bush.

  Daisy returned, panting, minus her stick. Both Beau and Cara ignored her. The setter dropped down on her haunches and watched them curiously.<
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  “He also took her down to dinner. The rest of us accompanied them.” Cara hadn’t enjoyed a spoonful of the repast, even though it had included rib of lamb and mayonnaise of salmon, boiled fowl and Béchamel sauce, collared eel and lobster salad and boar’s head; charlotte russe à la vanilla; veal-and-ham pie; jellies, compotes of fruit, cheesecakes, dishes of small pastry, and blancmange, all arranged tastefully up and down the table, interspersed with flowers and epergnes; and additionally a joint of cold roast and boiled beef placed on the buffet, something substantial for the gentlemen to partake of to keep up their strength. Instead she had sat quietly, and listened to Baron Fitzrichard’s explanation that delicate colors required to be supported and enlivened, and therefore were best relieved by contrast; though the contrast should not be so strong as to equal the color it was intended to relieve, for it then became opposition, which should be avoided at all costs; while Ianthe responded with flattered interest, and Zoe fluttered and flirted and struck her attitudes.

  The girl truly was shameless. Cara didn’t know what Beau expected she might do. Warn Zoe against coming under the gravest censure, so that Zoe might fairly say, so what? A Loversall wasn’t dissuaded by such considerations in the ordinary way of things, let alone when in pursuit of his or her True Love.

  True Love! Cara wasn’t sure that there was such a thing. If she’d once had such youthful fancies herself, she’d long since set them forcibly aside. And if such fancies sometimes crept into her dreams—Vigorously, she uprooted a nettle. Perhaps Cara had scant control over her dreams, but she didn’t have to dwell upon such nonsense in the daylight hours. Then why was she sitting here, brooding about it, all the same?

  If Beau had suspected that Mannering would appear at Lady Miller’s, he would have attended the damned rout himself, and consequently was glad he hadn’t suspected, for he disliked such events.