Springtime Pleasures

by Sandra Schwab

  “It would be a novel experience for him,” Charlie retorted gravely. “Good for his soul and all that.” But then she, too, burst into giggles, as she imagined poor Lord Chanderley’s face when she performed a handspring from the back of a carriage horse.

  The girls were still chuckling and giggling when the carriage stopped at the address Mr Whitstock had given them. True to his promise, he was already awaiting them with his horses and carriage standing ready at his side. When he attempted some last, feeble protest, Charlie informed him loftily that a debt was a debt and would he please stop making a cake of himself?

  “If anybody’s making a cake of herself and flinging her bonnet over the windmill besides…” he muttered darkly.

  “I have no intention of flinging my bonnet anywhere, thank you very much.”

  He glanced at Isabella’s groom as if hoping the lad would come to his help, but finally, he gave a sigh and enquired in martyred tones whether miss required a hand up.

  “No need,” Charlie twinkled at him and, as nimbly as a monkey, climbed up on the high-perched seat of the phaeton. “But you may pass me my reticule,” she offered generously. That deed done, she gave a cheerful wave, cried “Adieu!” and clattered off.

  Sitting enthroned so high above the street in such a flimsy, bouncy seat turned out to be a trifle difficult at first, not at all like driving a haywagon really, where you also sat quite high up above the ground but had two large, sturdy horses or oxen in front of you and a large, sturdy cart at your back. Yet, as she had assured Isabella, she could drive almost anything, and as Mr Whitstock’s horses were not merely most handsome but also beautifully well-behaved, Charlie soon had got the knack. And I would be a sad slowtop if I hadn’t, she thought to herself.

  The day before she had studied her map of London and had carefully memorised the way from Mr Whitstock’s lodgings to the Albany, where according to Isabella her brother resided. So she had little trouble finding her way. Negotiating busy Piccadilly Street was a bit ticklish, yet she had no compunction about giving back as good as she got when a wizened hackney driver swore at her. Indeed, she had the satisfaction of seeing him go all slackjawed at the oath she shouted at him.

  Good old St. Cuthbert’s! she thought fondly. The elderly gentleman who had once owned the mansion had left behind his well-stocked library—to the delight of the girls, who had soon found the treasures in the hidden compartments. Nothing of a licentious nature; instead his tastes had leaned towards the coarse and the vulgar. Rather shocking, if one thought about it, the things men found interest in.

  Charlie wondered what Lord Chanderley’s interests might be. Fishing, she surmised, was not among them, since there had been a decided lack of enthusiasm when they had been discussing catfish and eels. What, then? Opera, perhaps? She had heard that some gentlemen had a fascination for the opera; however, she had not yet been able to ascertain this fact for herself as Aunt Dolmore had informed her in rigid tones that the opera was no place for a well-raised young girl. Charlie wondered why, for there was nothing remotely scandalous in the Mozart songs Mr Bernstone had taught Miss Pinkerton’s pupils to sing and play on the fortepiano.

  “It must be another London thing,” she muttered to herself while she turned the phaeton into the short lane that led up to Albany. As the vehicle clattered to a stop in front of what Isabella had informed her was called the Mansion, the front door of the building was thrown open to reveal a flabbergasted porter.

  Charlie waved. “Sir? Could you…” She heaved her reticule on the seat beside her and started to rummage through its contents. After a while she emerged, feeling somewhat hot, but altogether triumphant. “Could you give Lord Chanderley this missive?” She handed the porter the letter she had laboured over for most of an afternoon. It was so important to get the tone right; to impress upon the viscount the necessity of teaching her how to drive this vehicle that was hers for the day. That there was nobody else, and really, he could not let her bumble along in this very dangerous carriage all on her own, now could he? “It is of the utmost importance and urgency,” she said, dropping her voice to a tone of suitable earnestness. “A matter of life and death, really.”

  A somewhat dazed expression on his face, the porter took the proffered letter. He eyed it, then cleared his throat. “Well—”

  “Oh please!” Charlie said, and not for the first time rued the fact that she was not small and sweet like Emma-Lee. Instead, she was tall and scrawny and afflicted with a dratted pair of spectacles.

  “A matter of life and death, you say?” the man grumbled.

  Charlie opened her eyes very wide. “Oh yes,” she breathed. This really was the tricky part of their plan. If Chanderley was not at home or unwilling to step outside… It would probably not do to for her to march inside and drag him out.

  Fortunately, the porter was willing to deliver her message. Indeed, she only had to wait a few short minutes before the viscount himself came storming out of the front door.

  “Miss Stanton!” he exploded, yet before he could continue, Charlie bestowed her most charming smile upon him.

  “Lord Chanderley! How very good of you to come and help me with this tricky matter! Truly, I feel like a veritable damsel in distress.” She wondered whether she should flutter her lashes. She had seen other young ladies do so with astonishing effects, but she was not quite certain whether she could properly accomplish this feat, so instead she concentrated on looking like a proper damsel in distress. “If it were not for you, I would be in the most awful scrape.”

  “You cannot possibly—”

  She opened her eyes very wide. “But who else could I ask?”

  Gloomily he stood in front of the carriage, his chest heaving as if with exertion or with some strong feeling. Finally, he looked up at her, his face blacker than thunder. “I am of a mind to drag you off that seat with my own bare hands and—”

  “My lord!” she exclaimed, infusing her voice with just the right mixture of shock and hurt reproach. “You would not dare!” She took up the reins and made as if to drive off. “If you do not want to help me, you need only say so.”

  For a moment, he smouldered in silence, then, “Alright, I will teach you to drive this… this thing.” A contemptuous glance encompassed the phaeton. “Though I would like to know who has been so birdwitted as to allow you on the seat all on your own, so I can wring his da–” He caught himself and his scowl deepened. “His deuced neck, that is.” He directed his glower onto the porter. “Dalton!” he bellowed. “Stay and do not let her out of your sight. I’ll be back in a trice.”

  With that he turned and stomped back into the house.

  Now that went well, Charlie thought, and bestowed a broad smile on the porter. “Is he not the dearest man? Most chivalrous!” Not to mention tall and devastatingly handsome. Her insides positively melted whenever she merely looked at him. It was most disconcerting!

  The porter grunted something unintelligible and retreated a few careful steps.

  Charlie did not have to wait for long before Lord Chanderley returned, now properly attired for a drive about Town, though his face was still set in the most forbidding expression. Yet she did not feel deterred in the slightest. Quite the opposite was true: the drive would do him plenty of good; she was certain of that even though it would tax her insides most dreadfully. But she was fully prepared to suffer a little, if it meant she could help the poor man. Emma-Lee had called her a problem-solver, and she was probably right: Charlie could not stand seeing her friends and acquaintances in pain or in trouble. If one could fix their problems, one ought to do so.

  And so, her smile still firmly in place, she removed her reticule from the seat and stowed it behind her legs to make room for the viscount. No sooner had she completed this task that he hauled himself up—my, he really had the broadest shoulders!—and sat down next to her. So very much next to her in fact that their bodies touched.

  In more places than just one.

  A curious little shi
ver raced down Charlie’s spine. All at once her skin prickled and she couldn’t seem to draw enough air into her lungs. Touching him, she found, had actually much more adverse effects upon her than merely looking at him.

  Pea-goose! she scolded herself. Aloud, she said brightly, “Well, shall we?”

  And then they were off—and soon she realised another, most annoying fact about London: the streets were most awfully thronged with people and vehicles and animals of various kinds.

  “Is there no place where you can drive fast in this confounded town?” she said, exasperated, trying her best to ignore the pressure of his muscular thigh alongside hers or the strong arm that rubbed against her shoulder whenever she moved. Then her brow cleared. “Oh, I know! Brighton Road! Isn’t that where the young gentlemen usually have their races?” She threw Chanderley an enquiring look. “We could try Brighton Road, couldn’t we?”

  To her disappointment he did not greet this suggestion with raptures of delight. Instead, he scowled at her in the most alarming fashion. His eyebrows actually met over his nose, she noticed with interest. Nobody else she knew could make his eyebrows merge like that.

  “Miss Stanton, have you no regard for either your safety or for propriety?”

  She blinked. “For propriety?” she echoed blankly.

  “Yes. Propriety.” He sounded as if he spoke through tightly gritted teeth. “It is not seeming that a young lady goes on a drive with a gentleman all on her own. In the country perhaps. But not here in London.” The more he talked, the angrier he appeared to become. Now he actually started waving his hands about. “And apart from propriety, don’t you care for your safety? I am a virtual stranger for you. Anything could happen!” He glared at her, his chest heaving with indignation.

  He was a dear; still, Charlie couldn’t help laughing about his last remark. “Anything? Don’t be ridiculous!” She nudged her reticule with her foot. “I have brought my blunderbuss and my huswife. So should you try anything funny, I will either stab you or shoot you. Or both, really.” She thought a moment longer. “Well, if you made me really angry, I suppose I would probably stab you, shoot you, and then I would kick you in your manly parts, too. I could also break your kneecap, if that is what you prefer.” She gave him an airy smile. “Oh, you mustn’t look so shocked. Miss Pinkerton always said that a Young Lady must know the Ways Of The World & Where It Hurts Most. A most useful advice, don’t you think so? Especially in this country, where there are so many ruffians at large.—Truly,” she continued, warming to her topic, “I had no idea that England was so infested with people of the criminal persuasion. It is most shocking.—So, where is this Brighton Road, then? Do you think we might encounter highwaymen there?”

  Somewhat weakly, he answered, “I daresay the highwaymen would surely regret any such an encounter.”

  Charlie glanced at him. He sounded so… so wan, the poor man. Driving around in a high-perched phaeton apparently still affected him terribly. “I am sure they would,” she said in soothing tones. “The blunderbuss is loaded.” Weren’t gentlemen generally interested in guns and horses and such things? She would talk about something that would not only spark his interest, but would also be sure to ease his mind. “It is a most pretty thing, you must know. All gleaming and shining once I properly polished it.” She frowned. “It was devilishly difficult to find a shop where they sold ammunition, though. I asked my cousin, and she was nearly thrown into hysterics. Apparently I committed another blunder. I am prone to them,” she confided, as she steered the phaeton around another of those ticklishly tight corners London seemed to specialise in. “Blunders, I mean.—La! Did you see that curricle?” She craned her head.

  “Miss Stanton,” Lord Chanderley said in constricted tones. “Please be so kind as to keep your attention on the road.”

  “Hm?”

  “The road ahead!” he gritted out.

  Ooops. For a moment there she had forgotten how this whole business of driving around in a high-perch phaeton affected the poor viscount. Turning, she gave him a reassuring smile. “Have I told you that I am a past champion at the haywagon races? So you see, there is no need to worry.”

  He blinked. He really had the most wonderful eyes, she thought. A luscious, melting brown, surrounded by dark lashes, which were such a nice contrast to his golden-dipped hair. Too bad gentlemen had to wear those silly hats most of the time. She would have preferred the viscount without the hat.

  “Haywagon races?” he echoed.

  “Yes, indeed. In autumn, after the harvest, the older girls at Miss Pinkerton’s all take part in the haywagon race across Mr Andersen’s field. It is a most bumpy ride, I can tell you. You get your bones rattled in the most uncomfortable fashion. Driving this phaeton, by contrast, is a mere snap.” She snapped her fingers to illustrate her point. Unfortunately, the gloves she was wearing prevented her from producing a truly satisfying snap.

  She chanced another glance at Chanderley.

  Her reassurance had not seemed to help because he was still clutching the side of the vehicle tightly. Further diversions were called for. Guns she had already tried, now on to carriages!

  “Wasn’t that the most dashing curricle we’ve just passed? All lacquered in that deep red like a Chinese chest.” Charlie was proud of herself for that last simile. It was something she had learnt since coming to London: Chinoiserie was terribly en vogue, as Cousin Caroline would say. And the curricle had been Chinese red.

  An undistinguishable growl answered her.

  Not to be deterred, Charlie gave a sigh. “I wish I could own such a dashing curricle! Wouldn’t that be most delightful?”

  This time, the growl was much easier to understand. “No,” Chanderley said.

  She shot him a surprised look. He was again doing that thing with his eyebrows. Making them mesh. Furthermore, he wore a most alarming scowl. Again. “Why ever not?” she asked, perplexed.

  If possible, his expression darkened even more. “That was Mrs Robinson’s curricle,” he said in forbidding tones.

  “So?”

  His voice dropped another octave to an even deeper grumble. “She is a courtesan.”

  “Oh.” Charlie blinked. “A what?”

  ~*~

  It was a minor miracle that they found the Brighton Road in the end. But Griffin must have given Miss Stanton correct directions after all, even though he was in a daze.

  Or perhaps he was developing a brain fever.

  Given the state he was in, the latter was a distinct possibility. It would certainly account for the whirling in his brain and for the fact that he had let himself be persuaded to join Miss Stanton on the box seat in the first place. No doubt Boo would read him the riot act if he ever found out, and tell him that he must have had rats in the upper storey to entertain for the merest moment the idea of accompanying her, never mind actually going through with the scheme.

  Yes, Griff would not be surprised to learn that he had developed brain fever.

  But how could he have resisted her? His very heart had clenched at the sight of her sitting on that thing. No, he couldn’t have let her drive off all on her own. Goodness knows what might have happened to her!

  He took a deep breath, making his shoulder shift where it pressed against Miss Stanton’s.

  Yet instead of brain-cleansing country air, he inhaled the scent of soap and what he suspected must be Miss Stanton’s very own, private scent.

  Oh lud.

  It wasn’t even perfume. No, it was her private, intimate woman scent.

  Sweat broke out on his upper lip.

  He liked his women perfumed, he told himself. Anointed with expensive perfume in all the right places. In his mind, he tried to conjure up the body of his last mistress. Her naked body, writhing sinuously on her bed, as she waited for him to join her. A nice, curvy body it was, too, with milky-pale skin and—

  “You still haven’t explained to me what a courtesan is,” Miss Stanton said and gave him one of those intense green looks, comp
lete with flashing spectacles.

  Her skin was anything but milky white right now, but flushed with the wind.

  Would she look like this when she lay in bed, underneath her lover, in the throes of passion?

  She raised a black eyebrow.

  “Ehm…” What had they been talking about? Courtesans. Damned courtesans. “No,” he said. And then, because he felt this answer lacked a certain something, he added in his most forbidding tones, “It is a topic not suitable for young ladies.” If she were a reasonable-minded young woman, this should discourage her enough to drop the blasted topic. He shifted on his seat, aware of a growing tightening of his groin. Damn.

  The spectacles flashed once more—by gad, they were ugly, chunky things!—as she turned back to focus her attention on the road. “Ah. One of those,” she said. One gloved hand came up to push the glasses further up her nose. “Golly.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said ‘golly.’” This time, the glance she gave him seemed somehow less intense. She sighed. “You don’t need to tell me: I have committed another whatsname. Faux pas. Yes, another faux pas.” Her shoulders drooped a little. “I am prone to committing them as my Aunt Dolmore tells me. I even told your sister about the wild boar. She was much shocked, I could see. But I didn’t know that it was a Topic Unsuitable For Polite Conversation!”

  Yes, he thought. Definitely brain fever, for apparently he now suffered from hallucinations. How else to account for hearing a delicately nurtured young female talking about wild boars? Young ladies, in his experience, talked about what Miss Something-or-other had been wearing at the ball the night before; how many times their rivals had danced with some eligible gentleman or other; or what worthy charity they currently supported, etc. But on the whole, they, as a rule did not talk about wild animals, boars or otherwise. Come to think of it, they didn’t talk about blunderbusses and breaking one’s kneecaps either. Ribbons, yes. Weapons and wild animals, no.

  Still, he supposed one ought to humour one’s hallucinations if one did not want one’s brain to burst.