The Incomparable Countess

by Mary Nichols

  ‘I would not dream of asking such a personal question, my lady.’

  She was cross with herself for allowing her agitation to show and picked up his cup and saucer and put it on the tray to give herself something to do with her hands. ‘Stanmore House is said to be a very fine example of a London house,’ she said, doing her best to retrieve the situation with an easy smile. ‘I am told the staircase is unique and the decoration of the reception rooms superb.’

  ‘Yes, but old-fashioned. My late wife did not like London and never came, so it has remained as it was in my mother’s time.’

  She longed to ask why the Duchess had not liked London, but that would be as personal a question as asking her about her childlessness and she would not give him the satisfaction of pointing that out to her.

  ‘My daughter has never been to the capital,’ he said, breaking into her thoughts. ‘And until now I did not feel she needed to, but next year she will be seventeen and must make her mark on Society if she is to take well.’

  ‘Surely there is plenty of time for that? I think seventeen is far too young for any young lady to make up her mind about marriage. Why, they are still only schoolgirls at that age and given to all manner of fits and fancies.’ That is one for you to think on, she thought, as she watched his face for a sign that he understood what she was saying; that she had been fanciful at that age and had recovered from it. But the years had taught him to mask his feelings and not for a second did his expression reveal that the barb had gone home.

  ‘I have no wish to saddle her with marriage before she is ready for it,’ he said, evenly. ‘But she must make her bow at court and I would not like it said she lacked polish.’

  ‘You propose to polish her, my lord?’ She spoke with the hint of a teasing smile which jerked him back seventeen years—the young Fanny Randall had had a finely tuned sense of humour—and made him stand up and go to look out of the window. The view was no different from the one he had been looking at earlier, but it was an excuse to keep his face turned from her until he had brought himself back under control. This was a business meeting and he must not allow emotion to gain the upper hand.

  ‘No, that would be foolish in me. I shall employ others to do it.’ He turned back suddenly. ‘You, for one, if you agree.’

  ‘Me?’ She could not hide the surprise and dismay in her voice. ‘I am persuaded you are jesting.’

  ‘Not at all. I am told one of the accomplishments a young lady needs, besides being able to sew a fine seam, play a musical instrument and dance the latest steps, is the ability to draw and paint and I can think of no one more suited to teach Lavinia that.’

  He sat down beside her on the sofa, which did nothing for her hard-won control. He was so close, she could almost feel the warmth emanating from a body which was still lithe and muscular. Her own body seemed to want to lean towards his, to feel again the contact of thigh against thigh, his arms about her, lips on lips. Shocked to the core, she stood up and went to pull the bell for the maid to remove the tray.

  Because she was on her feet, etiquette demanded he should rise too. She sat down abruptly and motioned him to the other chair. He sat down again, far enough away to allow her to breathe more easily. ‘It is true I have a certain facility, but…’

  ‘You are far too modest, Countess. You have an incomparable reputation…’

  ‘Fustian!’ She smiled, remembering those were the words that Lady Willoughby had used; she had probably repeated them in his hearing. ‘You have seen my work for yourself, at Lady Willoughby’s. And criticised it too.’

  ‘I would not presume to do so, my lady. I simply made a comment that you had flattered your subject.’ He smiled suddenly and his amber eyes lit up in the way she remembered; it made his somewhat sombre face come alive, the light in his eyes giving depth to his expression. ‘And considering your subject, you should take that as a compliment.’

  ‘People do not pay to see the truth, your Grace.’

  ‘And it is important they should pay,’ he murmured softly.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ she said bluntly.

  ‘I shall pay. I shall pay handsomely.’

  ‘I have a set fee for pupils who join my class.’

  ‘I do not want Vinny to join a class. I expect her to receive your undivided attention.’

  ‘I am not sure I have the time for that.’

  The maid came in answer to the summons and removed the tray. He waited until she had gone and closed the door before speaking again. ‘Two hours twice a week—surely you can manage that, especially for twenty pounds every time she comes.’

  ‘Now you are being ridiculous,’ she snapped, taken aback by the amount. ‘No one is worth that much.’

  ‘Oh, do not underrate yourself, Countess, it will be worth every groat of it to have my daughter properly taught.’

  ‘And what if she shows no aptitude?’ She was feeling very confused. What was he up to? She ought to refuse to do as he asked, ring for a footman to show him out, but in the back of her mind she was doing sums. Twenty pounds twice a week, that would pay for all the food, clothes and hired help at the orphanage. It might even help to furnish the new home, once they had bought it. She would be mad to turn it down.

  ‘Drawing can be taught, can it not?’ he countered.

  ‘Up to a certain level, perhaps, but if the talent is not there, then…’ She shrugged her shoulders, lifting her breasts within the bodice of her gown, so that he felt a sharp surge of desire, which he quickly stifled. ‘I do not make a practice of attempting to teach what cannot be taught.’

  ‘I do not wish to make a genius of her, nor even an artist, dependent on patronage for a living. I wish her to have a modicum of competence, no more.’

  ‘Mediocrity is not something to aim for, my lord, whatever one’s station in life and whatever one is doing,’ Frances said, with some asperity. ‘You would not subscribe to that for yourself—as I recall, you were always the perfectionist—so why think that a daughter should not excel? It does not preclude her from making a good marriage.’

  He laughed suddenly. ‘Blunt as ever, my lady. But you are right, of course. So what do you say? Will you take Lavinia on? She is a delightful child but, without a mother to guide her since my wife died two years ago, she has been let run a little wild and I can think of no one more suited to become her mentor than the incomparable Countess of Corringham.’

  She refused to smile, though it was difficult when he was so blatantly trying to gammon her. ‘So, I am to provide the polish, am I?’

  ‘Why not?’ He grinned at her and the hard lines of his face softened, so that he looked years younger and less overbearing. If she agreed with his outrageous suggestion, did that mean she would be often in his company? Could she bear that if, as now, he was smiling at her, trying to win her over? ‘You have it in abundance. While you are instructing her, she might learn a little polite conversation, a way to conduct herself in company.’

  ‘Twice a week. How much polish can be applied in so short a time?’

  ‘Enough, for now. I am expecting my sister from Ireland; she is married to Lord Felmore, you know. I hope to prevail upon her to take Lavinia in hand and bring her up to the mark for her come-out next year.’

  ‘Then why do you need me?’

  ‘Oh, I need you,’ he said softly and she wished she had not spoken, but if he thought that his flummery would have her eating out of his hand, he would have to think again. She would not be caught out a second time, but then he showed how wrong she was in that assumption when he added in a far more practical tone, ‘Besides, I have business to deal with and I do not have the time to be continually taking her out and about.’

  ‘So, I am to keep her out of mischief.’

  ‘And be paid well for doing so.’

  He would not bring his daughter himself, she decided; he would send her in the carriage with her governess and a footman, so she would not have to meet him, except every now and again to report progress and she could
keep those meetings strictly businesslike. ‘You think I need the money?’

  ‘Don’t you?’ he asked mildly.

  ‘Yes, but not for the reason you suppose, your Grace. And it is only that which inclines me to agree, but I would have to meet and talk to Lady Lavinia before I finally make up my mind. We may not deal well together…’

  ‘That is understood. Let us arrange a day and time.’

  ‘Bring her here, tomorrow, at two in the afternoon.’

  ‘I shall look forward to it.’

  She rang the bell for a footman to conduct him to the door, bringing the interview to an end.

  He picked up his hat from the floor at his side and got to his feet. ‘My lady, your obedient,’ he said. ‘Until tomorrow.’

  As soon as he had gone, she sank back into her seat and shut her eyes. The encounter had exhausted her. She thought she had got over him, had learned not to care, and to remain cool in a crisis, so why was she shaking? Why had she been such a fool as to agree? Did she really want to spend hours in the company of his daughter, who could so easily have been her daughter too, if her early hopes and dreams had been realised? No one expected her to pay the whole cost of that orphanage, nor even the major part of it, she did not need to put herself through torment just for that. She could easily find other commissions which would not be anything like as stressful.

  She stood up and poured herself a glass of wine from the decanter on a side table and sat down again to give herself a good scold. She was too old to let a middle-aged roué upset her. It was business, he had said so, and business was all it was, and she really ought to thank Lady Willoughby for recommending her so highly. Incomparable! She laughed suddenly and the wine spilled over her hand. She downed the rest before she could spill any more.

  She spent the afternoon teaching a class of half a dozen young ladies about line and perspective and in the evening she went to a soirée given by Lady Holland. Her ladyship was sharp and imperious, and some people made fun of her, but she was still a great Society hostess and Frances knew she would enjoy the conversation of her guests, which was usually well-informed and witty and ranged from the financial troubles that the end of the war had brought with it to poking fun at the Regent. Frances returned home in a happy frame of mind, ready to take on the world.

  She was not so sure about that the next afternoon when the Duke of Loscoe was shown into her drawing room, bringing with him a reluctant Lady Lavinia, but she did not let that show as she rose to greet them.

  He was dressed in a dark blue superfine coat, white pantaloons tucked into tasselled hessians which would have done duty as mirrors they were so polished. His cravat of white lawn was tied in an intricate knot which undoubtedly had a fancy name but which eluded her.

  ‘Countess, your obedient.’ He swept her an elegant bow, which she suspected was more for his daughter’s benefit than hers and she answered in like manner by dropping a deep curtsy.

  ‘Your Grace.’ She did not wait for him to raise her before standing up and turning to the servant who hovered in the doorway and ordering refreshments. If he wanted his daughter to be shown how things were done, then she would do her best, though this stiff formality was not to her taste. She turned to the girl. ‘Lady Lavinia, what a pleasure it is to see you again.’

  Her father nudged her and she curtsied and mumbled, ‘My lady.’

  Frances indicated the two sofas which faced each other on either side of the screened fireplace. ‘Please be seated.’

  Father and daughter sat side by side, so that Frances, sitting opposite, was able to assess how alike they were in looks. Both had amber eyes and thick lashes and though Lavinia’s hair was lighter than the Duke’s and fastened back with two glittering combs, she could detect a streak of chestnut in the gold ringlets. Both had lean faces with strong cheek bones and the finely arched brows of all the Stanmores. Lady Lavinia’s mouth was thinner than her father’s, more sulky, and her chin a little less prominent, though she could undoubtedly be stubborn, Frances decided.

  Looking at the silent girl who seemed to be studying the toe of her shoe peeping from the hem of a pale green muslin gown, Frances was not at all sure of being able to succeed in teaching her; there was nothing worse than an unwilling pupil. But she was reminded of herself when young; she had had the same wayward streak and tendency to rebel. In her it had been squashed by a domineering mother and a broken heart and later she had channelled her energies into something more acceptable, bringing up her stepchildren, her good works and her painting.

  The maid brought in the refreshments and a few minutes were occupied in pouring tea and offering sweetmeats, during which the conversation, conducted entirely between the Countess and the Duke, revolved around the weather.

  ‘Now, Lady Lavinia,’ Frances said, at last. ‘I believe you are to come to me for drawing lessons.’

  ‘So Papa says.’

  ‘You do not like the idea yourself?’

  Lavinia shrugged. ‘I am hopeless at it.’

  ‘Oh, dear. Who has told you that?’

  ‘Miss Hastings, my governess. She loses all patience with me—’

  ‘It is not to be wondered at,’ the Duke put in. ‘You do not even try.’

  ‘I cannot see the point in trying. What use is being able to draw to me? Or dancing? Or playing the harpsichord? Or mincing about learning to curtsy?’

  He sighed. ‘We have been over this all before, Vinny. These are accomplishments all young ladies need in order to enter Society.’

  ‘Then I shall not enter it. It is all a terrible bore.’

  ‘Lavinia,’ he said sharply, ‘you will do as you are told. You know what we talked about only yesterday…’

  ‘That Mama would have wished it. Yes, yes, I know, but Mama is not here, is she?’

  Oh, poor child, Frances thought. She misses her mama dreadfully and he cannot see that. ‘Lady Lavinia,’ she said gently. ‘Shall we have a trial, just to see how we deal together? If we cannot do so, there is no point in continuing; I cannot teach you if you do not wish to be taught.’

  ‘Do not forget, I have also commissioned a portrait,’ Marcus reminded her. ‘I insist she sits for that.’

  ‘We will deal with that later,’ Frances said, looking from the girl to the man, her brows drawn together in annoyance. How was she to get through to the child if he continually interrupted?

  He glared at her, but fell silent under her withering glance.

  ‘Now, my lady,’ Frances went on. ‘Shall you come again tomorrow and we will talk some more? Perhaps you could come with your governess, so that your father may go about his business.’

  ‘I will bring her,’ Marcus snapped. ‘My daughter does not go about town without a proper escort. Her governess would be useless in a tight corner.’

  ‘Very well, your Grace,’ she said, wondering what sort of tight corner he had in mind. ‘I will expect you both at ten o’clock. I am afraid I cannot make it any later. I have a class at noon and an appointment for the afternoon.’

  ‘That will serve,’ he said, rising. ‘Come Vinny, we have other visits to make.’

  All very cold and businesslike, she told herself after they had gone, and cold was the only word to describe him, cold and top-lofty. Was he like that with his daughter all the time? Did he ever show her any affection? Whether she would break through the girl’s petulance, she did not know but, for some reason she could not explain, even to herself, she wanted to try. Perhaps it was simply that she enjoyed a challenge.

  She repeated that thought to Sir Percival when they were riding in Hyde Park the following morning. They had enjoyed a good gallop over the turf and had returned to walk their horses along the carriageway before returning home.

  ‘If you do not mind my saying so, Fanny, you are a ninny,’ he said, while bowing to an acquaintance in a phaeton. ‘You will only invite gossip.’

  ‘It was you who told me no one would remember the scandal, Percy.’

  ‘Yes, but you do no
t have to remind them of it.’

  ‘I am not, but if I had refused the Duke’s request, he would think I bear him a grudge and that I cannot have. The past is dead and gone and teaching Lady Lavinia will prove it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Why, because nothing will come of it. It is a business arrangement and when it comes to an end and he takes his daughter back to Derbyshire, everyone will see it is.’ She smiled and inclined her head in greeting towards Lady Jersey, sitting in a carriage with one of her bosom bows.

  ‘You should be careful you are not hoist on your own petard, my dear.’

  ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Oh, I think you are well aware of my meaning.’

  ‘I have no interest in the Duke of Loscoe, except as a client,’ she said, turning back towards the Stanhope Gate. ‘He is paying me well.’

  He laughed. ‘And you so poor you cannot afford to turn him down!’

  ‘No, I can’t. I put the money I earn to very good use.’

  ‘Now, I never had you down as a pinchcommons.’ He sighed. ‘It just shows how wrong a fellow can be.’

  She laughed. ‘You know me better than anyone, Percy, and you know I am not at all interested in money for its own sake.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Naturally, you do.’

  ‘But you know the latest on dit is that his Grace is looking for a second wife.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Will he go back unmarried, I ask myself?’

  ‘What has that to do with me?’

  ‘He is rich as Golden Ball, if it is money you want. Not that you would have much of a bargain. The gabble-grinders have it that his marriage was far from content and the consensus of opinion seems to be that it was his fault. He is too stiff and overweening to make any woman happy and only his enormous wealth will make the ladies overlook his failings.’

  ‘Percy, I do believe you are a little jealous.’

  ‘Not at all.’ They passed through the gate into Park Lane. ‘But do not say I did not warn you.’