She did both with gusto. Her parties and breakfasts were always granted the ultimate epithet of being labelled a sad crush. Despite her Whig alliances, Lady Gwendolyn was a close friend of Lady Cowper, that ardent Canningite and most powerful of Almack’s patronesses, whose wit was as dry and as sharp as her ladyship’s own. This Season, however, had proved a little flat for Lady Gwendolyn who, having successfully fired off each of her three daughters in consecutive years, had no chicks left to launch and only a granddaughter of some eight summers to plan for. Thus, Henrietta’s wholly unexpected arrival upon her doorstep, when she had just returned from a tedious night watching the unfortunate Mr Kean being pelted with rotten fruit at Drury Lane Theatre, provided a most welcome diversion.
Too numb from the shock of her sudden flight from the Mouse and Vole to worry about the reception which might await her at the house in Berkeley Square, Henrietta’s only thought had been to seek the sanctuary of a roof over her head and some time to come to terms with things. She scarcely remembered that first night, and indeed had proved incapable of providing any coherent answers to her concerned aunt’s many questions. Fortunately, Lady Gwendolyn, an eminently practical woman, had taken one look at her strained, lily-white face and, deciding tomorrow was time enough for explanations, packed Henrietta off to bed with strict orders to sip upon a cup of warm milk and sleep without waking until morn.
Exhaustion had set in, and Henrietta had been only too happy to oblige. When morning had come, though the heavy weight of self-blame still threatened to suffocate her, she was determined not to show it. She had been a fool. She had allowed her desires to cloud her judgement, persuading herself that Rafe would change just because she longed for him to. The scars inflicted by his marriage to Lady Julia would not heal because he would not let them. His care for her was sincere, but shallow, and he would not allow it to deepen. Rafe was not incapable of love, but he had chosen to be.
‘And the point is,’ Henrietta had told herself stoically that first morning in Berkeley Square, as she woke to find a pot of hot chocolate by her bed, a huge copper bath placed behind a screen by the fireside of her chamber, ‘the point is that anything less than love would only ever make me unhappy. I could perhaps sacrifice myself and my principles for someone who loved me, but not for someone who doesn’t.’
She had had a very lucky escape, she had told herself firmly as she sank into the luxuriously scented water and soaped her hair. ‘At least, in time, I’m sure it will feel so,’ she had said mournfully, for the painful ache in her heart could not be ignored. ‘In time I am sure I will accept that it could never have been and I will hardly miss him at all—or even think of him. In time.’
She had tipped a kettle of warm water over her hair to rinse out the suds and wash away the flurry of tears that dripped down her cheeks. She would not cry! She would not pity herself! This pain she was feeling was completely self-inflicted. She had fallen in love with a man who had encased his heart in ice, whose solution to pain was to numb himself, lest he feel anything of any sort again. It should be a comfort to know that she had not succumbed to the temptation of his improper offer. She would not allow her love, her precious love, to be contaminated or sullied or defiled. She had done as she ought, in walking away with her self-respect, if not her heart, intact.
‘And soon, I am sure that will make me feel a lot better,’ she had told her reflection forlornly, for there was no escaping the fact that part of her wished she had never left Rafe in the first place. There was a shameful, most shameful bit of her, that would have accepted his proposition, and no amount of talking to and taking in hand and resolution would make it go away entirely.
‘What I need to do now is concentrate on the future,’ she had muttered, pulling on her brown robe. And so it was the future that she raised with her aunt on that first morning, but Henrietta’s notions did not at all meet with Lady Gwendolyn’s approval. ‘My niece a lowly governess!’ she had exclaimed in horror, upon hearing Henrietta’s somewhat truncated explanation of how she had come to arrive in Berkeley Square, following what she described as an unwarranted dismissal from her position, careful to make no mention of either emeralds or earls.
‘I can’t say I’m surprised that your tenure with Lady Ipswich ended in acrimony,’ Lady Gwendolyn said. ‘In fact, I’m rather glad of it. I had no idea that your mother had detached herself quite so fully from the world as to think that Helen Ipswich was a suitable person to entrust you to—however, I will say no more on that subject. But as to any notion of you taking up another similar position—absolutely not! And as to the notion you have of becoming a teacher in that school in Ireland!’ She patted Henrietta’s hand and tutted. ‘Well, my dear, let us hope that it is all pie in the sky, like the rest of your mother’s notions. No, don’t protest, you are a sensible chit and I am sure you know as well as I do that it’s true. I am simply glad that you had the good sense to come to me when you did, Henrietta. You must place yourself in my hands. I think I can promise to find you some brighter future than toiling away as a mere governess.’
She smiled benignly and Henrietta had tried very hard to smile back, even though at that moment a brighter future seemed a very long way off. ‘It has been a great sadness to me that we have never met,’ Lady Gwendolyn continued. ‘Though I can quite understand the loyalty you must have to your mother, it does seem a shame that you have never felt yourself able take up any of my invitations to visit.’
Henrietta looked at her aunt in dismay. ‘But I never received any invitations.’
‘Well! That certainly explains a lot,’ Lady Gwendolyn said tartly. ‘Your father’s doing, no doubt. I have never met him, but—’
‘Oh, no, Aunt, Papa would not have…’ Henrietta faltered to a halt. ‘I think it must have been Mama,’ she said, blushing. ‘She is very—very— She has very strong views on the evils of society. On account of her—her misfortune.’
Lady Gwendolyn tapped her lorgnette in the palm of her hand. ‘Well,’ she said eventually, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, much as she longed to set her niece straight, ‘well, we will say no more on that subject, either, but be assured, Henrietta, that I am most pleased to have you here.’
‘Oh, Aunt, and I am most pleased to be here,’ Henrietta said, giving her a hug.
Lady Gwendolyn felt herself adequately rewarded. Henrietta was really unexpectedly charming, with surprisingly excellent manners, given her rusticated upbringing. The Season was well underway, but that was rather an advantage than not, for people were at that stage where a new face was most welcome. It could not be a formal launching, for apart from the fact that Henrietta seemed strangely and most adamantly opposed to the notion of finding a husband, even Lady Gwendolyn recognised she had not the authority to find her niece a match. No, not a launching, but she would show Henrietta off to the world, get her a bit of town polish and dress her to advantage, all of which would stand her in good stead for the future. It would also be fun. That her sister Guinevere would be appalled by the whole thing went without saying, which made Lady Gwendolyn all the more determined to carry it off.
Henrietta had at first been extremely reluctant, for the very last thing she wished was to bump into Rafe again, to say nothing of the fact that she was struggling not to give in to the urge to hide herself in her bedchamber most days and not come out. She reminded herself resolutely every morning that she had no wish to see him at all. Ever. As the days progressed, she missed him with an increasing intensity that was horribly difficult to hide. Several times she had found herself under her aunt’s penetrating gaze and been forced to make up a white lie about missing Mama or Papa or Lady Ipswich’s sons.
Soon she had run out of excuses. A few tentative enquiries informed her that Lord Pentland’s town house was closed, apparently, the knocker off the door, the shutters fastened. That, coupled with Rafe’s self-confessed dislike of the ton and its soirées, meant any encounter was highly unlikely. Henrietta began to wonder if perh
aps the diversion of a month or so under her aunt’s wing would be just what she needed to help her forget all about the reclusive earl, so that when Lady Gwendolyn shrewdly suggested that her niece would, in fact, be doing her a great service by accompanying her to her various engagements, her own daughters all being out of town, Henrietta was finally swayed, and Lady Gwendolyn was able to write a triumphant letter to her sister informing her of her daughter’s elevation in the world.
The next two weeks had been a whirl of dress fittings, shopping trips and dancing lessons—an activity at which Henrietta was most adept, which proved to be a decidedly double-edged sword, for she could not help recalling Rafe’s offer to teach her, could not help wishing herself in Rafe’s arms, could not help resenting the dancing teacher for not being Rafe, then could not help but chide herself for being so very ungrateful.
She was overwhelmed by Aunt Gwendolyn’s generosity and the sheer number of day dresses, promenade dresses, evening gowns and ball gowns she seemed to think a bare minimum requirement, to say nothing of the silk stockings, satin slippers, kid boots, shawls, pelisses, hats, bonnets, gloves and reticules with which to accessorise them. For the first time in her life, Henrietta felt silk next to her skin. Her chemises were of the finest lawn, lace trimmed, and there was not a trace of serviceable white cotton in her wardrobe anywhere—nor anything brown; she was determined she would never wear anything brown ever again.
She wished that Rafe could see her in her new clothes. She was terrified that he would. Tying the garters of her silk stockings, or shaking out a lace ruffle on the sleeve of her gown, she would catch herself wondering what he would think, how he would look, what he would do if only—and then the lump would form in her throat, the tears would collect in her eyes and she hated herself for being so weak.
She accompanied her aunt on a round of morning calls. She sat in her box at the opera, took ices at Gunter’s and took her place in the barouche as it made its sedate way round Hyde Park at five in the afternoon. She attended several select parties, at one of which she met the rather intimidating Lady Cowper who promised her vouchers for the exclusive Almack’s. Occasionally, the novel delights of Aunt Gwendolyn’s glittering world stopped her thinking about that little bedchamber in the Mouse and Vole, but more often than not the contrast was too obvious to be ignored.
She felt as if she were living a double life. She felt as if she were wearing a mask. She felt lonely and angry at Rafe for making her so. She felt guilty at the lack of pleasure she took when Aunt Gwendolyn was making such an effort to entertain her. While she ate and talked and went to the play and listened to the latest gossip, she wondered what Rafe was doing and who he was with. She did not think he would miss her, though she missed him desperately. When she slept, which she did not do very well, she dreamed of him. She awoke heated and drenched in perspiration, filled with an aching longing. Time and time and time again, when she was out in the town coach with Aunt Gwendolyn, she thought she saw his elegant figure striding a little distance ahead and her heart leapt into her mouth, but it never was him.
She missed him. More than anything, she missed him. So many things she wanted to tell him, to see his lip curling in disdain at some foible she had witnessed, or the smile that turned his eyes from stormy to indigo. She felt haunted.
‘There, I think that will do.’
Aunt Gwendolyn’s voice brought Henrietta abruptly back to the present, making her jump, forcing her to plaster her smile back on to her face. The figure in the mirror, who looked like a very splendid version of Henrietta, jumped and smiled rather wanly, too. ‘I beg your pardon, Aunt, what did you say?’
‘You were miles away, my dear. Are you nervous about tonight? You need not be, it is a private ball, there will be twenty, thirty couples only, quite a small affair. Now, tell me what you think of the gown. I think Madame LeClerc was quite wise to insist on the colour, though it is most unconventional for a débutante. And before you say it again, I know you’re not a débutante in the strict sense, but this is nonetheless your first Season. And you have still not told me what you think.’
‘I think I hardly recognise myself,’ Henrietta said, surveying her reflection in amazement. Her curls had been pinned high on top of her head and fixed in a knot, with ringlets falling in artfully crafted natural tendrils on either side. Two hours it had taken the coiffeur to achieve the effect; so many pins had he used that Henrietta felt her head must topple over with the weight of them, though the result was undoubtedly extremely pleasing, making her look a little more mature and, if not sophisticated, at least a little less naïve. The dress, her first ever ball gown, was a full robe of burnt-orange silk cut in the French fashion, with a natural waist and a skirt that belled out from a sash, a shape which suited her curves. Indeed, Henrietta was concerned that far too much of her creamy bosom was on display, for the ruched décolleté was so low as to skim her shoulders, forming one line to the intricately puffed sleeves. It was hard to refrain from twitching the sleeves up higher. She still could not quite believe the modiste’s assertion that a combination of mademoiselle’s bosom and the excellent cut of the robe would keep it in place. A ruffle, the same rich golden colour as the sash, formed the hem of her gown, weighted with an intricate pattern of beading, the same pattern repeated again in the fringed shawl that Aunt Gwendolyn now draped over her shoulders.
‘Mama always says that clothes do not make a woman,’ Henrietta said wistfully, remembering Rafe’s comment about Almack’s when she’d told him the same thing, ‘but I am not so sure now that she is quite right.’
‘My sister was ever a featherbrain,’ Lady Gwendolyn replied tartly. ‘Clothes matter, as she knows perfectly well. Your mama was used to have the most exquisite taste, my dear, and you seem to have inherited it. Look at yourself. Really, I suspected you had potential when I first laid eyes on you clad in that dreadful brown gown, but I have to say, Henrietta, you have exceeded my expectations. You really are quite charming.’
Henrietta blushed. ‘Am I? Really?’
Lady Gwendolyn clucked. ‘You will have to learn to take a compliment in a more elegant manner than that, my dear. A lowering of the lids, a polite thank you, or, you are too kind, not an over-eager request for more.’
‘Oh, I did not mean—in any case I am sure that it will not—that I will not— I’m sorry.’
‘Silly puss. Come now, or we will be late. There is a fine line to be drawn between being too early and arriving with the bumpkins, and too late and arriving with the jug-bitten.’
* * *
‘No! It’s my first night back in town, I’ll be damned if I’ll spend it traipsing round a ballroom with a series of doe-eyed debs whose conversation is as insipid as their dancing is uninspired, just because you’ve promised your sister you’ll drag me along.’ Rafe poured himself a small glass of port and pushed the decanter down the table towards his friend. ‘I am not a trophy to be paraded. Damn it all to hell, Lucas, I’m not going and there’s an end to it.’
‘Please, Rafe, do it for me. You know what Minerva’s like. She fixes you with that stare of hers and it’s like being confronted by a basilisk. I found myself saying yes before I even realised. Just an hour, I promise, then we’ll pop down to White’s.’
‘I’m not in the mood for cards, any more than I’m in the mood for dancing.’
The Right Honourable Lucas Hamilton took a pinch of snuff from an elegant silver box, sneezed, took another pinch and poured himself a generous measure of port. He was a tall man, and an exceptionally thin one, whose gaunt cheeks and slightly sunken eyes had inevitably earned him the unwanted appellation of the Cadaver. His constitution was actually extremely hearty; indeed, some would say almost obscenely robust, given the maltreatment it endured and despite his willowy frame—which, were he a young lady, as Rafe delighted in pointing out, would be most fashionable.
Downing his port in one swallow, Lucas poured himself another. ‘You’re not much in the mood for anything, my dear chap. Even
less so than normal, if I may make so bold an observation. What’s got into you and where have you been these last weeks, anyway?’ he asked, sliding the decanter back up the table. ‘We expected you back in town an age ago.’
Rafe shrugged. ‘Rusticating. I find the solitude suits me.’
‘If you don’t mind my saying so, you look much the worse for it. In fact,’ Lucas said, ‘you look like the devil.’
‘Thank you, Lucas, I can always rely on you for a frank opinion.’
His friend laughed. ‘Well, someone has to tell you.’ He took another pinch of snuff. Rafe didn’t just look like the devil, he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. He was thinner, too, and just a little more touchy than usual. Despite the fact they were dining tête-à-tête, he had remained monosyllabic throughout. ‘All joshing aside, Rafe, I’m worried about you. Not woman trouble, is it?’
Rafe started. ‘What makes you say that?’ he snapped.
Lucas raised his eyebrows. ‘Good God! It is a woman! Don’t tell me…’
‘I have no intention of telling you anything. Not that there is anything to tell.’ Rafe pushed back his chair and got to his feet. ‘If you are done drinking my cellar dry, then let us go to this blasted party of your sister’s. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave.’
‘You mean it? You’ll need to change, you know, Minerva’s a stickler for evening dress, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll continue helping myself to some more of this excellent vintage while you do so.’ Lucas drained his glass, got leisurely to his feet and picked up a full decanter from the side table. If Rafe would rather dance with insipid debs than exchange confidences with his oldest friend, he must be in a really bad way.
Rake with a Frozen Heart Page 18
