“Titania?” Claire spoke in a querulous voice. “We should leave, if we are to have enough time to prepare to go out. You gentlemen, Lord Gratwick,” Claire said archly, patting his arm, “do not need to do nearly as much as we ladies do.”
“Ah, but the results are well worth it, Lady Wexford. Especially if the result promises to dance with me this evening. Miss Stanhope, I hope I may have that honor?” Titania smiled weakly, nodding, and began to brace herself for the evening to come.
Chapter 7
And after he licked her neck, he was going to slide his tongue across her collarbone, gently loosening her gown. He would slide his fingers below the neckline, feeling the fullness of her breasts before he saw them. Then, slowly, slowly, he would pull her gown off her shoulders, exposing her bosom to his gaze. He wondered if her nipples were pale pink or more of a dusky rose. Then—
A sharp tug on his neck startled him out of his daydream.
“Edwin, you must stand still. You are fidgeting so much I cannot get this knot right. I know you do not care, but I have a little pride in your appearance.” Henri stood in front of him, a white cravat lying limply in his hand. Edwin planted his feet and threw his head back in a stance of ostentatious compliance.
“Is that better? I do not want anyone to mock you because your master looks like a ragamuffin.”
“Or a recently returned exile who has spent five years taking tea with bears. There is no excuse for poor grooming, Edwin.”
Edwin grimaced. “You sound like my father, and that is one person of whom I do not wish to be reminded.”
“So you have not seen him yet? I know you thought you might; have you been hiding out deliberately, or do you think he does not know you are here?”
“Oh, he knows I am here, all right. My uncle Joseph made sure of that. Apparently Father is still in the country, but comes to town soon.”
“Will he make an effort to see you?”
Edwin’s face became tight and drawn. “He has not made any attempt to contact me since he saw me off on that boat.”
Henri was uncharacteristically discreet, remaining silent as he finished getting Edwin ready. After it seemed he was satisfied, he stood back, wiping his hands together and looking Edwin up and down.
“Well, will I do?” Edwin stepped back, holding his arms out.
“I wish you would let me purchase some new items, but yes, you will do.” Henri smoothed a slight wrinkle and let out a sigh.
“Henri, old friend, I cannot allow that until I am certain I will not be caught by some avaricious maiden on a husband hunt. If I look as if I am in need of funds, no lady will even give me a second glance. If anyone even thought I could possibly be eligible, I would be in as much trouble as when I left here the first time, and that situation will not happen again.”
“Not every female is like the Leticia trollop.”
“No.” Edwin smiled, thinking of Titania and her forthright tongue. “Not every female.” He slid his finger under his neckcloth, wiggling it in frustration. “Damn, Henri, but these cravats make my neck itch.”
“Without a cravat, my lord, you would not be fit company for any lady, at least not any you did not have to pay for the pleasure.”
“And some of them actually want to be paid, which is why it is best if I look like a pauper.” He picked up his handkerchief, stuffed it in his breast pocket, and set out, in search of his bluestocking enchantress.
JUST THEN, HIS ENCHANTRESS was nose-deep in one of her favorite books, Julius Caesar’s commentaries on his military campaigns, and was not thinking of broad-shouldered men fussing with their neckwear. But she did find her thoughts straying from Gaul. Surveying the enemy—in her case, all the eligible bachelors on the scene—with an eye to attracting their interest meant that she had to speak their language, attack them on their own field of battle, so to speak.
The only weapon she needed, Miss Tynte had always told her, was confidence.
“I am confident. Confident I will be attracted only to the most penniless man, confident I will say something that will give some bachelor a disgust of me, confident I will make a face and show exactly what I think,” Titania declaimed to herself as she waited to dress for yet another party. It was to be at the Cliftons’—the earl and his countess, who Titania had heard were a somewhat ill-suited couple whose passions were cards and cuckoldry, respectively—and Miss Tynte had promised to introduce her to the son of one of the dowagers who had bent her ear a few nights earlier.
Just before she left her room, she grabbed the fragment from her uncle’s cane and placed it in the pocket of her gown. She felt it brush against her leg as she moved toward the mirror. If nothing else, it served as a palpable reminder of everything she had to lose.
As Miss Tynte and she drove up to the house in their carriage that night, neither one of the ladies could suppress a gasp of surprise.
“This house is three times the size of Ravensthorpe,” Miss Tynte exclaimed. She narrowed her eyes as they entered. “With one quarter of the taste.”
The house, Titania had to agree, was beyond opulence, with gilt and scagliola and paintings and a chandelier big enough for her, Thibault, and Miss Tynte to swing from. Not, she assured herself hastily, that she had any plans to do anything so shocking. She could not speak for Thibault.
As she and Miss Tynte made their way into the crowded ballroom, Titania smelled the tang of ladies’ perfumes mixing with the aromas of food being toted around by footmen in red jackets and smart cream-colored waistcoats, who looked almost as regal as the guests. Underlying those pleasant aromas was the unmistakable odor of rank sweat, the sweat of people who were nervous, drunk, or just not all that fond of bathing. The colors, smells, and blazing lights, along with the thrum and chatter of hundreds of people gossiping and flirting, were overwhelming. Titania tried to move toward the corner of the room to gather herself but was stopped by a brightly colored clump of men.
“Titania,” one of the clumps yelped, “look who I found!”
When Titania could focus without feeling faint, she saw her brother surrounded by three young men. Each of their waistcoats was as loud as the last, a profusion of swirls, color, and, Titania could almost swear, a few animals and a fanciful depiction of the solar system.
“How lovely to see you, Mr. Smith.” Percival Smith was Claire’s younger brother, and Titania had not seen him since he was in short pants. “And these two?”
“Ti—that is, Miss Stanhope—let me introduce you to Charles and Colin Chubb.”
“So very pleased to meet you,” the twins said in unnerving unison.
Mr. Smith swept Titania a deep bow and said, his voice cracking, “How do you do, Miss Stanhope? You are looking divine this evening.”
“Ti, you won’t believe it!” Thibault interrupted. “Percy, Charles, and Colin have all been sent to rusticate, too!”
“Strangely enough, I would believe it. So, what kind of scrapes are you up to now?” She smiled at them warmly.
“Oh, no, Miss Stanhope, think no ill of us now,” said one of the twins—Colin?—affecting a sober mien. “We’re gentlemen now, and those days of childhood are behind us.” He accompanied his comment by gazing off into the distance with what he apparently hoped was a devastating Byronic sigh.
“Is that so? And just what do gentlemen do with themselves, since they’re not quite out of school?” She was hard-pressed not to giggle but knew Thibault would never forgive her if she did.
“Oh, you know,” Percival said, staring at a point above her head. “Dressing in the latest stare of fashion, eyeing the horseflesh at Tattersall’s, composing verses to the fairest of belles...that kind of thing.” Thibault started hopping up and down in his excitement.
“Oh, Titania, it’s going to be wonderful! We’re resolved to be young men of passion and deepest melancholy, and we shall sigh a lot. And of course,” he mused, “as Lord Byron did, I might find time to go to Gentleman Jackson’s for a few lessons.”
�
�You could use that kind of instruction,” Titania replied, sliding her finger along her nose. “Next time you practice boxing, though, could you let me know so I can beg another engagement? I have no wish to end up with another disfigurement.”
“It is no disfigurement, Miss Stanhope.”
She caught a glimpse of amused green eyes and that devastating dimple before she remembered what had transpired between them the other morning. She found herself suddenly fascinated by her shoes.
“Good evening, Lord Worthington.”
“Miss Stanhope, would you introduce me to your young friends? As you have already informed me, my clothing is of an unseemly provincial cut, and it looks as if these gentlemen might well be able to assist me in my plight.”
The four boys straightened, fingering their finery with pride.
“Lord Worthington, I am pleased to introduce you to these young men. This is my brother, Lord Ravensthorpe, and his friends, Mr. Percival Smith and Mr. Charles and Mr. Colin Chubb. I believe you were introduced to Percival’s sister, Lady Wexford, the other evening. This is the Earl of Oakley.”
“The pleasure is mine, gentlemen. I would be glad to find some new friends in London; those I have made have proved to be most enjoyable.” He shot a conspiratorial glance at Titania, who rushed to speak before she had a chance to blush again.
“Lord Worthington has just returned from some years abroad in Nova Scotia and New England, Thibault.”
“Thibault?” Edwin asked. “And Titania? It would seem your parents were rather fanciful sorts. Do you have any other siblings lurking about, perhaps Ophelia or Romeo or something? Hopefully not a Malvolio...”
“America!” Thibault interrupted. “What an adventure! Are there really forests there as big as Wales? Is it true that men can make their fortune overnight, even if they’re not gentlemen? Did you meet the noble savages?”
“That is quite enough questions, Thibault,” Titania said, trying to look stern but unable to suppress a smile. Turning to Edwin, she said, “My lord, I must apologize for this scamp. He has not learned yet to hold his tongue.”
“Neither have you, Miss Stanhope,” Edwin whispered as he bowed deeply toward her. Before she figured out what he had meant, Thibault spoke.
For once, Titania blessed his penchant for interruption. “My lord, you must tell us more about America. And Smith here was just saying he heard you were a boxer?”
“Being handy with your fists has its advantages. It can extricate all sorts of people from unpleasant situations. Especially if they are the impulsive sort.” He looked at Titania as he spoke, and, spurred by her new impulsive self, she winked at him. He gave a surprised laugh, then winked back.
Thibault’s face showed his confusion. “Impulsive? Do you mean if someone is acting dangerously?” Edwin face wore a knowing smile.
“Acting dangerously is exactly what I meant.” Titania felt herself blush scarlet. “But, gentlemen,” Edwin continued, “have you seen any matches worth reporting since you arrived in town?”
Lord Worthington and the boys were soon in deep discussion of the fancy, and were loudly describing boxing matches none had ever seen as Titania excused herself to find Miss Tynte. The younger men were too engrossed in conversation to notice her departure, but Edwin gave her a look that made her insides churn.
She could not lie to herself. She wanted him to slide his tongue into her mouth as he had done a few mornings ago. Oh, and if his hands happened to touch her breasts, that would be nice, too. She tried very hard to look completely bland as she arrived at Miss Tynte’s side.
“Titania! My dear, please allow me to present my cousin to you, Your Grace—Miss Titania Stanhope. Titania, this is Duchess Bellingham. Her son Lord George Ward has just arrived in town, and Duchess Bellingham is joining him for the Season.”
Titania made a curtsy. She had never met a duchess before, and was surprised when the noble lady, so far from looking down her nose, actually beamed at her.
“Miss Stanhope, your reputation precedes you, and I find mere descriptions do not do justice to your celestial charms. Ah, here is my son now!” Duchess Bellingham said animatedly, waving toward a stout man who was just then escorting a dance partner back to her chair.
“George! Please approach us; there is someone you must meet.” She spoke confidingly to the two ladies. “He is my third son, you understand, after William and Henry. We thought he would go into the church, but so far”—she sighed—“he has shown no aptitude. Not that he is not— Ah, my love, here you are. Miss Stanhope, may I present my son Lord George Ward? George, this is Baron Ravensthorpe’s daughter, Miss Stanhope.” The man looked confused. “Miss Stanhope of Ravensthorpe, George,” his mother said with a meaningful look.
“Oh, Miss Stanhope,” George said eagerly, “I have heard of your beauty, but I must say the rumors do not nearly do you justice. Your beauty would make an angel blush.” He looked quite pleased with himself at this utterance.
It was her second, no third, divine compliment that evening, and just as foolish as the rest. “Thank you, my lord. It is not often one puts one of heaven’s caretakers to the blush. I am honored.” He gave her an extremely contented smile, then drew a deep breath, glanced at his mother, and spoke in a ponderous tone.
“Miss Stanhope, I have heard of your reputation for loving books, and I would like to invite you to join me at Mrs. White’s literary gathering this week...it is a small weekly salon, frequented by people of taste and culture.”
“I would be delighted; I always enjoy meeting new people.” Maybe someone there would be able to explain the ton’s passion for angels. She looked up at him, realizing he was having some difficulty glancing down at her. His cravat was nestled uncomfortably high on his neck, while his coat seemed to be cut just a little too tightly, or perhaps he had just eaten too many cakes since arriving in town. He cleared his throat, setting his heavy jowls into a merry jiggle.
“Miss Stanhope, would you allow me the honor of this dance?” Titania caught an encouraging look from Miss Tynte, then nodded, placing her hand in his.
Dancing with Lord George left Titania plenty of time to look for a pair of broad shoulders. Already, she missed the agonizing feeling of excitement she had in the pit of her stomach when he was near. Not to mention that tongue thing—but if she kept thinking that way, soon she would be as sweaty as Lord George, whose gloved hand had somehow managed to seep some unpleasant moisture onto hers.
More partners, more of the same questions, the same feelings of hopelessness. As Titania waltzed and quadrilled and performed any number of other fancy dances, she tallied her debts, reviewed her prospects, and lifted her chin. Her father might have left her bereft of any kind of reasonable future, but he had bequeathed her his indomitable spirit, his gambler’s heart, his reckless fealty to those he loved. She could not deny his legacy. It was up to her to deny what her uncle thought was his.
Despatch from the battle front, March 1813
The rabbit runs to his warren, pursued hotly by the foxes...the pheasant strolls about in his field, happily unaware that a predator is lurking nearby.
Unlike these hapless animals, the male must be lulled into quiescence, then captured before he realizes he’s been taken.
The other hunters in the field are formidable opponents, too: there is the devious fox, a red-haired charmer who beguiles with her seemingly innocent gestures, only to coerce the prey into a compromising situation; the gray-eyed wolf who bares her teeth and snarls at all but her chosen mate, whom she attacks with all the energy that orgeat and sweetmeats can provide; the hunter who has felled her chosen mate but continues to prowl the field, bedecked in diamonds and roses and armed with knowledge of the quarry that no single lady has the advantage of; the old hound dog, who is not hunting for herself but for her young dog of a son, who is already too fat and too lazy to even let himself be captured.
The next offensive line: to narrow the field to the most likely targets, and assess their strengths an
d weaknesses. Until next time, I remain,
A Singular Lady
Chapter 8
After a brief, nerve-racking silence, Mr. Harris hooted in delight as he read the first three columns Titania presented to him. “This is astounding! Terrific! Devilish good! Miss Stanhope, if I may be so bold, I never suspected your gender held such, er, interesting opinions. It is refreshing, to say the least, and sure to titillate our readers, both those moving in your circles and the rest of us, noses pressed against the glass.”
Titania gave a self-conscious smile, trying to get accustomed to her new editor’s enthusiasm. Her previous assignment, dealing as it did with such mundane matters as crop prices and the availability of decent brandy and fine silk, had never provoked such a reaction from the Northamptonshire Gazette’s editor. Mr. Harris tugged his hand through his hair—a gesture that was going to cost him the few blond strands he had left if he made a habit of it—and regarded the pages of close writing more intently. The cadence of his voice seemed to increase in proportion to his zeal.
“Miss Stanhope, the illustrator who provides the images for your words is going to do a bang-up job. I rather like the idea of a battleground covered with ladies and gentlemen engaging in combat. Yes, I think we might even rival Mr. Ackermann’s pretty papers if we do it right. I think,” he mused, pulling out a particularly long strand and wrapping it around his little finger, “we shall put your column on the cover, in a neat box. That’ll draw attention to it!” He gave her a triumphant grin, as if daring her to think of something better.
Titania was stunned to silence by what he was proposing; her only point of comparison was her prior column, and that was buried between the local financial transactions and the positions-wanted section. To have her work on the front cover of a London newspaper was more than she had ever imagined.
“And of course,” Mr. Harris continued, “we will sign you to an exclusive agreement, and if it proves, as I am guessing it will, to be popular, Town Talk will gladly take only a small percentage of any book sales.”
A Singular Lady Page 9
