Cupid's Dart

by Maggie MacKeever

  Sarah-Louise pressed her lips together. She was determined not to weep. Of course her papa meant the best for her; that she did not doubt. That her papa had the faintest notion of what was best for her, however, Sarah-Louise doubted very much indeed. Timidly, she plucked at her tasseled reticule. "I wish you would reconsider, Papa," she murmured. "I'm sure there is some mistake. Mr. Teasdale is all that's proper. You do him a great d-disservice—"

  "Balderdash!" Quentin brought down his hand upon his knee with such force that Sarah-Louise shrank back. "Teasdale is on the dangle for a fortune, and you are such a ninnyhammer that you would give him mine. Not another word!" he added, as she parted her lips in protest. "I am very displeased with you, miss. How sharper than a serpent's tooth is an ungrateful child."

  Not surprisingly, a profound and uncomfortable silence descended upon the interior of the carriage after this exchange. Despite her best intentions, Miss Inchquist sniffled, inspiring her parent with the dreadful notion that she might at any moment start blubbering. Like many another acerbic gentleman, Quentin had an aversion to feminine waterworks, particularly those waterworks which he inspired.

  He was not truly an ogre, Quentin assured himself, but merely a fond parent doing what he must. As for packing Sarah-Louise off like this to Brighton—it was for the chit's own good, and someday she would be grateful to him for removing her from harm's way. If only his wife had not died so young, leaving him with a child to raise. Yes, and here the child was near seventeen already, and tumbled violently in love with a curst fortune hunter, and fancying her heart broke. It made a man feel old. However, if Quentin knew anything at all about the fairer sex, Sarah-Louise would get over her disappointment quick enough and be pestering him for pin money to buy new fripperies.

  Having thus arranged matters to his satisfaction, if not that of his offspring, Quentin looked out the carriage window and allowed his thoughts to drift to less taxing topics, such as the ongoing hostilities with the French, the riots and machine-breakings in industrial areas, the question of Catholic relief, and the Corn Laws.

  Sarah-Louise gazed out the opposite carriage window. Her thoughts were considerably more bleak. Sarah-Louise had long been aware that she was a bran-faced beanpole of a female who would inspire no gentleman to romantical transports. She was all too well acquainted with her reflection in the looking glass, and, as Quentin's daughter, none too naive about the world in which she lived. Her papa's influence and his wealth would secure for her a husband—but it would not be the husband of her choice. Better to wed a stranger, Sarah-Louise had supposed, than to be left on the shelf. At least she would have a home and family of her own.

  But all that was before she had met Peregrine. Sarah-Louise had never dreamed to catch the eye of so handsome and agreeable a gentleman, to be the object of his compliments and smiles. Peregrine didn't seem to mind that she wasn't a nonpareil, had even assured Sarah-Louise that the beauty of her soul more than compensated for any physical lack. Perhaps Mr. Teasdale did not love her yet, but Sarah-Louise dared not hope to marry for love, and believed she and Peregrine might go on together very well. Had he not hinted at as much? Had he not confessed that he found in her presence a serenity that inspired him to take up his pen? Her papa could not be expected to understand the artistic spirit, and therefore he was determined to cut up all her hopes.

  If only she had the strength of will to stand up for herself. Unfortunately, loud voices terrified Sarah-Louise—especially her papa's loud voice—as did so many things. Despite her best intentions, Sarah-Louise could not prevent a wayward tear from stealing down her cheek. Face firmly averted, she wiped at it with her glove.

  Thus distracted from his contemplation of more important matters, Quentin bit back a sigh. Damned if Sarah-Louise didn't put him in mind of a rabbit he had once owned, which upon hearing him approach would cower all atremble in the corner of its cage. She even looked like that wretched beast, with her trembling lip and pink nose. Not that she had whiskers, for which he supposed he must be grateful, considering the chit's other shortcomings.

  "There, there!" he said, and awkwardly took her hand. "I do not mean to be cruel, but you must trust your papa to know what's best. Of course you will marry— some nice, sensible fellow who will value you as he should. Mayhap this business is my fault; I have kept you too well-wrapped in lamb's wool. Little wonder, I suppose, that you should hold such a man as Teasdale in girlish fascination. 'Twas an unfortunate business, but now 'tis done, and we will say no more about it. You will like to stay with your Aunt Amice. She will know how you should go on."

  Sarah-Louise was not looking forward to visiting her Aunt Amice. Nor did she want to marry some nice, sensible fellow; she wanted Peregrine. "As you wish, Papa," she whispered.

  "We need not tell your Aunt Amice about this business; she would be prodigious shocked," Quentin continued. His sister was devilish high in the instep. He had no fear she'd tolerate any poetical nonsense, whether or not forewarned. "If I have your word that you'll think no more on that twiddlepoop."

  Expectantly, Mr. Inchquist paused. Sarah-Louise bit her lip. Peregrine was not a twiddlepoop. To dispute further with her papa was to gain nothing more than his increased ill humor, however. "You have my word, Papa," Sarah-Louise murmured, with crossed fingers and a fervent wish that she might be forgiven for the fib.

  Chapter Three

  Miss Halliday stood in the kitchen of her modest little house. Though not located in a fashionable part of town, this structure had a fine prospect of the sea, as well as curved window bays and low roof parapets. Georgie was not a summer visitor to the seaside, seldom drank tea at the Public Rooms, only rarely put in an appearance at card assembles and plays and concerts, and was not known to display herself on the Steine, although she did have a subscription at one of the libraries, and therefore was sometimes to be glimpsed. Miss Halliday was not enamored of Society, and liked Brighton best of all when Prinny and his raffish friends and all their hangers-on had gone back to London, and the fog had settled on the cliffs, and no one was left to marvel at the oddity of a lady who preferred to eschew polite company of an evening to stay home and read a book. Not that this luxury was often accorded her, due to the demands of the other members of her household.

  Currently demanding Georgie's attention was her cousin Agatha, a plump and amiable soul of fifty-odd years with a passion for cooking and household matters, pursuits not suitable to her station in life perhaps but fortunate for all concerned, save the snub-nosed, brown-haired little housemaid who was responsible for a great deal of the work.

  "Gooseberries," mused Agatha, who was this day swathed in yellow dotted muslin more suited to someone half her years, as was the flaming red hair arranged in the Grecian style with ringlets hanging down. "Currants, raspberries, and strawberries must be preserved, and jams and jellies made up. Mixed pickle should also now be made." She then explained, with enthusiasm, just how mixed pickle should be made, a procedure that involved ginger, mace, shallots, cayenne, mustard seed, turmeric, six quarts of vinegar, and a pound of salt. And then she launched into a discussion of fish—lobster, mackerel, mullet, pike, salmon, trout, turbot—and ended up with carp. "What do you think, Georgie dear?"

  Guiltily, Georgie started, as did the little housemaid who sat at the large elm table turning and mending and darning sheets, which in her opinion was better than her previous task of cleaning marble with a paste of soap lees and pipe clay, bullock's gall and turpentine. Neither Georgie nor the housemaid—whose name was Janie—had been contemplating fish. Janie was wondering how best to strike up an acquaintance with a young footman who'd newly hired into an establishment further along the street. Georgie couldn't stop thinking of kissing, which was exceedingly odd in her, because kissing wasn't something that ordinarily exercised her mind, possibly because no one had ever kissed her as had Lord Warwick that morning, and she didn't know whether she should be cross—or grateful to him.

  "I think," Georgie murmured, "that you know
best about such matters. Agatha, the oddest thing happened. You will be surprised to hear who I met on the beach."

  Agatha had scant interest in matters outside her own domain. "Fried cow heel," she murmured thoughtfully. "An asparagus pudding. Rhubarb jam. Liver and parsley sauce. Perhaps we might invite a few people for dinner, cousin. Seeing fresh faces would do Andrew a world of good." She did not wait for a response, but went on to discuss, with great enthusiasm, a receipt she had recently come upon for eels à la tartare.

  Receipts were Agatha's passion. Had she the resources, she would have them sitting down to a formal dinner every night. But they did not have the resources, and Agatha's receipts, while intriguing one in one, seldom fitted together in a palatable whole.

  Georgie distracted Agatha from her eels with a question about the frenzy of house-cleaning that was currently under way. Agatha waxed enthusiastic about the use of gin-and-water, followed by powder blue, and the application of an old silk handkerchief, to best clean looking glass. Janie glowered. Agatha was keeping her as busy as a hen with one chick.

  Came an interruption then, in the form of an elderly butler dressed in ancient livery, complete with an old-fashioned white wig. All three women held their breath as he stepped unsteadily onto the stone-flagged floor. "Begging pardon, Miss Georgie," he said, placing a hand on a whitewashed wall to steady himself, in the process dislodging a copper pot, which clattered to the floor. "There's a gentleman as has come to call. I put him in the drawing room." His tone was anxious. "I hope that was right."

  Georgie picked up the copper pot and wondered where else Tibble thought he might put a caller. In the kitchen, perhaps? "Did the gentleman tell you his name?"

  Tibble screwed up his features in intense concentration. Then he sighed. "Reckon he did, Miss Georgie, and I misremember what it was. But he was a gentleman of substance. Everything prime about him. Civil as a nun's hen." He peered hopefully at his mistress, as if she might recognize the caller from this description.

  Agatha and Janie also regarded her speculatively. Georgie was the cynosure of all eyes. All this combined attention had the effect of making her feel very cross. Granted, she was quite on the shelf, but was the notion that a gentleman should call on her worthy of such astonishment as this? "Have the lot of you nothing to do?" inquired Miss Halliday, and turned on her heel.

  With her departure, the kitchen was briefly silent. The little housemaid was the first to speak. "Cor! A gentleman caller!" she breathed.

  Tibble sank down into a chair at the elm table, took off his wig, and wiped his brow. His eyesight wasn't what it once had been; times had changed, in his opinion not for the better, and he lived in fear that he would do the wrong thing; but it was sure as check Miss Georgie's caller had been a gent. "All the crack!" he added. "A well-breeched swell."

  "Cor!" said Janie once again. She would have liked to glimpse this paragon herself. In honor of the momentous occasion, Agatha brought out her homemade dandelion wine.

  Happily unaware that he was once again the subject of conjecture, Lord Warwick paced around the drawing room, which was furnished with restrained classical elegance grown somewhat threadbare. He contemplated rosewood furniture upholstered in striped silk, the faded Wilton carpet on the floor. Add to these a doddering butler who had no doubt gotten his name wrong, and an unfashionable address, and Garth could not help but conclude that Georgie had come down in the world. A partially embroidered pair of men's slippers lay on a pretty breakfront writing desk. He wondered if Georgie had been embroidering the slippers, and with a pang, for whom.

  Miss Halliday stepped into the room. Since Lord Warwick was glowering in a most forbidding manner at the slippers she had been embroidering, she had a moment to study him. This afternoon he was dressed for riding in leather breeches and a high-collared, double-breasted coat that displayed his crisp, high shirt points and flawlessly tied cravat. In comparison, Georgie's gown was sadly out of style. At least this time she wasn't bedecked with sand. "Hello, Garth," she said. "You're wearing black again, I see."

  Lord Warwick's mood, not sanguine to begin with, was further exacerbated by being caught out brooding over half-finished embroidery. Slowly, he turned to face his hostess. "I seldom wear colors, ma'am," he retorted. "Colors seldom suit my mood."

  That mood was currently very dark indeed. Georgie crossed the room to stand by him. "'Ma'am?'" she echoed. "So you have come to offer me further injury?"

  Lord Warwick had come to do nothing of the sort. Long and sobering reflection had led him to the unhappy conclusion that he had behaved very badly toward Georgie, and the conviction that he must apologize for making a Jack-pudding of himself. Apologizing was not something Lord Warwick did easily or well, and consequently he was visited by a strong desire to either shake Georgie or kiss her again. To do either was unthinkable, of course. "I have come," he said stiffly, "to apologize. I behaved abominably to you."

  Georgie had a good idea of what that apology had cost him. Not that she particularly desired an apology for something that she had liked very well. "Oh," she said with interest. "So I was not one of your peccadilloes, then?"

  Lord Warwick looked startled. This was not the Georgie he remembered. "Hardly that," he replied.

  Georgie wondered what it would be like to be one of Lord Warwick's peccadilloes. And precisely what a peccadillo was. "You needn't put yourself in a taking," she said amiably. "It wasn't as abominable as all that."

  This less-than-flattering appraisal of his embrace caused Lord Warwick's expression to lighten. "Saucebox!" he said.

  Georgie was studying him, head tilted to one side. "I suppose you have had a great many peccadilloes?" she inquired.

  Damned if she didn't sound wistful. "You should not ask me that," he retorted, and quickly turned the subject. "Devil a bit, Georgie, what do you expect when you set out unescorted, inviting attentions from reprobates like myself?"

  Georgie hoped there was no other reprobate like this one, else she would dare not step foot out of doors for fear of encountering one of them, and subsequently disgracing herself. "Are you a trifle bosky still?" she asked. "Because I don't know otherwise why you should say such silly stuff. I have been looking after myself for quite some time. It won't debauch me to walk along the beach."

  Lord Warwick was appalled to realize how much he wanted to debauch his companion. He scowled even more dreadfully. "I know what it is," Georgie said. "You are sorry that you kissed me. No doubt it was an aberrant impulse brought on by overindulgence in the grape. I assure you that I do not hold it against you. In truth, I am quite grateful that you should show such flattering attention to an ape leader like myself."

  Georgie, an ape leader? Lord Warwick could not help but laugh at this absurdity. As for that aberrant impulse, he was experiencing it again. In search of distraction, he glanced around the drawing room. "Things have changed for you, I think."

  So did Georgie look around her drawing room, at the narrow, ribbed mouldings and recessed ceiling panels, the silk-striped furniture and faded Wilton rug. Whatever else it might be, the room was sparkling clean, as she knew very well, having wiped down the walls herself. Not that Lord Warwick, a gentleman of wealth and lineage—a marquess, no less, who owned estates northwest of London and in Cornwall as well as in the Lake District—could be expected to understand her simple satisfaction in a house well kept. "My grandmama's legacy allows me to be comfortable, if not particularly extravagant," she said dismissively. "Don't look at me that way, Garth. I promise you we rub on very well."

  The Georgie he had known would have had no consideration for extravagance. Lord Warwick was tempted to tell her she was doing it rather too brown. "You have not married?" he asked, although discreet inquiries had already provided him the answer to that question, as well as the intelligence that she was estranged from her family, for reasons undisclosed.

  Georgie did not like the tenor of this conversation, or the direction that it took. "My dear Garth," she retorted lightly, "the marr
iage mart is glutted with young women of impeccable breeding and somewhat impecunious circumstance like myself. I promise you, I am quite happy just as I am. What of you? What brings you to Brighton? Have you come to take the waters for deafness? Rheumatism? Gout?"

  No, and not for any of the other ailments the waters were claimed to cure, from impotence to diseases of the glands. "Cry pax, Georgie!" Lord Warwick retorted. "You are deliberately trying to set up my back."

  Georgie sighed. She was behaving badly. "Why did you walk away from me like that? On the beach?" she asked. "We used to be friends, I think."

  Lord Warwick studied her. Georgie spoke the truth when she said she was well past her first youth; he found her even lovelier than she had been as a girl. The elegant features were more finely drawn; there was a hint of sadness in the remarkable gray eyes, and her hair—

  Her hair remained ungovernable. Drawn back in a serious style, braided and rolled up behind, wisps had already escaped their moorings to curl on her forehead. "Your family has been no friend to me," he said.

  So had they not, which had led Georgie to quarrel with them herself. "Perhaps not," she replied quietly. "Still, you must not tar us all with the same brush."

  Lord Warwick's innate perversity asserted itself then. Or perhaps he was moved by her words. Whatever the reason, if indeed he had a coherent reason, he raised his hand and touched Georgie's face.

  Her eyes widened. She took a step, not away from but toward him. If she advanced one iota further, he would have her in his arms.

  Garth wanted very much to have Georgie in his arms. He dropped his hand and clenched his fists. "Your behavior is imprudent, ma'am."

  Imprudent? Georgie supposed she was imprudent, but she wanted more than anything to feel those tingles and tremors again. However, it was clear that Garth wasn't going to kiss her. He looked as though he might dive right out the window if she didn't retreat. Georgie sank down on the silk-striped sofa, which was possibly the most uncomfortable piece of furniture in the house. Perhaps the discomfort would distract her from her improper thoughts.