Love and Lady Lovelace (The Changing Fortunes Series, Vol. 8)

by M C Beaton

  “My mother would give me a chilly smile, my father would pat my head and say, ‘Well, which one’s this, heh? Never could tell one from t’other.’ And then I was taken back to the nursery wing. Then, of course, there was Eton and then a couple of years at Oxford and, when I was old enough to have the honor of dining downstairs with my parents, why, I no longer wanted it.”

  “Well, my parents are both dead,” said Mr. Bagshot, “but they were marvelous and I adored them. When I set up my own nursery, I’ll have the little brats around me all day long, I can tell you that. But to return to the fascinating Lady Lovelace… I know it is done, Phil. I mean I know that most of London Society marries for money. I cannot understand, therefore, why I should feel uneasy on your behalf.”

  “Neither can I,” said Lord Philip dryly. “I do not like myself at all for what I am doing but I refuse to let it stop me. Love is a luxury wallowed in by poets and sentimental spinsters. The way we are going on, Harry, one would think it actually existed.”

  “Well, it does,” said Mr. Bagshot vehemently, and then blushed to the roots of his hair.

  “Dear me, deary, deary, deary me,” said Lord Philip, raising one thin eyebrow. “Who is the lucky lady?”

  “Miss Priscilla Armitage.”

  Lord Philip opened his mouth to say that no man in his right senses could ever be enamored of Priscilla Armitage, turned over the remark in his mind, decided it was unnecessary and unkind, and said instead, “I wish you well, Harry. Now, I am quite finished. Shall we go to the club and forget about the ladies for at least an hour?”

  Lady Lovelace was ready and waiting a good half an hour before Lord Philip was due to arrive. She had taken extra pains over her dress. Her gown was of jaconet muslin, made with a gored bodice and finished with a tucker of fine embroidery. Her cambric pelisse, called a “fugitive coat,” had long sleeves falling over her hands.

  Her curls had been teased into the style known as à la Grecque and topped with a Lavinia hat, a variation of the Gypsy hat which had been in fashion for several years. She fidgeted with the ivory handle of her lilac parasol and wondered if it might have to do service as an umbrella since the sky outside was becoming darker by the minute.

  Miss Wilkins was lying down in her room, being prey to violent attacks of migraine, so Amaryllis had no one to talk with to while away the minutes until Lord Philip should arrive. Amaryllis had boldly made use of one of her Spanish papers, the green one that turned the cheeks “a becoming red,” and felt satisfied with the result and was glad Tabby was not around to raise her eyebrows in shock.

  By five o’clock, she had quite decided he would not come. He was a strange man. He had been merely funning. She may as well go upstairs and remove her bonnet and lie down before it was time to go to the opera.

  She had taken a step toward the door of the drawing room when the rumbling of wheels on the cobbles outside made her stop. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs and she was amazed at her own agitation.

  A heavy knock sounded on the street door and Amaryllis scampered back across the room and sat primly on a sofa and arranged her skirts.

  “Lord Philip Osborne,” announced Foster, the butler.

  Amaryllis noted with a tinge of awe that Lord Philip managed to look as impeccable in morning dress as he had done in his evening wear. His swallowtail coat of Bath superfine was stretched across his shoulders without a wrinkle. His cravat looked as if it had been sculptured rather than arranged, his fine leather breeches hugged his thighs like a second skin, and his Hessian boots had a shine which Amaryllis thought must be from a secret recipe of his own rather than from Warren’s Blacking.

  His black hair was carefully arranged in the Windswept, and he carried a curly-brimmed beaver and a pair of York tan gloves in one hand and a silver-topped cane in the other.

  He was as armored by fashion as if he had put on a full suit of armor. He was so well groomed, he appeared quite formidable, and Amaryllis felt that if only he had had a spot of grease on his waistcoat, a wrinkle in his coat, or one hair out of place, he would have seemed slightly more human and approachable.

  He made her a magnificent leg and then drew her arm through his. “I think we shall have time to enjoy our drive before it rains,” he said, leading her out of the house to his carriage, which was a phaeton with large yellow wheels drawn by two magnificent black horses. A tiny tiger in scarlet uniform was holding the horses’ heads. He had a wizened little face and a look of age-old cunning in his eyes. It was hard to know whether the tiger was a boy or a dwarf.

  Feeling a very long way away from the ground, Amaryllis settled back as Lord Philip picked up the reins.

  “Jimmy is forty years old,” said Lord Philip, setting off at a smart pace, driving his team well up to their bits.

  “Jimmy?…”

  “My tiger. You were wondering about his age.”

  “I was not,” snapped Amaryllis, ruffled at having her thoughts so easily read.

  His attention became totally engaged in negotiating the press of traffic on their way to Hyde Park. Amaryllis carefully slid a small steel mirror from her reticule and studied her face. She gave a little gasp of dismay.

  The day was cold and blustery. The wind had already whipped a high color into her cheeks which, combined with the rouge from the Spanish papers, made her look like a wooden Dutch doll. She cast a furtive look at her companion but he was staring straight ahead, devoting, it seemed, his whole attention to his team, so she carefully took out her handkerchief and, turning slightly away from him, began to scrub her cheeks with it.

  And then that now-familiar mocking voice of Lord Philip’s began to quote:

  What form! What naϊveté! What grace!

  What roses decked that Grecian face!

  ‘Nay,’ Dashwood cries, ‘that bloom’s not Harriet’s;

  ’Twas bought at Reynold’s, Moore’s, or Mariot’s

  And though you vow her face untainted

  I swear by Heaven, your beauty’s painted.’

  “My lord,” said Amaryllis between her teeth. “I wish you to take me home or set me down immediately.”

  One green eye slid round, surveying her with amusement.

  “You must not be angry with me, Lady Lovelace,” he said. “I was merely amazed that such a lily should consider gilt necessary. I would not hurt you for the world, for you mean all the world to me.”

  The latter part was said in such a deep tone of sincerity that Amaryllis blushed redder than any color her Spanish papers could supply and fell into an awkward and embarrassed silence.

  I’m really quite good at this, thought Lord Philip smugly. I think I hit the exact note of sincerity.

  He would not have felt so secure if he could have read his companion’s thoughts.

  If he were not so rich, thought Amaryllis with a sudden flash of insight, I would think him a fortune hunter with a blatant approach. I feel ashamed of tricking him, but he is so wealthy, he will not notice my absence of fortune.

  Moved by the same sudden decision to go ahead with the game to its limits, both simultaneously turned and confronted the other with a blinding smile.

  Why! He DOES adore me! thought Amaryllis in wonder.

  By George, thought Lord Philip, I do believe she is in love with me.

  The phaeton bowled into the park with its occupants, with the exception of the tiger, in a high state of pleasurable tension.

  But before they could reach the Ring, where the Exclusives promenaded at the fashionable hour, a great gust of cold, damp wind sent a cloud of red dust and a flurry of raindrops down upon them.

  “Oh dear, I should have brought an umbrella instead of this silly parasol,” wailed Amaryllis, clutching her hat. “And see! Everyone is leaving. We will have to go home.”

  As if he had not heard her, Lord Philip continued to drive into the park, turning his carriage away from the Ring and toward a stand of oak trees.

  He reined in his horses under the trees and said over his s
houlder, “You may be excused for half an hour, Jimmy.”

  “Wot ’m I s’posed to do, guv’nor?” came the tiger’s Cockney voice.

  “I neither know nor care,” said Lord Philip. He flicked a sovereign over his shoulder. “Go buy yourself a pint of wet or talk to the deer or commune with nature.”

  “Very well, guv,” came the tiger’s more cheerful voice.

  There was a silence. The carriage dipped slightly as the tiger let himself down. The rain pattered on the leaves above their heads.

  “I was going to say, ‘Alone at last,’” said Lord Philip in an amused voice. “Somehow I feel compelled to make trite remarks when you are with me, Lady Lovelace. Love makes us all utter banalities. The poets have taken all the best words away.” He turned and took her hands in his.

  “What else can I say, Lady Lovelace… Amaryllis… except that I love you to distraction, that you have my heart… that I wish to make you my wife.”

  She made an ineffectual move to tug her hands away. Her face was turned away from him, shadowed by the brim of her hat. He realized that if she looked in his eyes, she might see all the calculation there that he had accused her of showing, and decided to take action.

  He put one strong hand under her chin and suddenly and roughly jerked her face round to face him and bent his head and kissed her.

  In the split second before their lips met, both had decided to fake as much warmth and passion as possible, and both were quite amazed at their acting ability.

  Amaryllis felt she was whirling around in a pink cloud of dizzying sweetness where the only stable thing in a mad world was the pressure of his lips moving seductively against her own.

  He drew back and looked down at her. His eyes were alight with warmth and laughter and tenderness. He gently untied the strings of her bonnet and placed it behind him and ran his fingers through the glossy chestnut of her curls.

  A heavy raindrop plopped down between the leaves and landed on her mouth and he kissed it away, feeling the fresh taste of her lips. Involuntarily, his arms tightened around her.

  “Marry me,” he whispered. “You must.”

  Amaryllis said, “When?”

  He stiffened slightly. He had been prepared for maidenly blushes, maidenly modesty. Then he reminded himself severely that she was not a schoolroom miss but a mature widow. She looked so dashed young, that was the problem.

  “As soon as we can, my darling,” he said. “I do not wish anyone to know of it until after we are married. I hate all the trappings of a public wedding.”

  “So do I,” Amaryllis fervently agreed and both smiled upon each other lovingly since neither wanted any gossip to step in before the marriage and talk about embarrassing things such as lack of fortune.

  “Church weddings are so unfashionable,” murmured Amaryllis, leaning her head against his chest. “We could be married quite quietly from my home in Green Street. Tabby shall be my only witness.”

  “And Harry Bagshot mine.” He laughed. “We shall be oh-so-secretive and keep our love to ourselves lest the jealousies and gossip of the common world should sully it.”

  Well, that’s that, thought Lord Philip in surprise. I did not think it would be so easy.

  He felt he should release her and talk of sensible things like special licenses and where they should go on their honeymoon but she was wearing a light, flowery perfume which his experienced nose diagnosed as Sans Pareille and her perfumed curls were tickling his chin and the weight of her delectable bosom was against his arm and before he quite knew what he was doing, he had tilted her face up to his again and was kissing her eyelids and her nose and her mouth. He had parted her lips and was delicately exploring the inside of her mouth with his tongue when an impatient cough sounded in his ears.

  He straightened up, releasing Amaryllis abruptly, and looked down. His tiger, Jimmy, was standing, arms folded, water dripping from the end of his nose, eyes averted.

  “Hop up, Jimmy,” said Lord Philip. “We are going home.”

  “And abaht time too,” muttered the tiger.

  Amaryllis blushed, realizing the odd spectacle they must make. The rain was so heavy that the trees had finally failed to provide sufficient shelter and both of them were dripping wet.

  They drove to Green Street in a dazed silence. At last Amaryllis found her voice.

  “When will I see you again?” she asked shyly.

  “When we are married,” he said. “In one week’s time. I will get a special license.”

  “A… a… week! S-so s-soon?”

  “Why not? We are to be married after all.”

  “Y-yes. Of course,” said Amaryllis, beginning to think furiously. The sooner the better, she decided at last.

  “Shall I not see you before then?” she asked.

  “It would not be wise,” he said. “My very love for you would show on my face for all the world to see.”

  “Oh,” was all Amaryllis could think of to say to that.

  He helped her down from the carriage in Green Street and stood holding her hand.

  “Till next Thursday,” he said softly. “Do you read Milton, my love?”

  Amaryllis looked at him in wonder.

  “I have read Paradise Lost, my lord….”

  “Philip,” he corrected gently. “I am being foolish. Our afternoon brought to mind a quote of Milton’s, that is all. Something to do with your name. Never mind.”

  He bent and kissed her hand and waited until Foster opened the door before climbing into his phaeton and driving off.

  Amaryllis wandered dreamily into the drawing room.

  “My lady is wet,” said Foster.

  “Yes,” said Amaryllis vaguely. “Oh, Foster. Do you read the poems of John Milton?”

  “Yes, my lady. I have been known to indulge in that pastime.”

  “Can you recall a poem with an Amaryllis in it?”

  “Yes, my lady. ‘Lycidas.’ The quotation as I recall, is, ‘To sport with Amaryllis in the shade.’”

  “Quite, Foster. That will be all.”

  Amaryllis broke the news of her forthcoming Wedding to Miss Wilkins and swore her to secrecy.

  Miss Wilkins was at first inclined to be shocked at the speed of the proceedings and considered the secrecy unnecessary, but Amaryllis insisted. Some jealous matron might ferret out the penury of Beaton Malden and carry the tale to Lord Philip’s ears.

  Miss Wilkins at last reluctantly agreed to act as maid of honor and to hold her tongue. But privately, she considered the whole thing very strange.

  Amaryllis swung from periods of dark despair to elation. Despair when she dreaded what he might say when he found she had no money at all, and elation at the memory of his kisses and of his voice saying he loved her.

  Then she remembered that she did after all possess Beaton Malden. Mr. Worthy had written to say that they should start to come about in about another year’s time. So she was not absolutely penniless.

  After three days had passed, Amaryllis decided that she had better include her butler and housekeeper in the secret. Both Foster and the housekeeper, Mrs. Jarrett, received the news with wooden-faced aplomb. They promised not to let any intelligence of the matter filter down to the lesser mortals of the servants’ hall.

  Mrs. Jarrett was a plump lady with frizzy hair of an improbable shade of gold and given to wearing necklines which were a trifle immodest in a servant. But she was very good at her job and, furthermore, Amaryllis suspected she had been the mistress of Lord Lovelace at some point in that late peer’s life before he had married Amaryllis. Foster, as usual, looked as dignified as an archbishop, with his portly figure encased in dark coat, striped waistcoat, and knee breeches. He had a large hooked nose, which he privately thought made him look exactly like the Duke of Wellington, and he had a small, pursed rosebud mouth, which gave him an air of permanent disapproval.

  During the week before the wedding, Amaryllis curtailed her social visits, frightened now to bring herself too much before the
eagle eye of Society.

  Priscilla Armitage called on several afternoons and, in her state of nervous apprehension, Amaryllis found that young lady’s innocuous prattle well-nigh unbearable, although she chided herself privately for her impatience, putting her feelings down to the fact that she had not been much in the way of entertaining young ladies, apart from her sisters.

  But there was no getting away from the fact that Priscilla was extremely smug. She was pretty in a fair, blue-eyed way and would have looked like a doll except that her nose was a trifle long. The few skills she had she considered very artistic and Amaryllis often had to endure Priscilla’s insistence on entertaining her with a rendition of the “Woodpecker,” banged out on a tinny spinet in the little-used Yellow Saloon on the ground floor.

  According to Priscilla, every man in London, including Lord Philip, was dying of love for her.

  Amaryllis considered all this a fiction, since she had so far seen no evidence of it, until two days before her wedding, when Mr. Bagshot arrived on a thin excuse when Priscilla was visiting and promptly began to exhibit all the symptoms of a young man head over heels in love.

  Amaryllis’s first selfish and dismayed thought was that if Mr. Bagshot married Priscilla then she, Amaryllis, would be compelled to spend a deal of tiresome time in Priscilla’s company since Mr. Bagshot was Lord Philip’s best friend.

  The weather had been quite dismal. London was shrouded, day in and day out, by a damp, clinging, humid mist which made you perspire out of doors and freeze in.

  The day before the wedding, Amaryllis felt she could bear it no longer and sent a note to Lord Philip telling him the whole thing was off.

  Instead of rushing to her side to clutch her in his arms and kiss all her fears away, Lord Philip had sent her a curt reply saying, “Fiddle! I shall be present with the preacher, my lady, on the morrow. Fear of wedding is fear of bedding. It happens in the best-regulated families. P.”