by Carola Dunn
That was it: newness. The new countess had already begun her extravagances. He strode to the window of his dressing-room. Yes, these curtains were similar in colour—ochre with a design in dark green—to those that had always hung here, but they were new. The ragged corner, chewed by his setter puppy and badly mended, was now whole.
Why the jade had troubled to refurbish his rooms puzzled him for a moment, until he saw the flowers on his dressing-table. Of course, she hoped to win him over. She’d soon learn how vain was that hope.
He took the yellow roses and tossed them dripping out of the window.
As he sucked on a thorn-stabbed finger, his fury burned higher. After two years abroad, to come home to this catastrophe! At least he might have expected his father to be at home to welcome him; but no, he had taken his bride to call upon the Rills and the Frobishers. Years had passed since he had visited or entertained the neighbours. Not only were Lady Wooburn and her family living in clover at the earl’s expense, she was a gadabout who was cutting up the old man’s peace.
Justin reaffirmed his resolve to spike her guns. He’d begin his campaign this very evening.
* * *
Chapter 2
Recalling the twins’ condition just in time, Ginnie turned away from the porticoed front door and took the children round to the stable entrance. There they found Colin and Judith admiring the viscount’s bay stallion. Leaving them in charge of the younger ones, Ginnie went into the house in search of Gilbert and Lydia.
As expected, she found them in the library, Gilbert with his nose in a book, Lydia keeping him company as she hemmed a shirt. Ginnie paused in the doorway, studying the two heads bowed over the table by the window.
Gilbert was dark, like their father, but serious minded as that light-hearted, ever-optimistic gentleman had never been. He ought to go to university and take orders, or perhaps be called to the bar. With his passion for detail and logic, he’d make a good lawyer.
Lydia was equally serious, but not at all intellectual. In fact. Papa had been wont to call her his pretty ninnyhammer. Now, four years after his death of a fever, pretty was too weak a word. She was beautiful. Her ringlets, of a richer gold than Ginnie’s, never needed to be curled in rags overnight. Her straight little nose and rosebud mouth had drawn raptures from the Cheltenham swains, whereas Ginnie’s nose was described by one enamoured gentleman as pert, her mouth as generous. Lydia’s lustrous eyes, now fixed on her sewing, were speedwell blue, Ginnie’s of a blue that just escaped being grey.
Ginnie could not resent her sister’s loveliness. Lydia was good. She deserved a London Season, not to spend every waking moment setting her tiny, neat stitches, always patient, never complaining.
Ginnie’s sigh brought both heads round.
“What’s wrong?” demanded Gilbert.
She crossed the room, conscious of the weight of learning, of knowledge and experience, ranged on the ceiling-high shelves about her; it ought to make her problems seem petty, but never did. Pulling out a spindle-back chair, she sat down at the table and leaned both elbows on the polished oak.
“Lord Amis,” she said shortly.
Lydia looked blank.
“Our stepbrother,” Gilbert explained to her. “He is expected home from Russia, remember?”
“He is come home,” Ginnie informed them, “and I for one shall not call him brother! He is the greatest wretch in Christendom, a rude, bad-tempered boor.”
“Oh, Ginnie, no,” Lydia protested, unwilling to think so ill of anyone.
“What has he done?” asked Gilbert.
She told them, her wrath reviving as she repeated Lord Amis’s brutal epithets.
‘“Mutton dressed as lamb?’” said Lydia wonderingly. She patted Ginnie’s hand. “The poor man must be half-blind.”
“Quite possible, at least momentarily,” Gilbert agreed, “since he had just ridden out of the woods into the sun. As for the rest, well, you must not take it personally, Ginnie. He doesn’t know you, so his words were not really addressed to you, but rather to a concept in his mind.”
“But to speak so to anyone reveals him as a shocking rudesby. Indeed, it is still more unmannerly to insult a perfect stranger, without provocation, I vow! I wonder that our kind, courteous steppapa has so ill-bred a son, indeed I do.”
“He had just fallen from his horse,” Lydia said pleading his case. “You know how cross one feels after making a cake of oneself. Besides, even if he did not injure himself, be must have been bruised and shaken, which is enough to make the most amiable person pettish.”
“Pettish! Lyddie, dear, you are too tender-hearted to be true.”
“It seems to me...” Gilbert began, frowning, but the library door slammed open and Colin burst into the room, followed by Judith, Jack and Jimmy, and Priscilla.
“Wait for me!” wailed Nathaniel, trotting in last.
“Don’t touch anything, twins,” Ginnie ordered her grubby brothers.
“Ginnie, is it true?” Colin demanded, towering over her as he planted both fists on the table, his sun-browned face flushed. “The twins say Lord Amis attacked you. By George, I’ll take a horsewhip to him!”
At fifteen, he was tall and sturdy enough to make a good try at chastising the viscount. Ginnie blenched.
“Don’t fly into the boughs,” she said hastily. “He did ride up to us in a rather alarming way, but he attacked me only with words.”
“That’s bad enough. I’d call him out but I dare say he’d tell me I’m too young and refuse to fight.”
“I should hope so! He cannot possibly be the villain he sounded.”
“He sounds perfectly horrid.” Judith hugged Ginnie. She had an instinctive sympathy for hurt creatures and apparently counted her eldest sister in that class at present. “Don’t let him upset you, darling Ginnie.”
“We’ll get back at him somehow,” Colin vowed. “We can’t let him get away with it.”
The twins exchanged a glance. “We’ll put frogs in his bed,” Jack suggested.
“No, you will not!” Judith rounded on them. “Think of the poor frogs!”
“Burrs in his boots,” Jimmy said with relish.
“I’ll bite him,” Nathaniel volunteered from his perch on Lydia’s lap.
“Oh no, Nathaniel,” Lydia said gently, “you know better than that. Only babies bite people.”
“Heavens, what a bloodthirsty family I have,” said Ginnie, laughing. “Thank you, my dears, but I don’t want any of you to avenge me. After all, he did me no real harm. It was all a misunderstanding. Look at that clock, it’s time for your supper. Judith, Colin, take the others upstairs if you please and see that they wash their hands. And the twins had best put on their nightshirts right away.”
“All right.” Colin plucked Nathaniel from Lydia’s knee and set him on his shoulders. “We won’t do anything for the present, but Lord Amis had best change his tune or he’ll get what’s coming to him. Duck when we reach the door, Nat. Come on, fellows.” He strode out, whistling “A-hunting we will go,” and Judith herded Priscilla and the twins after him.
Ginnie turned to Gilbert. “You are right, I ought not to take Lord Amis’s insults personally. He was addressing a—a... what did you call it?”
“A concept. A sort of Platonic archetype, an abstract idea that—”
“Pray don’t explain! Anyway, he clearly mistook me for Mama.”
“For Mama?” Lydia’s vivid blue eyes widened with astonishment.
Gilbert frowned again. “That is what I was going to say when the troops arrived. I cannot like it. You are not easily overset, Ginnie, but Mama...”
“Mama is not to be told. Lord Amis will undoubtedly come to his senses before he sets eyes on her, and if not, he will change his tune the moment he meets her. Can you imagine anyone suspecting Mama of being a strumpet?”
“She does not match my concept of a strumpet,” Gilbert agreed, grinning.
“Gil, you are by far too young to have any concept wh
atsoever of such a thing! And Lydia ought not even to know the word.’’
“Nor ought you,” he retaliated.
“I am not precisely sure of the meaning,” Lydia admitted without great interest.
“Just as well,” Gilbert said. “Now do go away, Ginnie, there’s a dear. I want to finish this chapter before I have to change for dinner.”
Lydia picked up her sewing. “Do you suppose Lord Amis will join us for dinner?” she asked her sister.
“Certainly. He has not seen his father for two years. I believe I shall see what a conciliating gesture can do. Reynolds will know what wine ought to be served, and Cook must know what Lord Amis’s favourite dishes are—she has been here forever. I’ll ask her if any can be prepared at the last minute, for tonight, to welcome home the heir.’’
Swinging her hat by its faded ribbons, she went off to the kitchens.
* * * *
Justin was determined to attain his usual impeccable elegance for dinner. His father would not notice if he went down in his riding coat and breeches, but that dowdy young woman might know more of fashion than her straight-skirted, flounceless gown suggested. He’d not give her more cause to sneer at him.
The evening clothes left in his wardrobe were subtly out-dated; those he had brought in his saddle-bag were inevitably creased. His valet, being driven down from London by his groom, would not arrive for some hours yet. Making himself presentable was going to be a lengthy business, so he rang the bell at once.
His father’s elderly man, who came in answer to his summons, pottered off with the creased garments for ironing and sent up a tan-liveried footman with hot water.
When at last the aged valet reappeared, he announced, “His lordship has sent a message, my lord, that he and her ladyship will be dining with the Rills. There will be just your lordship, Miss Webster, Miss Lydia, and Mr. Gilbert at dinner, the other young people taking their supper in the day nursery.”
Webster... Justin realized he had not even known the intruders’ name. He was tempted to ask about them, but he would not demean himself by gossiping with a servant. No doubt he’d find out all their flaws soon enough, those not already all too obvious.
So his father had even been persuaded into dining out, instead of in the comfort of his own home. But perhaps he no longer found his own home comfortable, with swarms of young Websters about. Justin wondered if he had been precipitate in resigning from the diplomatic service. He might yet come to yearn for it as a refuge.
At last he was ready. He regarded himself in the glass. His pumps gleamed, polished by Tebbutt before he’d packed them. His black pantaloons fitted snugly, as did the coat of the midnight blue he preferred for evening wear. His waistcoat was of the palest blue. He had tied his starched neckcloth, white as the foam of a waterfall, in the complicated en cascade, and it had come out perfectly. His hair was brushed forward in the fashionable Windswept style.
Satisfied with his appearance, he frowned, suddenly struck by the dreadful possibility that Miss Webster might take his care in dressing as a compliment. If so, she’d soon deduce her mistake from his manner, he vowed.
He went down to the drawing room, paused in the doorway, and gave a swift glance round the room. No one was there but the young woman he now assumed to be Miss Webster, a slender figure in high-waisted lavender blue muslin, unmodishly straight and unadorned. She stood by the open French windows, one hand on the doorpost, gazing out at the terrace, the evening-lit gardens, the park beyond. The westering sun turned her ringlets to pure gold, but Justin was more interested in what was going on inside that admittedly pretty head. How she must be gloating over having acquired so magnificent a home!
What he had to say was for her ears alone. He stepped forward and closed the door firmly behind him. She swung round at the sound.
“Miss Webster, I believe?”
“Yes, I am Virginia Webster, my lord.” Her voice was wary. With the sun behind her, he could not make out her expression.
He strode forward and took a stand at the other side of the French windows, forcing her to turn towards him. Her blue-grey eyes questioned him, her mouth seemed on the verge of a smile. She was uncertain, but by no means apprehensive, as he would have wished.
With deliberate arrogance he scanned her from head to toe. His rude gaze brought a decided sparkle to her eyes, and the hint of a smile vanished. Her determined chin tilted at a defiant angle. Not a beauty, yet damnably attractive—and far too youthful to be the mother of those children. He could not believe he had made so hen-witted a blunder.
“I must make my apologies,” he said stiffly. “I was under the impression that you were... Lady Wooburn. However, I accurately expressed my sentiments and intentions towards your mother. The woman who ensnared my father is beneath contempt and I shall do my utmost to see that she regrets her iniquity. My mistake changes nothing.”
“Indeed it changes nothing!” she flared, fists clenched. “Your mistake is utterly insignificant, since it was not Mama but I who promoted the match, by every means in my power.”
Eyes flashing with fury, bosom heaving, she was devilish attractive. He took her by the upper arms in an ungentle grip and planted a kiss on her soft mouth.
Turning away her head, she struggled to free herself. Her silky hair had a faint fragrance of jasmine. He slipped an arm around her and pressed her against him, while the other hand on the back of her head forced her to raise her face to him. Her heart beat wildly against his chest.
She ceased to struggle. Her eyes were expectant now, almost... taunting? He’d show her he was no gauche gapeseed! Once again be lowered his mouth to hers, explored her tender lips with his tongue, tasting, searching, probing for an opening to the sweetness within.
The click of the drawing room door latch sounded loud to his heightened senses.
Instantly he released her and stepped back. Shaken, he reproached himself for his ungentlemanly conduct, forcing his attentions on an unwilling female. Turning to the French windows to hide his agitation, he felt her considering gaze upon him before footsteps and the rustle of her skirt told him she had moved away.
“You are very smart tonight, Lydia,” she said lightly, her voice untouched by emotion.
Justin’s self-disgust changed to anger. Gull-catcher was too mild a word for Miss Virginia Webster! She was a witch. Somehow she had laid an enchantment on him, led him on to abandon propriety and common sense. She was as bad as her mother, or worse. No wonder his unworldly father had fallen prey to their wiles!
He bit his lip as the full consequences of that embrace dawned upon him. She had only to tell her stepfather of his son’s shocking behaviour and it would be he who was disgraced.
“Lord Amis, may I present my sister Lydia? And this is Gilbert, my eldest brother.” Ginnie was proud of her even tone. She hoped she did not look half as pink cheeked and dishevelled as she felt. If Gilbert guessed the familiarities she had been subjected to, he’d soon forget his philosophical attitude.
She would never be able to persuade him that she had rather enjoyed Lord Amis’s embrace, once she had resigned herself to it. She had been kissed before, but never so expertly, and she suspected she had experienced only the half of it. She had felt positively weak at the knees! If Lydia and Gilbert had not come in... On the whole, she felt she would like to try it again, though not when his lordship was out of temper. It would be much more fun if he were enjoying it, too.
An unlikely sequel, she decided sadly as he turned to face them. The contempt in his eyes amply expressed his opinion of her.
He thought her a slut—not that she cared a groat for his opinion. Under other circumstances, she might fear for her chastity, but surely Lord Amis was too proper to seduce his father’s stepdaughter in his own house.
“Miss Lydia. Webster,” he said, acknowledging them curtly with a barely perceptible nod.
Lydia curtsied gracefully. In plain white India muslin, a white ribbon threaded through her hair, she was a picture of
beauty, youth, and innocence. Lord Amis was manifestly unimpressed. That being so, he was unlikely to spare a second glance for Gilbert in his shabby evening coat cut down from the late Mr. Webster’s. Knowing how her brother had striven with his balky neckcloth to do her credit, Ginnie was incensed all over again.
Fortunately, Reynolds came in to announce dinner. After a moment’s awkward pause, Gilbert offered each of his sisters an arm and escorted them through to the dining-room. Lord Amis followed, alone, in grim silence.
Glass sparkled and silver gleamed invitingly on the spotless white cloth. Ginnie had ordered four places set at one end of the long table. She very soon wished she had placed Lord Amis at the far end, on his own.
As the soup was served, Lydia said to him with a polite smile, “I dare say you found Persia excessively interesting, my lord?”
“I dare say I might have, had I ever visited that country,” he said, his sarcasm sharp enough to pierce even Lydia’s armour of tranquillity. “I fear I cannot enlighten you as to the customs of Persia, as I am just returned from Russia.”
Her smile faded. With a look of hurt reproach that ought to have shrivelled his cutting tongue, she applied herself to her soup.
Ginnie and Gilbert both glared at him, then set themselves to soothing their gentle sister’s hurt feelings. Ginnie consulted her about the colour and style of the new gowns Judith and Priscilla needed. Gilbert ably seconded her, though as Lydia responded, his faraway look suggested that his thoughts were elsewhere, probably not in Buckinghamshire, Persia, or Russia, but Ancient Greece or Rome.
Lord Amis toyed with his Scotch broth as Lydia chatted happily of sleeves and skirts, full and narrow. Then the soup was followed with removes of carp stewed in port, a roast loin of pork, lamb cutlets with asparagus, scalloped potatoes, mushroom fritters, and several side dishes. Ginnie regarded the feast with satisfaction. The fritters, the asparagus, and the gingered carrots had been prepared especially to welcome home the heir. Surely such attention to his tastes must begin to win him over, to persuade him that the Websters were not devils incarnate.
