Country Flirt

by Joan Smith

  Samantha ignored his comment. “Well, Monty, I hear you have actually seen Lord Howard. What is he like, and why isn’t he here?”

  He lifted a well-shaped finger and wagged it playfully. “No, no! First you must tell me how happy you are to see me again. My pride demands it.”

  “Naturally we are all aux anges at the condescension of your sojourn.”

  “Say, rather, ‘visit.’ ‘Sojourn’ implies an indefinite stay. I shall definitely be removing aussitôt que possible, As soon as Uncle Howard deigns to appear, that is to say. One must not be behindhand in welcoming the family ancients.”

  “One might even go so far as to stay a few days.”

  “That is overdoing it, surely. I want to make him feel welcome, not honored. And by the by, you haven’t asked me to take a seat.”

  “Take all you want. They’re yours.”

  “Why do I feel you’re doing me a favor, I wonder?” he asked, and drew a petit-point chair close to hers.

  “Your London flirts are more effusive, I assume?”

  “Effusive suggests to me an overflowing, almost a gushing. Your welcome is mean-spirited at best. And now that I have been made to feel de trop in my own saloon, you may inquire for the guest of honor.”

  “Thank you. I am dying to—”

  Monteith lifted his hand, palm down, to stop her. “My manners have already begun to fall off. Before we proceed to Lord Howard, I must compliment you on your appearance.” He regarded her closely, his eyes falling from her face to study her toilette. “Not the gown—that would be doing it too brown,” he said with a mischievous twinkle; then his eyes returned to her face. “Ah, I have it! You’re ageless, Sam. You always look the same.”

  “You make me sound like a mountain, or an octogenarian! If that is your notion of a compliment, I thank you for the intention.”

  “It was meant as one, I promise you.”

  “At my advanced years to ‘always look the same’ must be a great consolation. After going to the bother of wearing a strawberry mask for two mornings running and visiting the coiffeur last week, however, I rather expected some such inanity as looking ‘better than usual.’ “

  “We shall blame it on the provincial coiffeur. I stick by my original assessment—always the same, in both appearance and tartness of tongue.”

  Her lips quivered in amusement. “You’re still the same, too, Monteith.”

  He regarded her warily. “Thank you, I think. That will teach me to tell a lady the truth. I should have been prattling of ‘charming new hairdo’ and gown ‘in the highest kick of fashion,’ I daresay.”

  “No, no, such barefaced lies are unnecessary. Only a little ingenuity in coating the pill of truth is all I ask. We expect no less of the parish’s most eligible bachelor.”

  “What will you do for a compliment when I’m shackled, Sam?”

  She hunched her shoulders in indifference. “Fade away to a shadow, cock up my toes, and die.”

  “You should have gone to London when you were still—that is—”

  She looked at him wide-eyed. “I was going to, but it was considered unsafe. The roads were menaced by Vikings and Goths in those days.”

  Monteith touched her chin with one long finger. “Don’t go overboard on the sarcasm, Sammie. You’re not old enough to be playing Madame de Staël. Only established matrons who wear blue stockings are permitted to be clever. You must find yourself a husband first. It is a sine qua non in polite society. Ladies still on the catch for a man must simper and smile. It would help if you could learn to blush.”

  “Difficult! You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” She laughed.

  “And you must not reveal that you find us gentlemen absurd.”

  “Impossible!”

  “Then you’re doomed to the shelf for life.”

  “Fine. Are we all finished with the compliments now? I am dying to hear what Lord Howard is like and why he isn’t here.”

  He shook his head. “Much must be missing in your life, when you encroach on the death metaphor for such a paltry excuse. Young maidens are allowed to be ‘dying’ only in the cause of romance. He’s as tanned as a blackamoor, and has wretched manners. I believe that answers your two questions. But never mind Howard. I am here to entertain you.”

  On this speech, he drew his chair a little closer and lowered his voice. “Tell me all the on-dits,” he ordered, and seemed truly interested to hear them.

  Samantha didn’t want to make the summer assembly the first item of priority, and said, “Reverend Russel is having the summer fête next week. A fête champêtre we are calling it this year, as he’s upped the price to a crown. We’re holding it here at the Hall.”

  He nodded approvingly. “We wouldn’t want to cheapen the Hall by letting them in for pennies. It all sounds very French. Champagne and strawberries, I expect? Flower-strewn swings and ladies with broad-brimmed hats. Young couples dallying along the riverbanks. Charming. Someone should paint it. A pity Fragonard is no longer alive.”

  “Strawberries and clotted cream, actually, and of course the smock race and egg race and three-legged race. You don’t have a river on the estate, but the children will likely be wading for frog spawn in the stream.”

  Monteith lowered his brow and frowned in mock anger. “You haven’t changed a bit, Miss Bright. Still playing the country lumpkin to the top of your bent, to make me appear a fop. Tell me, am I having a ball afterward?”

  “No, a barn dance, milord.”

  The flash of amusement in his dark eyes reminded Samantha what it was she liked about Monty. He was always willing to laugh at himself and anyone else who deserved it. But it wasn’t a mean laugh. He merely enjoyed the oddities of the world.

  “What other earthly delights await me in the country? No need to take me literally and inform me of worms and toads and dandelions.”

  “The summer assembly is at the end of the month, if you’re still here. I doubt that would appeal to one of your jaded appetites. No doubt Brighton would provide a better party than Lambrook. On the other hand,” she added with exaggerated importance, “they’ve put a new coat of paint on the raised platform in the assembly room at the inn. Can Brighton boast of a green raised platform?”

  “Not even Prinney’s Pavilion has such magnificence! And the music?”

  “Jed Flood and his Fiddlers Three, with Mrs. Flood at the pianoforte, as usual.”

  “Tempting! But enough of these paltry details. What of the ladies? Has Lambrook any new pulchritude to tempt a jaded palate? If there’s one thing dearer to my heart than money, it is the ladies. Not just any old woman, mind you, but a prime piece of pulchritude.”

  Samantha shook her head in sad resignation. So far as she could tell, Monty cared not a fig for money or virtue or character or any of the items the generality of mankind admired. She couldn’t count the number of items she had heard him say, “Yes, but is she pretty?” when a deb had been nudged forward for his consideration. “How are her eyes, her teeth, her ankles?”

  Excellence in any of the above was always sufficient recommendation. The lady need not be incomparable. Indeed, from what she had seen of some of his “beauties” at the Hall, he could discover charms invisible to a less keen eye. A certain Mrs. Higgs, for example, was a butter-toothed widow with a dumpy frame, but Monty saw only her long lashes and dimples. The eyes were well enough, but as for the dimples, they weren’t on her face or arms.

  She scoured her mind and said, “Well, there’s Mrs. Armstrong, a new widow lady who has rented the old brick house across from us on High Street.”

  “Is she pretty?” he asked, with every appearance of interest.

  “She’ll be at your barn dance, Monty. Why don’t you go and see for yourself?”

  “Will you save me a waltz?”

  “I feel safe in promising you every waltz. That city dissipation hasn’t reached Lambrook yet.”

  “That explains your unusual generosity! Perhaps I’ll have a waltzing party and tea
ch it to the locals. This Mrs. Armstrong—where is she from?”

  “What does it matter? She has lovely black hair and long lashes.”

  Monteith tilted his head and massaged his chin. It was at Samantha’s long lashes that he gazed, smiling softly. What a pretty girl she was! And what would her dowry be? She might make an excellent wife for one of his brothers. She would be a lively addition to the family gatherings. He might even bring her into fashion in London.

  The butler announced dinner, and Monteith went to do his duty in escorting ladies to the dining room. They were one gentleman short. The vicar had his wife, Mr. Sutton’s sisters each had a husband with them, and Lady Monteith had Mr. Sutton, which permitted Monteith to escort both the Brights.

  Lady Monteith looked with annoyance at her lovely table. She’d have to do the pretty all over again when Howard took it into his head to come. No matter, with Monty home, the house would be full of company. She was of a quiet disposition, without being an actual hermit. There wasn’t much she enjoyed more than a quiet evening alone, or with Clifford, who wasn’t a roisterous sort of man.

  Dinner proceeded quietly for two courses. The roast of lamb was just being placed on the board when there was a raucous hollering heard in the front hall. “Holloa, boy! Boy!” The sound reverberated through the house, followed by a rattle as of a box falling.

  “Good gracious! What is that?” Lady Monteith demanded.

  Her son smiled at the assembled party. “It sounds as though Uncle Howard has come to dinner after all. No need to disturb yourself, Mama,” he said to his motionless parent. “I’ll do the pretty and welcome him.” He rose languorously and glided from the room.

  Chapter 3

  A moment later Lord Monteith reappeared with his uncle, Lord Howard. Every eye in the room gleamed with avid curiosity as it turned to see the infamous black sheep. Samantha looked, and felt a nearly overwhelming urge to laugh at the striking similarity between nephew and uncle. Lord Howard looked as if someone had taken Monty into a tanning factory and treated him. The general face and figures were similar, but the uncle’s skin was darker and coarser. He was obviously older, more dissipated, more wrinkled, and heavier than Monteith. His hairline had receded an inch or so, but the eyes that surveyed the room had the same youthful gleam. The head sat at the same proud angle. Lord Howard’s toilette lacked the elegance of the younger man’s; Stultz had padded his shoulder wider than necessary and nipped the waist in too tightly.

  When Lord Howard spoke, the strange feeling of similarity faded. His accents were not the cultured ones of his nephew, nor were his words as polite, though they showed some concern for the company. “Good evening, all. I’m Lord Howard, the nabob. Don’t interrupt your eating on my account. I’ll just slide into any empty chair and will soon catch up with you.”

  As he spoke, he glanced around the table and spotted the vacant chair. Before taking up his seat, he turned to one of the hovering footmen. “I’m ravenous as a lion. I haven’t had a bite since noon. Bring me a platter of meat, lad. Hop, hop.”

  Then he sat down and began a perusal of the female faces that surrounded the table. The sharp-eyed dame at the head of the table—that would be Irene, of course. She used to be a good-looking lass when she married Ernie. The ladies lasted a little better here than in the tropics. She didn’t look over fifty, which she must be. She’d married Ernest thirty-six years ago.

  “Lord Howard, I’m happy you could make it for dinner,” Lady Monteith said, through thin lips.

  “Ho, I’d forgotten you keep country hours. We dine after nine in India. The heat, you know. We live half our lives in the dark. It’s that or be parboiled. I’d have been here hours ago if that demmed dubash I left off at John Company’s office in London hadn’t detained me by getting himself lost. I brought him along to England to handle my affairs with the company, to save me from pelting off to the city. Well, Irene, you’re holding up well for a lady of your years.” He smiled.

  Lady Monteith ignored this two-edged compliment. “Pray allow me to introduce you to my guests,” she said stiffly, and ran around the table, mentioning everyone’s name. While she performed this thankless job, Lord Howard reached out and grabbed a piece of bread, which he buttered and ate in great bites. He glanced up from time to time to acknowledge introductions with a brief nod.

  Then a plate of mutton was placed before him. He squared his elbows, lowered his head, and tore into it. The sight reminded Lady Monteith of nothing so much as a wild animal at a carcass. She winced and shook her head at her son, that paragon of suavity, who smiled blandly.

  Other than making a spectacle of himself, Lord Howard proved a bore while at his meal. He conversed little. Any question was answered curtly, often with no more than a nod or shake of his head. When he had cleaned two plates, he sat back, patted his stomach, and said to Lady Monteith, “That’s more like it! Your sircar sets a very decent table, Sis.”

  “Thank you,” she said, in icy accents,

  The man was impossible. She would not submit her guests to the sight of him gobbling his food again. He must be hinted away at once. “That fellow you left in London handling your business, Lord Howard—”

  “Call me Howard, Sis. Now that I am home in the bosom of my family, we may leave off with titles. I may be a burra sahib, but plain Howard is good enough for me. That would be Rangi you’re talking about. My dubash.”

  The words “bosom of my family” smote her with grim forebodings. “He’s arranging your pension with the East India Company, is he?” she asked.

  “Oh, I have no pension. I left John Company eons ago.”

  “No pension! But—”

  “Nay, I’ve been working for the nawabs. Rangi will be spending some time at the hoppo, getting my goods through customs, but we should see him within the week.”

  She ignored the annoying and unnecessary use of foreign words and tried to ignore that “within the week.” “Would it not have gone more quickly if you had done it yourself?” she asked tartly.

  “A burra sahib must learn to delegate authority, or he’d spend his days looking over piddling invoices and bills. Rangi is a sharp lad. I trained him up myself.”

  “But still,” she persisted, “I think you ought to go back to London, at once.”

  Lord Monteith looked from mother to uncle and smiled a languid smile. “Why, Mama, you will be giving Howard the notion he isn’t welcome in the bosom of his family.”

  She glared down the table at her son and said nothing. Monteith accepted a piece of fruit from the footman and turned his attention once again to his uncle. “We would be most interested to hear something of your sojourn in India, Uncle,” he said.

  Looking at Monty, Samantha saw the glitter of mischief in his dark eyes. What an obstinate man he was, encouraging this farouche relative, when it was as clear as water his mother disapproved.

  Lord Howard said, “It was hot and crowded and dirty.” Then he accepted a piece of melon and attacked it with his knife. “You couldn’t get a decent melon in India. They were all watery and tasteless—like this one, Sis,” he added, and pushed it away. He beckoned to the footman and took up an orange to try his luck with it.

  “Mind you,” he ran on, “they have a fruit there called mangosteen that beats anything here in England all hollow. The most exquisite thing I ever tasted. The table fare was tolerable, once I taught my lads not to douse everything in oil. The fish and poultry were excellent.”

  “How did you find the ladies, Uncle?” Monteith asked leadingly.

  Lord Howard frowned, for he took this subject even more seriously than his food, and that is saying a good deal. “A trifle dusky, of course,” he said. His glance slid to Samantha and rested a moment on her blond curls. “They were well enough. The color of a hen is irrelevant, so long as she produces eggs. My woman—”

  Lady Monteith paled visibly, and when she spoke, her voice was hollow. “You didn’t marry one of them! You didn’t bring her home!”

 
“I didn’t marry Jemdanee,” he said sadly. “I gave some thought to it. She was as gentle and affectionate a girl as ever lived. I might have married her, but then when our son died, she went off on her looks.”

  The vicar’s fork fell to the table with a clatter, which helped to cover the sound of strangled gasps from the Sutton ladies.

  Lord Howard threw up his shoulders and sighed. “I set Jemdanee and her family up in a house before I left. Not a cutcha either, but a proper chunam, built with mortar in place of mud. I had a rattan veranda thrown up to block the sun and all. I had an eye for her little sister, but her papa was asking five hundred sicca rupees for her. That would be over fifty pounds.”

  The vicar cleared his throat, and his wife fanned herself vigorously. Lord Howard noticed and said, “You need not fear I’ve returned a Hindu. I’m still a Christian, Reverend. You’ll see me decorating the family pew come Sunday.”

  At every mention of future dates, Lady Monteith squirmed visibly.

  “A man who has a taste for feminine companionship would do well to consider marriage,” Reverend Russel felt obliged to say.

  “Women are much on my mind,” Lord Howard assured him. “I will be looking sharp about me for a replacement for Jemdanee.”

  “Howard!” Lady Monteith objected. All the other guests looked extremely uncomfortable.

  “Now what has set you to gasping like a bunch of stuck pigs?” Lord Howard demanded. “We are talking about marriage, ain’t we?” As he spoke, he turned his gaze to examine the specimens of English womanhood around the table.

  The Sutton ladies stared at him as if he were a yahoo, and were very thankful they had the protection of their husbands. Mrs. Bright was the next to fall under his gaze. Samantha’s mother was a pretty, delicate lady, bright of eye, dainty in her movements. She was plenty young enough for Lord Howard. Indeed, she considered his fifty-plus years too old to be of interest to her. “Your name was Nora something, if I ain’t mistaken?” he asked.