Turning his attention to Lady Victoria, James searched her beautiful face for signs of—For signs of what? Embarrassment? Perhaps even chagrin? Wouldn’t she appear at the very least—he searched for the word that evaded him—distressed? Yes, wouldn’t she be at the very least distressed had she been compromised? That would be the normal reaction for a virginal miss, would it not?
“Lord Rutherford, this certainly is a surprise.” She offered him her hand with a gracious but brittle smile.
“Is it?” He accepted her hand, bowing over it, ever cognizant of the marchioness’s presence only feet away, her hearing probably as sharply tuned as a canine’s.
“Would you care to join me for a ride in the park? I have my carriage waiting outside.”
Lady Cornwall set down her cup and sprang to her feet in a motion surprisingly spry for a woman her size. She scurried to her daughter’s side. “Well, of course Victoria would love to go for a carriage ride. Do hurry and call for your cloak, Victoria.” She shooed her along as if dismissing a recalcitrant child. The woman had all the subtlety of a battering ram and about just as much finesse.
“Shall I send for Miss Fogerty?” Lady Victoria asked, pausing after the three had exited the drawing room and were making their way down the hallway.
Blast! The last thing James needed was a bloody chaperone.
“Oh posh, Miss Fogerty need not accompany you today. It is perfectly respectable for Lord Rutherford to escort you on a ride in the park alone. Really, Victoria, sometimes I do wonder which century you think you live in.”
Lady Victoria nodded her assent in that vague, unperturbed way of hers.
Thankfully, it took only a minute for a servant to come with Lady Victoria’s shawl, gloves, and bonnet. The marchioness then gave them a rounding send-off, her plump hands fluttering about like the wings of a beheaded chicken. Soon after, they boarded his conveyance and headed off toward Hyde Park.
James gave her his full attention once they were ensconced in the plush velvet-and-leather interior of the carriage. She appeared oddly unruffled, almost serene, given the events of the prior night. She didn’t try to evade his gaze but watched him with the same curiosity as he did her.
“This must be important for you to call on me at my residence. You have never called on me before.”
James’s eyes widened. Perhaps he had actually dreamt the incident.
Shifting his weight so his arms rested on his thighs, he leaned forward, closing the distance between them. “You will forgive me, but my memory needs refreshing.”
At first, her expression didn’t alter but then a rueful smile tipped the corners of her mouth. “No, it is I who should beg your forgiveness. Last eve I was—well, distraught and not thinking as clearly as I should. It was inexcusable of me to come to your residence.” Her voice was soft and she sounded sincere.
At last, he was getting somewhere. He straightened and pushed himself back in his seat, some of the tension easing from his neck and shoulders. “Well, I was surprised to say the least. Now, I know you won’t mind telling me what last night was all about? I mean coming to my residence unchaperoned and at that late hour?”
“I did have my footman with me,” came her quick but feeble defense.
“Are you in some sort of trouble?”
Lady Victoria turned and looked out the window, her hands unsteady as she adjusted the bonnet on her head. “A personal matter I thought you could be some assistance with.” She turned to look at him. “It is of no consequence now. I have dealt with the situation in my own fashion.”
“Which was what?”
“As I already said, it is of no consequence now.”
“By God, you came to my home dressed in your undergarments! I am at least owed an explanation.” A slight growl crept into his voice.
Her lips pursed in annoyance. “It was a nightdress.”
James rolled his eyes. “Well what difference does that make? Undergarments, nightdress, the point being, hardly the proper attire young ladies wear beyond the bedchamber.”
“Yes, well, I was hardly going to wake my maid at that hour of the evening to help me dress,” she said dryly.
Sarcasm? Lady Victoria? His mind reeled. Night was now day and black was now white. The whole damned world had flipped on its axis. “Damn and blast, are you going to tell me what it was all about?” He didn’t make it a habit to curse in the presence of ladies—and certainly not at them—but in this instance, his lapse was understandable. Certainly forgivable.
Her expression grew immediately contrite as she seemed to realize the biting sarcasm in her tone. Staring down at her lap, she idly plucked at her lavender skirt. “All right then, it was really all very silly. Something I had to prove to myself. I’m sure you’ve heard the talk about me around the ton.”
James stared at her. “Are you telling me you did all this to prove to yourself that—that—”
“You needn’t finish, I’m well aware of what you’re trying to say and the answer is yes.”
If it wasn’t such a serious matter, James might have been amused. But going about proving herself a desirable woman in the manner she had, seemed extreme. She could have gotten a number of men to kiss her without taking such risks.
“Did you see me to my bedchamber?”
Her head jerked up appearing startled by the question. After a pause she replied, “As you were in need of assistance, I merely acted as a guiding hand and a shoulder to lean on. I could never forgive myself if I discovered you tumbled to your death climbing the stairs. And please don’t look so alarmed, I left you quite chaste while you tumbled into your bed.”
A wave of relief so great swept through him, he became light-headed. He dragged in a lungful of air. He had not compromised her. By the scrape of his teeth, he would retain his freedom.
“You need not look like you were saved your turn at the guillotine,” she said. She didn’t appear piqued but there had been something in her voice he couldn’t discern, something that sent a frisson of uncertainty spiraling through him.
“But who undressed me?” His gaze probed hers.
Lady Victoria gave a slight shrug. “I assure you that was not the goal of my mission. You’ll be happy to know I left you quite incapacitated on your bed—fully clothed,” she added the latter hastily. “Perhaps you undressed yourself.”
As he had no recollection of anything beyond the kiss, it was entirely conceivable. That part of the evening was a fog, then nothing. Although he had heard tales of this sort from other men, he had never been one to imbibe to the point of memory loss.
“And the kiss—”
She held up her hand, a fiery blush turning her usually pale visage pink. “Please, let us not speak of it. All of this is embarrassing enough.”
James could see for the first time that she was discomfited, and quietly allowed the matter to rest. He was just grateful there would be no consequences from last night’s incident.
After a brief trip down Rotten Row, James returned Lady Victoria to her residence. When she disappeared inside, he bound back to his carriage and instructed the coachman home.
As the carriage made its way down Dover Street, he observed ladies in their promenade dresses and parasols dotting the streets, bustling in and out of storefronts. He glimpsed chestnut hair under a yellow bonnet. His head turned as he strained to glimpse the woman’s face.
It wasn’t Missy, and he was angered by his crushing feeling of disappointment and at how his heart had quickened, his senses stirred when, for a fleeting moment, he thought it was.
Missy.
She was the true cause of what happened last night with Lady Victoria. Through the foggy haze of alcohol, he had closed his eyes and thought it was Missy he had been kissing.
He rubbed a weary hand over his face, cursing his wretched desire for her. He’d come dangerously close to losing the one thing he valued and upon which he put a high premium: his bachelorhood. He’d been just a hairbreadth away from losing it all
and being leg-shackled to a woman he didn’t want. He sincerely owed Lady Victoria a debt of gratitude. If she’d been one of those unscrupulous husband hunters, she could have easily turned the whole incident to her advantage. She could have demanded marriage. One word of this to her parents would have spelled his doom.
And all because Missy had grown up and turned the coquette.
Chapter Seven
The barouche came to a stop in front of Madame Batiste’s shop on Bond Street. One by one, the Armstrong women alighted from the black and silver–lacquered coach with the assistance of Stevens, their footman.
After a slow start to her morning, Missy and her mother had spent most of the day paying calls. They’d returned home to consume a small meal late in the afternoon, and then collected the girls for a promised shopping trip.
Although it had been four years since her brother had turned their fortune around with sound business investments and exemplary financial management, shopping still felt like a decadence, a luxury. Inured in her was years of doing without the latest fashion, the finer fabrics, the better shoes.
However, she hoped this outing would also serve to get her mind off James—at least for a time. As it was, thoughts of him continued to fill her every waking and sleeping moment. She too easily recalled the sumptuousness of his touch and the clean scent of sandalwood on his skin. But for a week’s worth of his kisses, she’d give up a lifetime of mouth-watering desserts—strawberry ice cream, flaky French pastry, all her favorites.
That he wanted her physically, there was no doubt. But she wanted more—needed much more than that. In this courtship, she couldn’t accept anything less than his heart, solely and wholly hers.
En masse, they entered the shop and were immediately greeted by Madame Batiste herself, a tall, robust woman with hair such an unnatural red it shouted hair dye from her brown roots. She held her arms outstretched in welcome.
“Bonjour, Lady Armstrong,” she said in a heavily accented singsong voice.
“Bonjour, Madame Batiste,” the viscountess responded with a gracious smile. Here, her mother would be able to practice her French, a language every proper member of the aristocracy studied. Missy didn’t know why, as she’d found very few places in her life to use it, unless she counted the very same peers who were looking to exercise their limited knowledge.
The modiste greeted Missy and her sisters, warmly exclaiming how beautifully they had grown since she’d seen them last, which had been the prior year. She quickly ushered them into a private dressing area where they were relieved of their shawls, bonnets and gloves. She and her sisters were stripped down to their cotton undergarments and measured. Madame Batiste’s assistant, a very young English girl, made a fuss, exclaiming over the tiny span of Missy’s waist, which measured eighteen and one-half inches without the use of stays.
The next hour and a half was spent poring over fashion plates and selecting fabrics for walking, morning, and evening dresses. There would be plenty of dresses of pyramid silks, printed muslins, mousselaine de soie, and one exquisite evening gown of nankin trimmed in passementerie.
When selecting the styles, the viscountess approved with a smile and disapproved with a quick shake of her head and a frown. That part went quickly. By the time they had finished, ten dresses were ordered: six for Missy and two apiece for Emily and Sarah. Madame Batiste promised to have three of the simpler dresses delivered in two days’ time and the remaining, four days hence. After the viscountess signed for the purchases, the women filed out of the shop and into the fading light of the late afternoon sun.
“We will stop at the milliner’s next and then the cobbler,” her mother said as they started down the cobbled sidewalk. They proceeded several shops down to arrive in front of the hatmaker’s storefront.
“Lady Armstrong.”
All four turned at the greeting. The pudgy figure of Lady Cornwall approached. Missy suppressed a grimace.
The marchioness’s face held a shine not a glow, and she wore the most unbecoming violet dress replete with four tiers of flounces. Surely a lady of her distinction knew a woman of her advanced years and size had no need to be puffed out so. And nothing good could be said of her bonnet. It was the oddest piece of frippery Missy had ever seen, adorned with flowers, sprigs and one long ostrich feather. And to make the eyesore a complete and utter catastrophe, it was trimmed in a red lace of sorts. Red of all colors. As if the entire outfit didn’t draw attention enough.
It was truly remarkable, given the marchioness’s lack of fashion sense, that her daughter was always so attractively turned out. Missy darted a glance around for any sign of Lady Victoria and was relieved to find none.
“Good afternoon, Lady Cornwall,” the viscountess said warmly.
“How lovely your daughters have grown,” the marchioness tittered. Her smile was wide and her eyes brimmed with something verging on triumph.
“Good afternoon, Lady Cornwall,” Missy, Emily and Sarah chorused.
“I had to hurry down to my modiste. I am in need of a new gown for Lady Harrison’s soiree.” Her smile spread from one long-lobed ear to the other, threatening to outshine the sun.
Ever so polite and always a lady, the viscountess smiled, trying to give the appearance of interest. Missy knew that look well enough.
“Indeed? Well, I shall look forward to seeing you in your new gown.” How her mother managed that statement with a straight face was a testament to how long she’d been out in Society.
Their group moved to the left to allow a cluster of ladies to pass without causing a tangling of parasols with bonnets.
“As I’m sure you’ve already noticed, my daughter is not accompanying me.” She paused, her brown eyes alight with anticipation.
The sounds of London life on Bond Street—the clip-clop of horses, the shrill cry of a young child—could not fill the ensuing silence. Seconds elapsed and stretched until Missy finally realized the marchioness expected one of them to inquire upon her daughter’s absence.
When it became apparent no such question would be forthcoming, the marchioness continued, excited and breathy. “Lord Rutherford came calling this morning rather early, and they went for a ride through Hyde Park. The poor girl was simply too fatigued to accompany me.” By the end of the unsolicited explanation, she looked near to bursting.
Missy’s breath caught in her throat. The news had the effect of being pitched from a horse, the landing, nothing short of breath-stealing. Quickly, she lowered her gaze. She would not cry. At least not now.
“How—er—exhausting that must be for her,” her mother replied.
But it was clear by the look on Lady Cornwall’s face that the viscountess had not displayed the proper amount of enthusiasm. Her smile dimmed in the face of their very sober expressions.
“Well I must be off. I am sure she will be awaiting my return.” And with that and a crisp nod, she was on her way, her skirts swaying in tandem with the overgenerous curves of her hips.
The viscountess turned to Missy. “That woman could make a mountain out of a hill,” she said with a resigned shake of her head. Missy said nothing.
Emily and Sarah stood mute, casting her tentative, concerned looks. Missy stiffened and looked away. She didn’t need their pity. James wasn’t interested in marriage, which was the only thing one could expect with Lady Victoria. Furthermore, the woman wasn’t interested in him. Not with that touch-me-not air she wore about her like a mantelet.
They entered the milliner’s in silence.
A half hour later, they exited. Stevens materialized, collected their packages from the proprietor, and hurried to store them in the boot of the carriage. For Missy, the joy of their shopping excursion was gone. It had left with the words of a certain purple paisley–gowned marchioness. The rest of the afternoon stretched before her like a boat ride on the stench-drenched Thames.
However, she had to endure one more stop at the cobbler. As her sisters and mother shuttled in through the narrow doorway, Missy
’s gaze idly swept the busy sidewalk. She spotted Lord Crawley exiting a popular tailor’s just two shops down. Their gazes met in that brief instant. Missy summoned up a smile. Lord Crawley looked away as if he had not seen her, effectively cutting her.
Disbelief gave way to anger. The blasted man had the nerve to kiss her the evening before and cut her the next day. Anger welled up inside her like a boiling cauldron. The audacity.
“Mama, I believe I left the swath of material I brought to match the shoes I wish to purchase in the carriage. I will be but a moment.”
The viscountess shot a look back at her, and after assenting with a brief nod, followed her younger daughters into the shop.
With quick steps, Missy was able to catch Lord Crawley before he traversed much farther down the sidewalk.
“Lord Crawley, I do believe you saw me.”
Lord Crawley’s head snapped in her direction as he came to a jerky stop. Missy halted beside him. The red bloom crawling up his neck and spreading mottled across his face was the flush of a guilty man. His Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively.
“Why, good afternoon, Miss Armstrong. I’m afraid I didn’t see you.” His smile was a nervous twitch.
She knew he was lying, and by God, he knew that she knew. Did he think her a fool?
“Truly?” She quirked a brow and managed to dodge the pointed edge of a parasol as a rather rotund matron jostled past.
Lord Crawley’s gaze skirted the area around them with narrow, apprehensive eyes. “Is your brother with you today?”
“Why ever would Thomas—no, certainly—”
“I am quite aware of how protective he is of you. It is also well known his shot is both fast and accurate.” He laughed. The forced, awkward variety that had no basis in amusement.
Missy shook her head, dazed. Had she heard him correctly? “I beg your pardon? I’m not certain I quite understand your meaning.”
Beverley Kendall Page 9
