by Amanda Scott
Startled, she said, “I don’t remember what I was saying, and I don’t believe you were paying very much attention in any case.” She peered around the empty hall. “I do not know where Heath has got to. Do you want to come inside?”
His harsh expression relaxed, and shutting the door behind them, he said, “I must pay my respects to Lady Adlam, must I not? And to prove I was listening, I will repeat everything you said to me if you like. Before you got onto Dawlish, you were telling me about Lady Jersey’s rout. Were there any more of the forged invitations in evidence there?”
“No! That is, I don’t know.” She turned quickly toward the stairway and moved ahead of him.
He followed, saying conversationally, “We must hope there will be none at your ball, must we not?”
“I do not believe there will be, sir,” she said, striving to instill her voice with a calm she did not feel. Why it should be so difficult to dissemble, she could not think, but it was as if he were looking directly at her, and she wanted to tell him the whole tale. It would not do, however. She had given her word, and unless Mrs. Falworthy refused their conditions, she could not betray her to anyone, not even Crawley. Glancing back over her shoulder at him, and seeing him smile at her, she suddenly wanted very badly to tell him, if only to relieve herself of the worry that he might be thinking her the guilty one.
He was looking at her a little oddly how, she thought, and when she turned again, he said with his voice low in his throat, “You sound very sure of yourself, Felicia.”
Rattled as much by his use of her name as by a comment that made her more certain than ever that he thought her guilty, she stammered, “You ought not ... that is, I have not given you leave ... Pray, sir, what are you doing?”
For he had caught her and turned her to face him. As she gaped at him in astonishment, he shot a quick glance around the still empty hall, put an arm around her shoulders, a hand gently to her chin, then tilted her head up, and kissed her open mouth.
She closed her mouth at once, but the warmth of his lips against hers was surprising, for it was not at all like the hasty kiss he had stolen from her at Devonshire House, and she had not thought anything could be so delightful. Her body swayed against his, and his arm tightened around her shoulders. The hand that held her chin moved to her waist, brushing against her breast in a way that sent fire through her body. He pulled her closer, as though he would make her a part of himself. Then his tongue touched her lips, moving gently as though he were tasting her.
Felicia felt dizzy. Somewhere deep inside she knew she ought to stop him, but she did not want to do so, for her body had come alive as it never had before and she did not want the glorious sensations to stop. She sighed, and her lips opened, welcoming him.
A stifled giggle from above startled them both and they sprang apart, looking up to see Freddy peering down at them.
“The beasts at the Tower and the changing of the Guard,” he said, grinning at Felicia.
Crawley shook a fist at him. “One word out of you, my lad, and there will be no beasts, no guards, and no more driving for you. Do you hear me?”
Freddy winked at him. “I hear.” And then when Crawley took a menacing step toward him, the boy laughed and said, “Oh, very well. I’m as mum as you like.”
Felicia, watching him run off, sighed and said, “I confess, sir, I’ll be relieved when he goes to school to know he is not at hand to play off more tricks. Of course once he learns how much his irresponsibility affects himself and those who love him, he will change, but until then ...” She let her voice trail to silence when she realized that he was just smiling at her, waiting for her to stop talking. Turning and moving purposefully toward the drawing room, she firmly ignored an impulse to beg him to begin again where he had left off.
“When do they leave?” he asked, following her.
“We are to take them down on Wednesday,” Felicia said. I would like to take all three children to the Royal Academy Exhibition when it opens Monday afternoon, to see Theo’s portrait, for they have not seen it, either, of course, but I suppose that now I will also have to take Freddy to the Tower menagerie and to see the changing of the Guard that morning.”
“He needn’t go to both,” Crawley said.
She flushed. “If you think I mean to take any chances with that rascal’s mischievous tongue, you are much mistaken, sir.”
“Why, Miss Adlam, I do not believe I have ever seen you put out of countenance before.”
“Come and pay your respects to my mother, sir, before I have you thrown out. If I am the least discomposed, it is entirely your fault. Such a thing to do!”
He grinned at her. “I do not recall that you objected.”
“And you are all the worse for pointing that out to me!”
He chuckled. “May I hope that you have saved at least two dances for me tomorrow night?”
“You may hope.”
She had, but she saw no need to tell him so at once. It occurred to her some moments later, as she watched him use his charm to stir Lady Adlam to uncustomary animation, that she had been flirting with him, an activity that she generally considered foolish. And worse, that she was looking forward to doing a good deal more of it the following night. Not only that but she hoped she might experience another of his kisses as a result.
By the following night, she was in a state far from the serenity she usually enjoyed, worrying more about her hair and her gown than was customary. When Theo came into her bedchamber to ask what she thought of her ball gown, Felicia said, “Oh, Theo, how do I look? Is this flesh-colored muslin right for me?” Peering into the looking glass, she twitched the pink and black Vandyke trimming on her sleeves, then made a face at herself in the glass as she tried to adjust one of the pink ostrich feathers in her headdress.
Theo laughed. “Let me do that. You will pull that plume right out. We both look wonderful.”
“Well, you do, certainly.” She thought Theo’s gown of pale pink muslin over an underbodice and petticoat of white sarcenet was extremely becoming. Blue and pink satin ribbons had been threaded through her golden curls and twisted into a rosette over her right ear, pink satin slippers peeped from beneath her flounced hem, and she carried a pair of long white silk gloves in her hand, but for once Theo seemed unaware of her beauty.
Felicia glanced back at her own reflection. “You do not think the flesh color too drab?”
“No, elegant. Felicia, what if my portrait is horrid?”
Felicia stared at her in the mirror. “How could it be? You are young and beautiful, and Sir Richard is the finest portrait artist of the day.”
“But he paints what he sees,” Theo reminded her, “and I think he doesn’t see my beauty. I was horrid to him from the outset, and he is forever criticizing my behavior and telling me I should be more conformable, though he certainly is not. He never likes what I wear. What if it all shows in the portrait?”
“Goose. I have seen how he looks at you, and I believe he corrects you because he cares rather more than he should. If you were not besieged by every fortune hunter in the beau monde, you would see what he really thinks of you.”
To her surprise, Theo did not dismiss her words. Instead, she said solemnly, “I know he cares about me, Felicia, for he has told me so, but he cares more about painting, and about truth.”
Felicia did her best to soothe these fears, and in the course of calming Theo did much to calm herself, so that by the time they reached Lady Augusta’s house in Upper Brook Street, she was perfectly able to stand with her aunt and sister to greet their guests. Lord Adlam had been prevailed upon to lend his presence as host for the evening, and since he had learned that very day from Mr. Oakley that at least one shipment of his precious wine had been got safely out of Lisbon, he was in an excellent humor, delighted to present his younger daughter to an admiring world, and pleasant to his elder daughter whenever he chanced to recall her presence at his other side.
Felicia enjoyed the evening hugely. Lor
ds Crawley and Dawlish, as well as Sir Richard Vyne, had accepted invitations to dinner, as had Lady Augusta’s old friend Major Brinksby. But even the major’s overloud and long-winded description of Lord Nelson’s recent victory at Copenhagen could not depress the spirits of the other guests. At a quarter past seven the dinner party broke up, and with the exception of a few of Adlam’s particular friends who adjourned with him to sample some of his champagne collection, everyone joined the many newly arriving guests in the ballroom at the rear of the big house.
Taking some pleasure in informing Crawley that her hand for the first set of country dances had long since been bespoken, Felicia took even more pleasure in agreeing to dance the first minuet with him. As they took their places in the set sometime later, she noted that Dawlish was with Belinda in the next set, and that Miss Crawley was looking rather mulish.
Turning her attention to her own partner, Felicia smiled at him and said, “The evening is going very well, I think.”
“Excellently well,” he agreed. “Your aunt had the foresight to provide a tea room, a card room, and four refreshment rooms. How could anything go amiss?”
She laughed. “The orchestra might be dismal, sir.”
“No one would notice. I glanced into the nearest reception room ten minutes ago, and it was as if a swarm of locusts had discovered the table, all attired in knee breeches with pink nosegays on well-cut coats that as of this week they call Copenhagens. I fear all my coats have gone out of fashion since Nelson’s victory.” He stepped away from her as the pattern of the dance required, and she glanced toward the next set, seeing Belinda now staring at her feet and Dawlish looking very angry.
Intent upon diverting Crawley’s attention so that he would not notice the byplay, she said as he came nearer again, “Where is Sir Richard? I have not seen him for some time now.”
“He was watching your sister flirt with every person in breeches and got tired of it, I imagine, but they will be unveiling the portrait soon, will they not?”
“At midnight, just before they serve supper,” she told him. “Aunt Augusta wanted Sir Richard to let her place the easel on a raised platform at the head of the ballroom, but he would not do it. He said Theo would perish with curiosity and would be like to snatch the veil away long before midnight. So a pair of his own servants are to carry the draped easel out at midnight and place it on the platform for the unveiling.”
“And who is to do the honors?”
“Why, Theo, of course. Sir Richard suggested that Papa might, but of course, when Theo said she wanted the honor all to herself, Papa agreed at once. He does not like public spectacles of any kind. Sir Richard will be standing on one side and Theo on the other, and she will draw the cord to raise the drape.”
She had forgotten that the orchestra was to play a fanfare to announce the ceremony, and became so wrapped up in her enjoyment that the drum roll and trumpets caught her by surprise. Crawley appeared at her side as if she had conjured him up by thinking about him, and she followed him through the crowd to the front, feeling rather disappointed that the Prince of Wales had not put in an appearance.
A space had opened between the crowd and the orchestra, and the platform was there with the draped easel upon it. Theo stood on one side, looking self-conscious and a little worried, with Vyne on the other side, looking stern but confident.
Crawley murmured, “This occasion calls for a pompous speech from someone. Where is your father?”
“Papa does not make speeches. Sir Richard told us Mr. West had offered to do a proper presentation, but he refused because he wanted everyone to see only Theo and her portrait, and not be diverted by the presence of the president of the Royal Academy.”
The drum roll, which continued long after the trumpets fell silent, faded away at last, and Sir Richard with a brief glance around, as though to be certain the company was attentive, made a small gesture to Theo, who pulled the cord, raising the pink satin drape. The portrait, five feet high and three wide, was revealed at last to gasps of equal admiration and dismay.
Felicia saw at once that the artist had captured every ounce of Theo’s beauty in a pose that showed her turned a little away and laughing back at him over one shoulder. Her skin glowed with youth; her eyes sparkled with laughter and mischief. The white of the gown bore a faint tinge of pink so pale as to be barely noticeable, with a satin sash of a much deeper rose. But with deep dismay, Felicia saw that Vyne had also captured every facet of Theo’s personality as well. She could not tell how he had done it, but the portrait showed a vain young woman, laughing and happy but arrogantly sure of herself and her beauty. It was plain to anyone looking at her that she was for the most part unaware of and unconcerned with the rest of the world.
“Oh!” The brief silence that fell after the unveiling was shattered by the angry cry, and before anyone had any notion of what she meant to do, Theo snatched up the portrait and brought it crashing down upon Sir Richard’s head. “You believe in truth, do you?” she cried. “Well, there’s truth for you ... you painter!” And with that, and without so much as a look at anyone else, Miss Theodosia Adlam swept out of the room.
For a long moment Sir Richard did not move. The canvas had broken and torn, and part of the top of his head could be seen poking through the opening. Slowly he reached up and lifted the portrait away. The hole was right in the middle.
“It’s ruined,” Felicia whispered, aghast. “It was magnificent, and now it’s utterly ruined. Oh, I must go to—” She broke off, distracted when Crawley grabbed her arm.
“Not now,” he said grimly.
“But I must. She will be so—”
“She deserves to be upset,” he said. “And so does he. But you can’t desert your aunt at a moment like this. Look at them.”
She did, and knew he was right. The silence had ended. Everyone was talking, chattering about what had happened. Thinking about what Theo had done—in front of so many people—made Felicia shiver with horror. She was not at all sure she wanted to stay to support her aunt through what must follow, but she knew it would be worse if she too were to go rushing out of the room. Drawing a steadying breath, she said, “I cannot see Sir Richard. Where is he?”
“Gone,” he said. “Took the damned portrait and walked out.”
“It was a terrible thing to do to her,” Felicia said. “He ought to have let her see it first, at least, but he ought never to have painted her looking like that.”
“He couldn’t help it,” Crawley said. “It’s the way he is. He paints what he sees. A man cannot change the way he is.”
Overwhelmed by a surge of the anger that had once been so unfamiliar but was fast becoming habitual, Felicia could not stop the words that leapt to her tongue. “Even Freddy has learned that men can change if they want to. But first they have to grow up and learn to take responsibility for their own actions, to do the things they promise to do without making excuses or simply walking away when the duty they have accepted becomes tiresome.”
He flushed, and she instantly wished the words unspoken, but it was too late. “Clearly, you have had a surfeit of my company for the evening, Miss Adlam. Perhaps before we meet again, you will learn that those who borrow responsibility for everyone else’s problems and don’t see their own, are as much in the wrong as we slackers.” And before she could protest, he was gone.
13
FELICIA SPENT A SLEEPLESS night, for Crawley’s words echoed over and over in her mind. She was certain he had meant that she assumed more responsibility than she had a right to assume, and marveled that he could think such a thing. Who else, she wondered, would look after things if she did not?
The next morning dawned dismally in a damp gray fog that blanketed the streets, doing little to lift her spirits. Theo kept to her own bedchamber until afternoon, insisting she wanted neither to speak to anyone nor to show her face abroad, but Lord Adlam had much to say over the breakfast table on the subject of persons who dared to offend his younger daughter.
She did what she could to soothe his exacerbated feelings, but she did not succeed very well, and after he had gone, Mrs. Heath came to ask if she wanted the linen cabinets turned out, as was generally done in the spring, after which Miss Ames came to inform her that the children—Freddy in particular—rather hoped the promised expedition to the Tower might take place that day.
By exerting some tact, Felicia was able to deal adequately with Mrs. Heath and Miss Ames; however, there was little she could do to divert Lady Augusta, who, not content with numerous peppery comments she had made the previous night to anyone who would listen, turned up at Adlam House soon after the breakfast dishes had been cleared away, and was still having her say-so when Lady Adlam entered the morning room more than an hour later.
Felicia, seeing her mother pause on the threshold, and well aware that she had come down to arrange herself on the sofa in the drawing room as she did most days, got up and said, “As you see, Mama, Aunt Augusta has come to pay us an early call.”
“Augusta,” Lady Adlam said weakly, allowing Felicia to lend her an arm to the sofa, “oh, Augusta, what can have come over my wretched daughter that she could make such a spectacle of herself? Harroby has been telling me the most dreadful tales this morning. Did Theo truly screech at him and run away?”
“Worse than that,” Lady Augusta replied acidly. “She tried to murder him with his own picture in front of four hundred witnesses.”
With a wail of dismay, Lady Adlam clutched a hand to her bosom and said, “Murder! Oh, no! Tell me it is not so.”
Annoyed, Felicia said, “It was not so bad as that, Mama, and only goes to show that you should not encourage Harroby to repeat gossip to you. To be sure, Theo hit him with the portrait—and how she managed to lift it and bring it down with enough energy to break the canvas, I am sure I do not know—but she never meant to hurt him, I assure you. Nor was he injured, except in his pride, I suppose, for now he will have nothing to compete against Lawrence’s portrait of the Princess of Wales.”
