The Indomitable Miss Harris

by Amanda Scott

  His words caught her entirely off guard, and her mouth dropped open in astonishment. She realized soon enough that she must look utterly besotted and snapped it shut again. But her expression remained one of wonder.

  “Do you truly think me beautiful, sir?”

  He grinned at her. “I’d be an idiot to deny it, when every other gentleman in the place will no doubt be showering you with compliments. But, yes, Miss Harris, I do. Of course, your smile is much more compatible with the elegance of your gown than that scowl you’ve been wearing. Take a small bit of advice and cultivate the smile.” Sparks lit her eyes, and he grinned again. “Will you take my arm?”

  She did not so much place her small hand as slap it down upon his forearm, but he bore up valiantly, without so much as a grimace of pain. Nevertheless, Gillian restrained an impulse to pinch him, fearing his tolerance might diminish a bit at such Turkish treatment.

  For the next half hour she nursed a glass of ratafia as she accompanied Landover on a social round of the grand saloon at Stafford House. She met several people of note, including Marshal Blucher, that hero of the Peninsular Wars whose popularity far outweighed the Regent’s or, for that matter, the visiting sovereigns’. He seemed jolly enough, she thought, although his present claim to fame seemed to be a penchant for drinking himself under the table at most of the entertainments provided for the visitors.

  The guests of honor finally arrived, and the moment Gillian had been waiting for followed soon after when the prince beckoned Landover forward and asked that he present her. She made her deepest curtsy, thinking that both rulers seemed rather aloof, although she agreed with all she had heard about the Tsar’s good looks. When she looked up, she found his eye upon her in a rather disconcertingly speculative way. She blushed, and the Regent chuckled.

  “A rare beauty, is she not, your excellency?” A gentleman just behind the Tsar spoke briefly in his ear, and Alexander nodded with a delighted smile. Gillian glanced helplessly at Landover.

  “I think you have taken my charge’s breath away, sire, with your compliments,” he said smoothly, “but we must not monopolize your time. I see that Stafford has given the signal for dinner to be served.”

  Alexander had been conferring again with his interpreter, ignoring Landover entirely, and now he turned pointedly to Gillian. “We shall meet again,” he said with stilted formality.

  Gillian, not knowing what to say to this, merely curtsied, giving Landover’s arm an unconscious squeeze at the same time. Once they were safely out of earshot, he chuckled.

  “Too thick for your blood, Miss Harris?”

  “He makes my flesh creep. I’d not be Russian right now for a wilderness of monkeys.”

  “You like monkeys?”

  She stared at him, but he looked so innocent that she couldn’t help laughing. “You know perfectly well what I mean, Landover. He looked at me as though he had only to snap his fingers to have me served up for his supper.”

  “Very likely that’s how it’s done back home, but Prinny will warn him off, I promise you.”

  “To think I should be grateful for your protection,” she sighed.

  “Are you?”

  “Indeed yes! For tonight at any rate,” she qualified, grinning impishly.

  “Baggage.”

  Dinner was announced a moment later, and Gillian soon found herself sitting between Marshal Blucher and an elderly gentleman who appeared to be quite deaf. The Regent sat a few places up and on the opposite side of the table, between the Grand Duchess Oldenburg and the Countess de Lieven. For the most part, conversation drifted along as it always did at such affairs, in a constant hum, but as the second course was being served, there came a sudden lull, and the grand duchess’s voice carried easily when she spoke in her deliberate way directly to the Regent.

  “Why do you keep your daughter under lock and key, your highness? Why does she go nowhere with you?” All eyes turned toward them, and Gillian, her sweetbreads in claret momentarily forgotten, noted that the Countess de Lieven had lost her usual rosy color.

  “My daughter is too young, madam, to go into the world,” replied the Regent icily.

  “But she is not too young for you to have fixed upon a husband for her.”

  “She will not marry for two years.”

  “I hope that then she will manage to make up to herself for her present imprisonment.” Gillian and several others gasped in dismay at these knife-edged words.

  Prinny shot his tormentor a fulminating glare. “When she is married, madam,” he retorted crushingly, “she will do as her husband pleases; for the present, she does as I wish.”

  The duchess stared back at him unblinkingly, then said with malicious gentleness, “Your highness, between husband and wife, there can be only one will.”

  The Regent turned away and said loudly to Dorothea de Lieven, “This is intolerable.”

  Immediately, Gillian heard Mrs. Periwinkle’s lilting voice and Landover’s lower one as both began speaking to their dinner partners. A rush of conversation started that soon settled into the normal drone, but Gillian, though she pretended to return her attention to the delicious sweetbreads, watched obliquely as the Countess de Lieven exerted herself to smooth things over. It was said that the countess knew well how to amuse him; however, the savory had been served before the Regent was heard to laugh again.

  In the days that followed, the duchess’s behavior grew more and more outrageous. Gillian saw little of the royal visitors, but the Countess de Lieven came to unburden herself to her dear friend Mrs. Periwinkle and gave not a snap of her fingers for Gillian’s exceedingly interested presence.

  “For I can tell you, Amelia, I am well-nigh distraught. I know not how I shall survive the next few days till their departure, but I can promise you no one will be more grateful than I to see the backs of them all!”

  Mrs. Periwinkle called her “dearest Dasha” and made soothing noises, but Madame de Lieven was unimpressed. “No, no, you can have no notion what it’s been like. It was not so bad when they all went up to Oxford—the morning after Stafford’s dinner, you know—except that she wore that stupid straw bonnet with the dangling feather—vastly unbecoming but already the rage. They call it the Oldenburg poke. Disgusting. Where was I? Oh, Oxford. Well, they all ignored poor Prinny when he tried to lecture them on the history of the city. Of course, Catherine is the only one of the lot who speaks much English, but she pretended he wasn’t even there. Flirted with one of the dons instead.”

  “Very rude, but no doubt gratifying to the don,” observed Mrs. Periwinkle. Gillian chuckled, and even Madame de Lieven smiled.

  “No doubt.” She sighed, accepting a petit four from a silver plate and nodding to a suggestion that she might like more tea. “This is the most relaxing half hour I’ve spent in a week. It has been one ghastly affair after another—the Oxford ball, dinner at Lord Castlereagh’s—you can imagine what that was like—Lady Hertford’s ball …” She shuddered delicately. “And then, my God, then the Guildhall Banquet!”

  “Even we heard a rumor or two about that,” Mrs. Periwinkle smiled.

  Gillian nodded. Landover had attended the banquet. The royal guests had been met at Temple Bar by the Lord Mayor, Sheriffs, and Aldermen mounted on horses, robed and bedizened, arrayed in cocked hats and gold lace. The Tsar and the King of Prussia had been welcomed as usual with jubilant yells, the Regent with groans and shouts of “Your wife! Where’s your wife?” Unpleasant enough, Gillian thought, but there had been worse to come.

  “Why that dreadful woman insists upon accompanying her brother everywhere I cannot imagine!” the countess said roundly. “That dinner is meant to be attended by men only, and her presence certainly would not have been tolerated back home. But no, here she must be catered to. I was the only other female, Amelia, and I can tell you, I scarcely knew where to look for embarrassment. Prinny was in a rage because he had to give up his seat to her; the Tsar was bored by the whole affair. Only his majesty of Prussia
was the least congenial. But Catherine was particularly difficult.”

  “We heard she covered her ears when the band played ‘Rule Britannia,’” said Mrs. Periwinkle.

  “Said she had the headache,” scorned their guest, “that she would be sick if the noise did not stop. So Prinny stopped it. Our civic hosts were in an uproar, to say the least, and I received an anonymous note to the effect that if she refused to allow the National Anthem, they could not be responsible for the royal table. I passed it on to her, but she was very ungracious, just said, ‘Let them bawl then!’ Then she closed her eyes as though she were in great pain and grimaced to the end. The Prime Minister came up to me afterward and said, ‘When folks don’t know how to behave, they would do better to stay at home, and your duchess has chosen, against all usage, to go to men’s dinners.’ My duchess!” the countess wailed. “I can tell you, Amelia, I was ready to sink!”

  Gillian absorbed every detail, scarcely able to contain herself until she could share her knowledge with the princess, who might not have heard everything yet. How would she respond to such a report about her precious Catherine?

  As it happened, however, it was not until the following Monday, the very day scheduled for the magnificent Burlington House masquerade, that she was able to visit Warwick House, and by then the princess had other matters upon her mind. She greeted Gillian in agitation, waving two sheets of closely written foolscap at her.

  “He goes too far!” she cried. “Just look at this!”

  Gillian took the paper, which proved to be a list of names, headed by that of the Prince of Orange. “What is this, madam?”

  “A list of those to be invited to my wedding!”

  “Your wedding! But his highness said himself that it would not take place for two years. I heard him myself less than a week ago.”

  “He has discovered about my dearest Leopold, I think. But whatever the cause, he has put forward the date to September and says he will send for the Dutch royal family at once. My esteemed grandmama, the Queen, is already making arrangements to obtain her wedding clothes. But that is not all. Study the list, Gillian.”

  Obediently, she scanned the list of names. Her own was not there, but Landover’s was, and there were a good many other familiar titles. It was not until she turned to the second page that she understood the princess’s agitation. The Princess Caroline of Wales’ name had been boldly scratched off the list.

  “Your own mother will not be allowed to attend !”

  Charlotte nodded, but then her eyes narrowed, and she held out her hand imperiously. Gillian gave her the papers, and Charlotte laid them upon a nearby table, picked up a quill, and drew two bold lines through the name heading the list. Refolding the pages carefully, she called to one of her ladies. “See that this is delivered to his royal highness at once.” The woman curtsied and disappeared. Charlotte turned back to Gillian with a satisfied grin. “That will show him!”

  IX

  WORD THAT THE BRIDEGROOM’S name had been deleted from the royal wedding list spread quickly, giving rise to all manner of rumors. It was a well-known fact that the princess had received a Sunday-afternoon call from the Tsar and the grand duchess, so it was not exactly wonderful that many persons thought such rude behavior must be at their instigation.

  The princess made no secret of her actions; therefore, many of the guests at the magnificent masquerade given by White’s Club at Burlington House that night indulged themselves in idle speculation, but they were doomed to disappointment. The Prince Regent was in high spirits and made no reference whatsoever to the incident.

  Gillian worried until the very last moment that Landover might forbid her attendance, but she need not have bothered her head about it. A party had been organized by Lady Harmoncourt and Lady FitzWilliam, Clara’s mother, and everyone was to meet at the FitzWilliams’ elegant home for dinner before going on to the masquerade.

  Gillian was delighted to discover that Lord Darrow had been included in the party, and she greeted him warmly. “Good evening, sir. But you are not in fancy dress either! I had hoped to see you as a pirate again.”

  He grimaced and looked quickly around to see if anyone had overheard her. “I’d as lief you’d not bring that up, Miss Harris. And as a matter of fact,” he added, eyeing her rose-pink satin domino and dainty, lace-edged loo masque with a teasing glint of mockery, “I daresay you’d as soon I not ask why you are dressed so demurely upon this occasion.”

  Gillian blushed rosily. The one matter that had not been discussed after her first experience at a masqued ball had been her dress. And what Landover might have had to say on the subject had he been privileged to see the daffodil taffeta confection she had worn that night did not bear thinking of.

  Darrow grinned at her expression. “Would you believe me if I tell you I liked the yellow bit of fluff a dashed sight better than the admittedly elegant gown you’re wearing tonight? This color becomes you well enough, but there was a certain something about the other.”

  “Oh, I’d believe you, my lord,” she laughed. “The ‘certain something’ is called impropriety. That gown was wickedly improper, as you well know, and I quite agree that the less said about the other ball, the better. Where is your cousin?”

  “Waiting to make her entrance, I daresay. No doubt she wants to impress Landover.”

  Gillian sighed. For the past week, while the Countess de Lieven had been plagued by the Grand Duchess Oldenburg, she had been plagued by Miss Clara FitzWilliam. The girl seemed utterly ubiquitous. Whenever Lady Sybilla came to call, she was accompanied by the flaxen-haired beauty, and like as not Landover would make an appearance. He always seemed perfectly at ease, and Gillian could not see that his interest in Miss FitzWilliam had abated in the slightest. If he did not go out of his way to shower her with attention, neither did he avoid her, and Gillian was convinced that between Lady Harmoncourt and Clara herself, the marquis would soon find himself whisked, willy-nilly, to the altar.

  “I don’t think he should offer for her,” she said frankly to her companion.

  “He’ll be a damned fool if he does,” responded Darrow with cousinly candor. “And if he thinks to have her fluttering about him afterward as she does now, he’ll soon find he’s mistaken his mark. She’ll spend her time thinking how nice it is to be a marchioness instead.”

  “Well, I fear he’ll be forced to offer soon if nothing occurs to stop it, and I for one can think of no way to put him off.”

  “Only one person I know of could stop it, but since it would mean cutting Landover out, I doubt he would.”

  “One person?”

  “Aye. Linden. I told you about him. Remember?” Gillian nodded. “Well, with the least encouragement, I daresay he’d ride off with Clara across the saddlebow, but she won’t even bat her lashes at him. He left his card this afternoon whilst I was at my uncle’s house, but she wouldn’t even see him. Told the butler to say she wasn’t home, then said she was, not two minutes later, to a second caller. Linden can’t even have got out the front door. Must have been fit to be tied.”

  “Well, it certainly was rude of her,” said Gillian thoughtfully, “but it does sound as though she meant to agitate him.”

  “She’s lucky he didn’t barge upstairs and shake her till her bones rattled,” chuckled Darrow, much as though he might have enjoyed such a scene. “Here comes the wench now.”

  Gillian turned in time to witness a vision descending the staircase. Miss Clara was dressed as a fairy princess in a gown of celestial blue, spangled with scalloping strings of silver stars. Her loo masque was mounted on a wand topped by a larger star, and her lovely hair was worn in long curls and bound with a silver fillet that resembled a tiara. Silver sandals twinkled on her tiny feet as she tripped down the stairs. She held out one white-gloved hand to Landover.

  “My lord, I give you greeting,” she said in her clear treble voice. “Does my costume meet with your approval?”

  Landover took the outstretched hand and brushed
it with his lips. “You are delightful, my dear. The knowledge that we have you and they do not will turn our visiting sovereigns green with envy.”

  “How nice,” she giggled, holding a demure hand to her lips, “but perhaps,” she confided with a twitch of her wand, “I shall choose to turn them into frogs, you know.” At that moment, dinner was announced. “Shall we, my lord?” He smiled, and she placed her dainty hand upon his arm.

  Darrow chuckled. “She’s bewitched him all right.”

  Gillian glared at him. “I’d have expected Landover to show better sense!” she snapped. She recovered her composure quickly enough and was even able to restrain her disgust at Landover’s behavior during dinner. The man seemed totally unaware that he was being reeled in by a determined angler. It was really too ridiculous, as though he were too lazy or too uncaring even to attempt to evade the lures being cast his way.

  By the time their party had reached Burlington House, she was thoroughly fed up with him, but upon entering the huge ballroom even Landover was temporarily forgotten. Upwards of four thousand people had chosen to attend the final ball in honor of the visiting sovereigns. The whole of Burlington House was teeming with costumed humanity, and it resembled the masque at Vauxhall far more than any other ball Gillian had attended. Girls shrieked from the galleries where they were chased headlong by young men bellowing, “Tally ho!” and many couples seemed to be indulging in the sort of hand to body combat that would be better suited to a bedchamber than a ballroom. One gentleman, dressed as a seventeenth-century cavalier, actually plunged his hand down a shepherdess’s bodice just as Gillian passed by. She felt both ears and cheeks burning and knew her face must be the color of a ripe tomato. Glancing back, she saw Landover grinning at her and quickly faced forward again. How dared he smirk!

  They greeted the Dukes of Devonshire and Leinster, cohosts for the gala event, then made their way to the Prince Regent and his party. At least, most of his party. Frederick of Prussia stood on one side of him, with the grand duchess, magnificent in plunging red satin, on the other. Others, including the de Lievens, hovered in close attendance, but the Tsar was nowhere in sight.