A Lord for Miss Larkin

by Carola Dunn

  Lord Witherington looked somewhat out of temper, and Philip wryly amused. Alison seized the first opportunity to ask Philip what was amiss.

  “I have ruffled his lordship’s feathers,” he confessed. “He thought he was to be entertained by a true blue Tory. We had something of a political discussion over the port and he found out he was mistaken.”

  “Oh dear, did you tell him you are turning Whig? Fanny said he called you a pillar of the establishment.”

  “Lord, did he really?” Philip groaned, laughing. “His pillar has crumbled; that is why he is so shocked.”

  “He will not make Fanny leave?”

  “That would be unpardonably rude, even to a Whig. No, you need not fear losing your friend’s company.”

  “I am glad, even though I do think Jenny will be my friend, too.”

  “You have a happy knack of making friends, my dear. Go and work your wiles on Lord Witherington for me.”

  He watched as she obeyed, and soon had the felicity of seeing his lordship’s face lose its frown.

  When all their guests had at last retired, Philip and his sister mounted the stairs together.

  “Alison is a dear,” said Dorothy, patting his arm. “I do not wonder that you are madly in love with her.”

  “I’m glad you like her, but it would have made no difference to me if you had not.”

  “Of course not. What passes my understanding is that you have invited Lord Fane to come down here.”

  “It is not pure altruism, I assure you. I could not bear to marry her and then find that she was pining after a title.”

  “I cannot believe she is so set on marrying a lord. I never saw a less calculating creature in my life.”

  “She is beginning to grow out of that youthful romanticism.” Philip’s smile was tender, yet he sighed. “In a way it is a pity.”

  “You are taking a fearful risk of losing her.”

  “I know it. But what else can I do?” The question was rhetorical. He kissed his sister’s cheek and went off to bed, wondering if he had completely lost his wits to invite his rival into his own home.

  * * * *

  Alison, used to sleeping through street cries and rumbling wagons, was awakened early next morning by the song of a thrush. The liquid, warbling notes tugged her out of bed. Barefooted, she ran to the open window to see a plain brown bird with a speckled breast flutter down from a branch to the dew-drenched lawn and begin a tug-of-war with a worm.

  The sun was burning off the last wisps of morning mist. The outside world was so fresh and inviting that Alison could not resist. She scrambled into a morning gown and ran downstairs.

  In the hall she paused, wondering which way to go. At that moment a maid pushed open the door to the servants’ quarters, and the lure of the gardens was overpowered by a heavenly aroma. Alison followed her nose. A few minutes later she was seated at the table in a huge, airy kitchen hung with gleaming copper pans, munching a chunk of new-baked bread slathered with creamy butter. The cook, beaming, made a pot of tea, while the housekeeper showed Alison Lady Vernon’s menus for the day and explained the problems involved in provisioning a house party.

  They were discussing the differences between marketing in Town and in the country when Philip came in, grinning. With a hand on the housekeeper’s shoulder he stopped her jumping up, and said to the cook, “Any old bread to spare? Miss Larkin wishes to feed the deer.”

  Alison carrying a stale loaf, Philip with his mouth full of fresh bread and butter, they went off to find the herd.

  By the time Lord Fane arrived at midday, Alison had decided that the country was quite the most delightful place to be. She told him so, when he joined the rest of the party for a cold collation. He responded with a paean of praise for Fane Hall, in which the ornamental lake figured largely.

  “Nether Beeches has no ornamental lake,” he pointed out. “And peacocks—I believe Trevelyan has no peacocks?”

  It was most promising.

  With the happy examples of Fanny and Robert, Jenny and Mark before him, his lordship’s ardour increased noticeably. The second evening, when everyone strolled out into the twilight gardens after dinner, Alison was not surprised to find herself steered apart from the others.

  “I am persuaded you have not visited the jasmine bower at this time of day, Miss Larkin,” Lord Fane said hopefully. “The fragrance is at its best now.”

  Nothing could have been more romantic than to wander among sweet-scented flowers on the arm of an enamoured gentleman while the light faded from the indigo sky. Alison took a seat in the jasmine bower with a sense of rising excitement. The gentleman dropped to one knee in the approved fashion.

  “Miss Larkin! Alison, if I may be so bold.” He took her hand.

  “My lord!” Ah, there was the thrilling tone she had tried for with Lord Kilmore. Lord Fane looked somewhat alarmed.

  “Miss Alison, you must know how much I admire, nay, adore you. Since first I met you, my heart has not been my own. I long to call you mine. Give me hope—say, oh say that you will be my bride and my heart shall be yours forever more.”

  As a speech his declaration was satisfactory, though Alison suspected that it had been lifted from a melodrama and much rehearsed. It was a pity that there was a spider swinging from a gossamer thread not a foot above his lordship’s head. Should she warn him? The jasmine fragrance was becoming overpowering and she had a sudden urge to sneeze. Valiantly she suppressed it. It would not do to sneeze in the face of a gentleman making a proposal of marriage.

  She became aware that he was awaiting an answer. Her acceptance was on the tip of her tongue when she realized that she did not know his Christian name.

  “You hesitate—I have taken you by surprise. Such maidenly modesty does you credit. Allow me to enumerate the advantages that must accrue to you as my wife.”

  Narrowly missing the spider, he stood up and sat beside her on the stone slab bench, which was growing colder and harder by the minute. She must tell Philip to exchange it for a wooden seat.

  Philip! His name was a talisman that opened the door to understanding. How could she wed the man at her side, whose meaningless babble of dignity and consequence flowed past her uncomprehended, when it was Philip she loved.

  “I’m sorry,” she interrupted, “I cannot marry you.”

  He patted her hand. “You are afraid that you will not be worthy of your new station in life. It is perfectly understandable. I assure you I have not taken this step without much serious consideration, and I have reached the conclusion that with my assistance you will be able to overcome a slight tendency towards levity. Nor need anyone know about your unfortunate connexions. Naturally I shall not forbid your calling on them now and then when we are in Town, in an unmarked carriage, of course. I know you are much attached to your aunts. Such family sentiment does you no harm in my eyes, I promise you.”

  “Thank you, my lord, but truly I cannot be your wife.”

  “Ah well, I shall not press you now. Perhaps you will like to talk to Lady Emma about my offer. She is a sensible woman and will doubtless reassure you as to your fitness for so daunting a position. Every young lady likes to be courted, I know, and it is a woman’s privilege to change her mind. I do not despair. Shall we return to the house?”

  He rose. Barely visible in the gathering dark, the persistent spider landed on his cheek, ran across his nose and spun down to his lapel. Alison dissolved in a fit of the giggles.

  Lord Fane was seriously affronted. It was beneath his dignity to abandon her, but his voice was frosty as he pointed out a step in the path and he did not offer his arm.

  Everyone else had gone in. Though Alison wanted to retire to her chamber, and she suspected Lord Fane was equally desirous of avoiding company, they went to the drawing-room. The first sight that met her eyes was Philip and Lady Emma, tête-à-tête on a love-seat, absorbed in low-voiced conversation.

  Alison found her work-bag and Lord Fane, with conscious graciousness, brought a
branch of candles to the table beside her. She was glad to bow her head over her needlework. Doubtless bent on hiding his discomfiture, he stayed by her, occasionally uttering a commonplace remark which she did not feel it necessary to answer. Never had she suffered through an evening so endless and so painful.

  She did not waste a moment on wondering whether his lordship’s outrage would last. It was not important. All her energy must go into hiding from Lady Emma and Philip the fact that she loved him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Philip was standing at the library window watching Lord Fane’s carriage depart down the hill when Dorothy joined him.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “A plausible but transparent emergency.” Philip’s attempt to keep a triumphant grin from his face was not entirely successful. “Have you seen Alison this morning?”

  “Not yet. I’d give a good deal to know what she did last night to make him hedge off. All the signs pointed to your defeat.”

  “They did, did they not? All that was lacking was a full moon. I expect she laughed at the wrong moment. His lordship deplores frivolity in a female.”

  “I should not call her frivolous; she has a serious side to her. The servants all worship her, you know, and they are better judges of character than anyone. Few young ladies could keep their respect after breakfasting in the kitchen! Do you mean to declare yourself today?”

  His fond smile faded. “I think not. The poor child must be sadly disappointed at Fane’s defection and she will need time to recover. I shall do what I can to drive off the blue devils. I wonder if she would like to learn to ride?”

  “Ask her.”

  Philip took his sister’s advice and was rewarded by the instant brightening of Alison’s unwontedly doleful face.

  “I should love to! Will you teach me? Or no, I expect there is an aged family retainer who taught you when you were a boy.”

  “Is that how Mrs. Meeke would have it?”

  “Yes, I do not know how many aged retainers she has created. Is she wrong about that, too?”

  “By no means. However, Davy is ancient rather than merely aged, and he prefers sitting in the sun on a mounting block to walking across the stable yard. I could find the second oldest groom for you.”

  “Now you are roasting me. I should much prefer you to teach me, if it will not be a great deal of trouble.”

  “That depends on how well you follow my directions. Any disobedience and I shall turn you over to the oldest groom.”

  Her chuckle warmed his heart.

  Whether it was due to the threat or not, she proved an apt pupil. By the third day she was ready to venture down to the village to see the improvements to the vicarage that he had set in train in preparation for Mark’s marriage. That outing left her stiff, and she was quite happy to ride in his curricle to the Vernons’ house to meet his niece and nephews. Fond as he was of the children, it was her joy in playing with them that gave him the most pleasure.

  His older sister visited, and gave her approval to his choice.

  Time passed, with riding and walking and picnics when the weather was fine, music and games, books and conversation when it rained. A dozen times Philip nearly asked Alison to marry him, but with the sensitivity of a man in love he noticed how now and then she withdrew from him, a sad, pensive expression crossing her elfin face.

  He knew he wanted her for his wife even if she did not love him. He tried to be patient. Perhaps on her return to Town, to her aunt’s house, she would be willing to look with favour on the suit of an untitled gentleman who loved her very much.

  The last day of the house party dawned fair, though a steady westerly wind threatened rain before nightfall. Everyone was up early, and trunks and boxes were despatched London-ward on a loaded fourgon. Alison was to travel with the Witheringtons. She envied Philip his curricle, but while tooling around the country lanes was acceptable, it would not be proper for a young lady to be seen on the high road in a sporting vehicle.

  She recalled driving home to London with him after she was abducted by poor Lord Kilmore. It had not seemed to matter then, for a brief time, that he loved Lady Emma.

  Even the possibility of returning at a later date with her aunts could not cheer the departure from Nether Beeches. Feeling utterly dejected, she was quite unable to join the chatter as Fanny and her mother discussed bride clothes and wedding plans.

  “What colour should you like the bridesmaids’ gowns to be, Alison?” Fanny enquired.

  Her thoughts far away, Alison started. “Colour? Oh, whatever you choose. Everything should be just as you like it.” She shuddered as the horrid notion crossed her mind that Lady Emma might ask her to be a bridesmaid when she married Philip.

  When they reached London, the carriage set down the Witheringtons and then carried Alison on to Great Ormond Street. Comforted by a rapturous welcome from her aunts and the dogs, Alison managed to give a lively description of Nether Beeches and the events of her stay. The kitchen was a cosy refuge from the rain that now streamed down the windows.

  Her trunk arrived just before dinner and was carried up to her chamber. After eating she went up to begin unpacking, a bittersweet task since she knew each garment would remind her of something she had done with Philip while wearing it.

  Carter had packed the trunk for her, and for a moment she was afraid Lady Emma’s abigail had forgot to give her the key. She found it in her reticule. It turned easily and she lifted the heavy lid.

  On top of her clothes lay a white rectangle of paper. Puzzled, she reached for it, letting the lid crash back against the wall. She sat back on her heels, unfolded the sheet, and gasped in shock as she read the few words in Lady Emma’s hand.

  “Alison, are you all right? Whatever was that great bang?” Aunt Di hurried in.

  “Bang? Oh, the lid. Sorry. Aunt Di, I do not know what to do.”

  “What to do? I knew something was wrong. What is it, dear? What does the letter say?”

  Aunt Cleo and Aunt Polly arrived, asking anxiously about the crash. Aunt Di made them sit down and they all looked expectantly at Alison.

  She realized how much she loved them. She could never marry anyone who did not accept them as they were. She needed advice, and they knew her better than anyone else in the whole world.

  “Lady Emma has eloped with Ralph Osborne,” she said.

  “Ralph Osborne!” exclaimed Aunt Cleo.

  “Oh dear, whatever will Zenobia say?” worried Aunt Polly.

  “But you do not care for Mr. Osborne, Alison,” Aunt Di pointed out, “so what is upsetting you?”

  “Philip—Mr. Trevelyan—loves Lady Emma, and I love Philip!” she wailed.

  “Then you ought to be delighted at the news of the elopement.” Aunt Di did not seem surprised.

  “But I cannot bear to see Philip hurt. He has loved her forever. Do you think if I went to him at once and told him, he might be able to catch up with them and bring her back?”

  The three spinsters exchanged significant glances.

  “But it’s raining,” protested Aunt Polly.

  “All the better,” Aunt Di said cryptically. “You must take Midnight, Alison, for you will never find a hackney about here at this hour.”

  “Do you really think. . .?” began Aunt Cleo. “Yes, I daresay it will serve. You must wrap up warmly, dear. Is your blue cloak unpacked?”

  “Yes, I carried it with me in the carriage. Do you really think I should go? It is not just a silly romantic notion?”

  “Consider how unhappy Mr. Trevelyan will be if he finds out too late,” Aunt Di reminded her. “And how noble and self-sacrificing he will think you.”

  Alison was halfway down the street before she realized that Philip would only think her noble and self-sacrificing if he knew that she loved him. She was determined that he should never find out. Huddled in her cloak, she scurried through the steady downpour, Midnight padding patient and uncomplaining at her side.

  By the time she reached Green
Street, she was soaked to the skin, her elegant blue cloak a sodden weight on her shoulders. In the past few months she had passed Philip’s house dozens of times, but being an unmarried young lady she had never entered within its bachelor portals. Mounting the steps to the pillared and pedimented front door, she nearly cried craven and turned back.

  She could not face the walk. Though it was nearly July, she was shivering. Philip would drive her home, even if he laughed at her or was angry at her interference—No, he would not be angry, when she meant well.

  She rang the bell.

  The butler was not the one she had met at Nether Beeches. His face was wooden as she stammered out her request through chattering teeth.

  “P-please, I must see Mr. T-trevelyan.”

  ‘‘The master is not at home.”

  “B-but I see a light. . . Oh, you mean he is not receiving. T-tell him Miss Larkin is here. I think he will see me.”

  The moment he heard her name, his demeanour thawed. “Miss Larkin! Come in, miss, do. Why, you’re wet through, miss. Thomas,” he addressed a footman, “fetch Mrs. Pugh this instant and tell the master Miss Larkin is come. Allow me to take your cloak, miss.” He made shooing motions at Midnight, with the inevitable lack of success.

  The footman looked befuddled by the instructions thrown at him. He decided first to stick his head in at the door on the right of the hall, where Alison had seen the light, to announce, “Miss Larkin, sir,” before dashing off into the nether regions of the house.

  Alison surrendered her cloak to the butler just as Philip came out into the hall. His eyes widened as he caught sight of her and she became aware that her rain-soaked dress clung to every slender curve. The colour rose in her cheeks and she felt hot all over, yet she shivered.

  He took her arm, his fingers burning through the thin muslin. “Come in by the fire at once. No, don’t tell me anything until you are warm and dry.”

  “Mrs. Pugh will be here in a moment, sir,” the butler assured him.

  Philip nodded, but continued to lead her into the room, which was lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves. He pushed a chair close to the fire. Following, Midnight slumped on the hearth-rug.