A Lady of Letters

by Andrea Pickens

  "I... I..." she stuttered.

  "Eyes, not eye. Plural, not singular. Try keeping them open!" He knew it was hardly fair, using such biting sarcasm on one who clearly would not have the wits nor the backbone to fight back, but he found he couldn't restrain himself.

  The young lady drew in a sharp intake of breath.

  The Earl's eyes pressed closed. Hell's teeth, that was all he needed! No doubt the chit was about to dissolve in a fit of hysterics and the whole room would know of this ridiculous incident. Why hadn't he reined in his temper—

  "Pompous ass."

  His lids flew open. "What!" She had spoken so softly that he wasn't sure he had heard her correctly.

  The young lady's hand flew to her mouth, as if it could belatedly snatch the words back. But instead of mumbling some distraught apology, she sucked in another breath and went on. "And a vulgar one as well. How dare you speak of the young ladies here as if they were... idiots."

  With a start he realized she must have overheard his previous words. His lips compressed. He was certainly not showing to advantage in this whole mess, but somehow, the knowledge only goaded him to further rudeness.

  "They are idiots. All of them." By the way his disdainful gaze slowly traveled the full length of her person as he spoke, he made it quite clear she was not excluded from the sweeping generalization.

  She gasped, whether in horror or outrage he wasn't sure. Then he looked through the glass lens of her spectacles and caught sight of the storm of indignation swirling in a sea of hazel frothed with specks of gold. Oh, it was anger all right, nearly as tempestuous as his own. For a moment he regarded the face glaring up at him. Or rather straight at him, for she could hardly be described as diminutive. She was not quite so young as the other misses gathered under the watchful eyes of their chaperones. Aside from the intriguing eyes, which showed no lack of expression, her cheekbones were high and prominent, her mouth a little wider than conventional beauty allowed, giving her features a certain unique character. She was not exactly pretty, but... interesting, especially now that a flush of color had returned to her cheeks and several tendrils the color of wheat at harvest time had escaped the simple arrangement of her hair and fallen to accentuate the graceful curve of her neck.

  By now, she had finally managed to think of a reply to his mocking statement. "Well, why are you complaining, then? I... I thought that is what men wanted—ladies who are idiots."

  He was rather surprised she hadn't simply turned tail by now and slunk away. Never had he encountered a female who dared raise her voice to him—or any gentleman—much less mutter unflattering epithets. She was certainly exhibiting an unusual spirit to go along with her looks, he granted. However, right now such singular behavior was only serving to fan the flames of his temper.

  His dark brows drew together in a manner calculated to appear intimidating. "Ah, but what we want are charming idiots," he countered. "Well behaved idiots. Not ones whose tongues are sharper than their wits and who have no better common sense than to create a hoydenish scene in a crowded ball room." His gaze raked over her once again, taking in the defiant tilt of her chin, the unladylike scowl. "With such lack of restraint, not to speak of clumsiness, no wonder you have reached an advanced age with no success in snaring a husband."

  Her color deepened to a bright red. She stood utterly tongue tied for several moments, her mouth opening then shutting without a sound coming forth. Then, with the half empty glass still clutched in her hand, she whirled and disappeared behind the trees.

  Sheffield's mouth thinned into a tight line. That had been needlessly cruel, he thought with a twinge of conscience. It wasn't at all like him to act in such a ungentlemanly fashion, but somehow the chit had caused the frayed ends of his patience to snap. He supposed he ought to follow her and make some apology. He had been wrong to let his damnable temper cause him to lose control. If he were honest with himself, she had not been entirely to blame for the unfortunate incident. After all, his words had been rather harsh and, as she had put it, rather vulgar.

  The young lady—for despite his cutting words, she did not appear to be entirely on the shelf—didn't deserve to be so ruthlessly skewered for trying to defend those of her sex. She had shown more grit than he had ever expected in a female, even though she had been no match in trying to cross verbal swords with him.

  His lips suddenly twitched as he recalled she hadn't been totally unable to express herself. Why, she had called him a pompous ass! A glance down at his ruined garment caused another wry grimace. He could almost believe the chit had done it on purpose, but that would most likely be according her too much credit for clever retribution. At least, she had made his decision on how to pass the rest of the evening a simple one. He had no choice but to return to his townhouse and change out of the sticky mess. And given the way the evening had been progressing, the thought of reading by the fire seemed even more appealing.

  Odious coxcomb!

  Augusta took a deep breath and tried to settle her seething emotions. Why was it she seemed to need ink and paper in front of her to compose her thoughts properly? From her pen, the right words seemed to run with an exuberant spontaneity while when in the presence of strangers they tripped on her tongue, tangling themselves in such a way as to make her sound, well, idiotic, if she spoke at all. Only the fact that she had been absolutely furious over the insult to Marianne had allowed her to make such a bold assault on the gentleman before her natural reticence reasserted itself. That she had turned and fled without coming up with even a halfway pithy retort to his insult made her annoyance with herself even greater.

  If she were going to make an ass of herself in public, why couldn't she at least be a clever ass?

  She fetched a fresh glass of lemonade, still fuming over the incident. Gentleman indeed! The Earl of Sheffield appeared to be even worse than his reputation suggested. Her own brief experience certainly corroborated certain whispers that he was hot-tempered and arrogant, a jaded rake, puffed up with a sense of his own importance.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of his tall, elegantly dressed figure among the throng of milling couples. He was undeniably handsome, she grudgingly allowed, and moved with an easy natural grace which she wished her long, gawky limbs could emulate. But the look of sardonic boredom on his chiseled lips as his gaze moved over the crowd only reaffirmed her impression that he was the most insufferable man she had ever met.

  "Oh dear, whatever is wrong, Gus?" whispered Marianne, leaning close to take the glass from her sister's hands.

  "What makes you think anything is wrong," she answered through gritted teeth.

  Marianne turned to smile prettily at her latest dance partner, remarking that she had changed her mind and would prefer ratafia punch to lemonade. As the young man hurried off, she took Augusta by the arm and moved out of the hearing of two stout matrons sitting nearby. "Your cheeks are exactly the shade of red they get when Uncle Charles remarks that ladies should not read certain books, lest they confuse our feeble minds."

  Augusta allowed a tight smile. "I'm surprised they aren't even redder, given the provocation." She took a deep breath. "Pay it no heed, I just... bumped into a most unpleasant gentleman, that is all."

  Marianne looked surprised, but the expression on her sister's face made her think better of pursuing the matter. After a moment she sought to change the subject. "Was that really the Earl of Sheffield you were conversing with near the refreshment room? I was not aware that you were acquainted with him."

  "I am not acquainted with him. Nor do I wish to be. In fact, if I never see that arrogant, insufferable man again I shall be well pleased. And I can safely assume he feels the same way." At her sister's startled expression, she went on to explain." We were not conversing. We were trading insults, though I fear he got much the better of me." Her lips compressed into a grim smile. "But at least I managed to dampen His Lordship's overweening pride with over half a glass of lemonade."

  Marianne a horr
ified gasp." You didn't! Oh, Gus, no wonder he was upset. Why, he is accorded to be one of the most fashionable men in Town. All the young dandies seek to copy his dress—"

  "Well then, waistcoats streaked with a rather ghastly shade of yellow should be all the crack next week."

  "Gus!"

  "It wasn't as if I did it on purpose." She paused a fraction. "Not exactly."

  Her sister had gone rather pale. "It is said he is a very powerful man, one you should not wish to make an enemy of."

  Augusta chin came up a fraction. "It doesn't matter. He was unforgivably rude about all the young misses here, and you in particular."

  "Me!" Marianne looked totally confused now. "Why, he doesn't know me!"

  "Precisely."

  Any further conversation on the matter was cut off by the return of Mr. Darby and another young man who had danced the first set with Marianne. Their offer to escort the two sisters into supper was accepted and the four of them followed the crowd heading toward the tables heaped with all manner of delicacies.

  Augusta couldn't help but notice that Earl was coming in her direction. When it looked for one horrible moment as if he might pause, she drew her brows together and shot him a black look that she hoped was just as intimidating as the one he had given her earlier. To her great satisfaction, he passed by without so much as a nod of acknowledgement.

  Sheffield watched the four young people pass. No wonder the lady had been upset, he thought. The blond was obviously a friend—no, on closer observation, it appeared likely they were related, though the younger girl was more conventionally pretty than his antagonist. That made his crude comments even worse, though it hadn't been his fault she had been skulking in the greenery, eavesdropping on a decidedly private conversation between two gentlemen..

  Still, he should have known better than to voice such sentiments in mixed company. It was a measure of how out of kilter he was feeling these days, to make such a silly error in judgement He knew he should force himself to proffer an apology, but the presence of the two young men caused his jaw to clench. He'd be damned if he'd make any more of a cake of himself tonight by exposing the ridiculous affair to the ears of those young pups. It would all over the clubs before midnight!

  He would do the pretty the next time he saw her.

  Or perhaps he would get lucky and never have to lay eyes on the offending chit again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ".... I hope that this brief overview has served to offer some clarification of my thoughts concerning the nature of a society that permits child labor. Your questions, despite your assertions to the contrary, were most thoughtful and showed an inquisitiveness and openness to new ideas that I find sadly lacking in most supposedly educated men of today. You may trust that I found answering them by no means an onerous chore. Indeed, I am gratified by your interest and should be happy to engage in a regular exchange of letters, as you suggest, and pursue further explorations of ideas and ideals. As to that, I believe you will find my next essay even more interesting.

  Yours sincerely, etc.

  Firebrand

  Sheffield carefully folded the thick sheets of paper and tucked it into the top drawer of his desk. Fresh from an early morning ride in Hyde Park, he found the letter that had awaited his return even more exhilarating than the rush of fresh air in his face. At last a chance to exercise his mind without fear of ridicule or censure! Not that he cared a whit what others thought, but there were precious few of his acquaintances who would understand his current restlessness, or not think him a candidate for Bedlam for turning the pages of aught but the betting book at their club. He sighed. And the sort of gentlemen who might be capable of rational conversation were also out of the question, for they would no doubt have a preconceived notion of the limited mental capacities of a rake and a libertine and refuse to take him seriously.

  His crop slapped against the polished leather of his Hessians as he rose and walked toward the breakfast room of his townhouse. No, this was perfect, he thought, a smile of satisfaction spreading across his face. The idea of it was incredibly liberating—he could wax philosophic in perfect anonymity, to be judged only on the merits of his ideas, not the notoriety of his past actions or the trappings of his pedigree. Any praise would be deserved, just as would be any chidings or ridicule, though he doubted such an intellectual as Firebrand would resort to the latter. The fellow had been kind in commending him for his first cautious questions and the Earl found himself wanting to rise a notch higher in the fellow's esteem, perhaps even earn the man's respect for his own capabilities. It would be a real challenge, for the standards would be high, but one which he looked forward to.

  A packet from Pritchard & Sons containing their latest pamphlet lay by his teacup. Ignoring the sideboard set with steaming shirred eggs, fresh scones and a platter of Yorkshire ham, he tore open the wrappings, his appetite whetted for ideas rather than any meal. His impatient fingers paged back the thin newsprint cover and he began to devour the words.

  It was nearly midday before the Earl had finished reading and rereading the long discourse. With a shake of his head, he sat back in his chair, full of admiration for both the powerful thoughts and the elegant turn of the phrases. It was rather like being skewered by a sword of jeweled gold, he thought wryly, glitter and color disguising a lethal sharpness. Why, the language was so richly wrought one could almost forget that the words were a slashing attack on the complacency of the Ton. He imagined there would be more than a few howls of outrage in the clubs tonight, as well as perhaps a few muted agreements.

  Several of the references to other books had caught his attention. He consulted his pocketwatch and decided he had just enough time to make their purchase before meeting up with Broadhurst and Wilton at Tattersall's.

  Augusta's brow puckered as she looked over the notes in front of her. Each small pile was carefully sorted and arranged to document a certain facet of her argument, but on the last few ideas, she was still in need of a better reference. Muttering darkly under her breath, she put her pen down. There was no getting around it, she would have to pick up a few more volumes for her research.

  Marianne's head came up from the copy of La Belle Assemble she was perusing. "What was that you said?"

  "Nothing."

  "Oh yes you did. You said ‘damnation' under your breath." She repressed a chuckle. "Pray, do be careful Mama doesn't hear you, else she will sink into a fit of vapors that could last a week."

  Augusta heaved a sigh. "I am not quite so addlepated as that. It's just that I had planned to spend the afternoon working and now I find I must go out. Do you wish to come along?"

  Her sister shook her head. "I am to go out for a drive with Lord Symonds later and I should never have enough time to make myself ready. Besides, I want to finish choosing a style for the new ball gowns Mama wishes me to have." She paused for a moment to regard Augusta's profile and way the light filtering in from the window highlighted strong lines of her face and the golden flecks in her hazel eyes, now sparking with a flare of annoyance." Come look at this one. It would look marvelous on you, what with your height and figure."

  Augusta brushed away a loose tendril of hair. "I have more than enough gowns," she said absently as she rummaged in her desk for some other papers.

  "Yes, all of which look perfectly dreadful since you paid not the slightest attention to their cut or color and let Mrs. Huston do as she wished."

  "Mrs. Hulston had been making my dresses since I was a child," replied Augusta.

  "That is precisely my point. The woman is a dear old thing but she has no eye for how you should be attired."

  "It hardly matters. It is you who need be concerned over such things, not me."

  Marianne's brow creased. "You are wrong, you know. I can see that gentlemen take notice of you, and if you would give them even half a chance...." Her finger traced over the elegant picture in front of her. "Why I couldn't help but notice that even Lord Sheffield continued to follow you with his eye
s the other night, and everyone says he is a man whose interest does not usually lie with young misses."

  "Hah!" Augusta gave a snort. "He was merely trying to decide whether he could get away with pitching me headfirst over the balcony into the garden fountain. And anyway, the interest of that sort of man would hardly be flattering. He is exactly the sort of gentleman I find abhorrent—vain, shallow and self-absorbed."

  "But surely there are others who you find of some interest," persisted Marianne. "You seem to enjoy the conversation of Lord Harwich."

  "He, at least, has a sensible mind lurking beneath those carefully arranged curls," she allowed. "But...." She finished scribbling a list of things she needed and stood up.