Miss Carlyle's Curricle: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix)

by Karen Harbaugh

  A knock sounded at the door, and alarm flashed through her. “Don’t—!” But her mother entered before she could say more.

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, Diana!” she breathed. “Oh, my dear, dear girl! How beautiful you look—so fashionable!” She waved the maid away. “Annie, do go down and tell his lordship that we will be down soon.” The maid curtsied and left.

  Diana closed her eyes in embarrassment, and put her hands over her chest. “Mama, do you have a fichu? A gold one, perhaps?”

  Mrs. Carlyle looked puzzled. “Whatever for? You look perfectly well—beautiful, as I said.”

  “Mama, you always say that. But surely you realize I cannot go out in—in this!”

  Her mother looked her up and down, looking more puzzled than ever. “The dress is perfect for you—I see now that frills and large bows are completely wrong for you, and I only wish I had known it earlier. I have never seen you look better, truly.”

  “Thank you, Mama, but I am not going out in this dress,” Diana said through gritted teeth. “It is indecent.”

  Mrs. Carlyle looked her over again. “Nonsense. It is black, perfect for mourning. The bodice is no different than mine, no higher or lower. Indeed, I believe you were hiding yourself behind all those frills and bows of Miss Marling’s.”

  Diana held her tongue, forbearing to point out that Miss Marling’s designs were all that they had in the village to date, and she herself had never insisted on the bows—Miss Marling had. She gazed, a little resentfully she admitted, at her mother’s dress: a lovely confection of airy black and lavender ruffles with pearls glinting amongst them with fugitive light. True, her bodice was just as low as Diana’s, but her mother’s delicate form did not overflow it as did hers. Instead, Mama looked like a fairy princess emerging out of twilight mist.

  Diana sighed. Her mother would not be convinced, she knew. But she would not leave this room wearing this Byzantine queen’s gown. She looked her mother in the eye.

  “Mama, I am going to wear the other dress.”

  Mrs. Carlyle looked startled, then a martial light grew in her eyes. “No, my dear, you are not. You look lovely, and you will go to Lady Jardien’s musicale in this dress.”

  “Mama, please—”

  “No!” Mrs. Carlyle eyed her sternly. “No, Diana. I do not know what has come over you. Truly I do not. All these outbursts, and swinging from extreme missishness to hoydenish behavior.” She sighed, and her face grew sad. “I suppose it is for lack of masculine guidance in your life. If only your father had not died, or if Charles—”

  Anger flared. “No it is not, Mama! We can do very well without masculine guidance. Did it really do us any good when Father left us to starve? And when Uncle Charles died—we are only hangers-on, after all—”

  Her mother jerked as if struck, then paled, and immediately Diana’s anger disappeared, replaced by deep remorse. “Oh, Mama, I am sorry! So sorry. I didn’t mean—please forgive me.” She turned away, covering her face with her hands in shame. “I have been so—I don’t know! I had felt so safe when Uncle Charles—when he was with us, and I never had to think of anything, just riding and driving carriages, reading, music, and doing as I wished. But now—I cannot feel comfortable being so obliged to Lord Brisbane.” She felt her mother’s arm come around her in a hug and looked up to see her smile.

  “Oh, my dear girl. I understand how difficult it can be to feel so—I felt that way when your uncle first came for us. That is why I continue to keep house as I did when your uncle was alive. Lord Brisbane—Gavin—is a kind, generous man, and we should be thankful. And do you not still oversee the stables? I do not think Gavin has said you should not, and in fact has left it all to you to manage, especially now that McKinney is missing. I believe Gavin must rate your judgment and abilities quite high in these matters, do you not think?”

  Diana gazed at her mother and realized she was quite right. Lord Brisbane had said nothing to countermand any of her orders to the grooms and neither had he asked her to discontinue her uncle’s projects in the stables. Diana had gone on as she had before her uncle had died, supervising the building of an addition to the stables, and the breeding of cattle. She had thrown herself into the work, wanting, somehow, to keep her uncle alive in this way, not even thinking of how unusual it might be for her to supervise it.

  “I . . . I suppose you are right,” Diana said slowly. She gave a reluctant smile. “Either that, or he knows how stubborn I can be and is afraid of getting in my way.”

  Her mother laughed. “Perhaps so, and if so, think how wise a man he must be to know it.” She touched Diana’s cheek fondly. “Surely it could not hurt to please such a man in this one thing?”

  Diana thought of how unusual Lord Brisbane was, and nodded. He was infuriating sometimes, frustrating, and annoyingly closemouthed about himself, but nothing she had done so far shocked him, or so he said. He had only agreed with her, laughed, or kissed—Diana stopped the thought, and grew conscious of her dress again.

  She drew in a breath and let it out. “You are right, Mama. There is no need for me to be missish.” Indeed, she would pretend she was dressed as usual, perhaps in her riding dress. She never felt anxious or exposed in her riding habit, but in control of herself and of everything around her. Clothes were just that—clothes. No more, no less. There was no reason why she should feel any different in this gown than in anything else.

  And yet, when she descended the stairs once again, she could not help seeing Lord Brisbane’s habitual sleepy look disappear to be replaced by widened eyes. He bowed over her hand when she approached him, and she heard a distinct sigh leave him, then saw an odd regret appear in his eyes as he rose and gazed at her.

  For all her determination not to be missish, she felt a blush enter her cheeks, and she made herself look away. “Shall we go?” she asked. There was silence for a moment, and she fiddled with a fold in her skirt as a footman brought her pelisse and put it upon her shoulders. She wondered if the gentlemen guests would stare at her as Gavin did, and she almost turned back up the stairs.

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” came Lord Brisbane’s voice. Diana looked up at him at last—he was still looking at her—and she turned to her mother. “Mama, I believe you should go before me.”

  Her mother looked suddenly indecisive. “Oh—oh, dear. I have forgotten my reticule.” She gazed at Lord Brisbane. “Do go ahead with Diana into the coach—I shall be with you presently, only a moment.” She turned and hurried up the stairs again.

  Lord Brisbane took Diana’s hand and placed it on his arm. “I do believe your mother wishes to leave us alone,” he said as they walked away from the stairs down the great hall. “Now, I wonder why?”

  Diana suppressed her nervousness and gave him a sour look. “She has an odd idea that my uncle’s will is perfect in every way.”

  “A wise woman, your mother,” he replied calmly. “I have thought so from the start.”

  “A fond mother, to be sure,” Diana replied firmly. She remembered her words to her mother in her room, and remorse touched her again. “More fond than I deserve, surely.”

  The footmen opened the double doors and they walked down the steps to the waiting coach. Lord Brisbane held her hand as she stepped into it, then entered himself, sitting opposite her.

  The coach was the largest in the carriage house, but the sunset’s light hardly penetrated the interior, and the carriage lamps just at the windows only highlighted brief surfaces—a cheek, a brow, the glint of whatever shiny surface might be within. It was a close and intimate space, but Diana looked at the earl, his face partly in shadow, and he seemed more of a stranger than ever. He was, in a way, reserved, she thought, always deflecting conversation away from discussions of his life. How odd that was in a man who seemed at times lazy and at other times outright chatty.

  The light shifted from Lord Brisbane’s cheek to his chin—he was looking at her askance. “Your mother thinks differently. And . . . I think you have been in the habit of t
aking care of her, have you not?”

  She gave him a sharp glance; he was right, she realized. She had tried to take care of her mother ever since she was very young. “We take care of each other, my lord.” That was true, too. Her mother would do anything for Diana; she had always felt strong and secure in this knowledge. It was her rock, her anchor. “She is a strong-hearted woman. And I—” She gave a short laugh. “I have always been physically strong. Hence my London nickname, ‘the Milkmaid.’”

  His hand was warm through her glove when it took hers and brought it to his lips. “You do not look like a milkmaid now.”

  No, she did not, but his words made her feel a little frightened. She lifted her chin. “No, I suppose I do not. In this gown, I look like a mosaic from an ancient ruin.”

  He laughed and released her hand. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but surely you must admit it is far more grand than a milkmaid.”

  “I do not think it is a good thing to be grand.” She remembered how she had towered over many of the men in London, and how she felt she had to crouch and slump to fit in some way. A memory from before her arrival at Brisbane House stirred: it had not been good for her to look older than her years, either. It could cause trouble and even hurt.

  “But of course it is,” Lord Brisbane said, and his face moved so that it was completely in shadow. “When you are grand, you are free to do anything you wish, and people will accept it.” The small space of the carriage made his voice sound harsh, Diana thought.

  A voice from outside the coach—her mother’s—made Diana sit back against the squabs; the earl’s voice had also been quiet, and she had leaned forward, intent on his words. Almost, almost she thought he might tell something of himself—there was that strangely still quality about him that she remembered seeing before when he mentioned some memory or experience.

  Her mother appeared at the carriage door, and smiled as Lord Brisbane helped her inside. “Thank you my lor—that is, Gavin.” She gazed curiously at the two of them, and then looked surprised. “Is not Mr. Goldworthy attending?”

  “He sends his apologies,” Lord Brisbane said, and Diana thought she could hear a smile in his voice. “He will be a trifle late—a bit of business he needs to attend to first.” She wondered what sort of business it was. She had seen him with the earl, talking with the estate’s tenants, and then walking through the nearby village. No doubt it had something to do with Mr. Goldworthy’s search for a suitable piece of property to buy.

  “What a pity,” Mrs. Carlyle said. “Such a pleasant gentleman, so cheerful. Well, I shall be glad to see him when he does arrive. Does he like music much, Gavin?”

  The earl seemed willing to talk of his friend, certainly more so than he was willing to talk about himself, Diana noted. Mr. Goldworthy was a merchant, and had learned the law as well. Not a solicitor, but a barrister, and he had traveled the world as a youth. He had recently conceived a wish to set down roots, and was in fact looking for some small property to purchase. Lord Brisbane had invited him here to look about for a prospective home, and he had accepted.

  Diana smiled to herself as she listened, inserting a comment here and there between her mother’s questions and exclamations of interest. By the time they reached Lady Jardien’s house, she had gathered more bits of information regarding the earl than he probably realized he had revealed. He had gone to India and to the Americas, nd had even once skirted the mysterious islands of Japan on a Dutch ship. He had known illness and deprivation, and her heart went out to him—she well knew what that was like. He was ambitious, and worked hard wherever he had gone, even including manual labor.

  He did not say any of this directly, but she could guess it from the references he made to various activities and the occasional stillness of his body when he spoke of such things.

  No, Lord Brisbane, you do not say much, she thought, when the coach stopped and he helped her down from it. No, you say very little, but I can guess. She gazed at him for a moment, but at his questioning look, merely smiled, said, “Thank you for the dress,” and stepped up to the door of Lady Jardien’s house.

  Chapter 9

  Lady Jardien’s drawing room glowed with many candles, and a warm fire burned in the fireplace not far from where the musicians played. Diana had always liked her hostess, for she was a shrewd and practical lady, although Diana knew that the lady did not, quite, approve of her. It had not mattered much before, but now, somehow, it did, perhaps because she felt so much like a fish out of water.

  Diana stepped further into the room behind Lord Brisbane and her mother, as was proper, and looked about her at the flowers on the mantelpiece, at the way the draperies were tastefully pulled aside with gold bands. Lovely, and she wished she did not feel so unsettled so that she could enjoy the decorations.

  Soon the earl and Mrs. Carlyle parted, and Diana came forward, and though she had been in Lady Jardien’s drawing room before, and had met all the people in it, she felt, suddenly, as if she were a stranger.

  All eyes had looked toward the door when the earl’s name was announced, and all eyes were upon him, filled with curiosity. But then their gazes shifted, and widened, and the curiosity became rampant as Diana came out from behind him. She could see the attention grow, and she wanted to shrink behind him again.

  It was too late, however; her mother had stepped ahead, and he had turned toward her and taken her hand, drawing her forward. Lord Brisbane gazed at her, and there was a challenge in his look; coward it said. A light irritation flashed through her and she lifted her chin in answer. She hated having people look at her, but at least she would pretend she did not care.

  It was difficult: there was Johnny Ramsworth, who had teased her when she first came to Brisbane House, calling her a long Meg, and whom she had avoided ever since. He glanced at her, then glanced again, then was rooted to the spot as he stared. There was Mary Colesby, who had snubbed her at her coming-out party; her eyes widened upon catching sight of Diana, and a look of chagrin crossed her face. Diana winced. Mary Colesby’s chagrin was no better than her snubs; Mary would not be her friend either way. And then there was Mr. Desmond Jardien, Lady Jardien’s son, who fancied himself a rake and who had ignored Diana for as long as she could remember—until now. He looked up from talking to his fair companion, rested his eyes upon Diana, and a sudden light appeared in his eyes, and a slow smile formed on his lips.

  An impatient sigh came from just the other side of her; Diana turned to see Lady Jardien gazing at her son disapprovingly. “The so-called Corsair. Idiot,” she heard her mutter. “I would give half my hydrangeas if Lord Byron’s works were never published.” The lady turned her frank gaze to Diana. “Ignore him, Miss Carlyle. He will grow out of his infatuation with himself—I hope.”

  Immediately Diana felt a little better; Lady Jardien did not, it seemed, disapprove of her, but her son. She smiled. “And he is, after all, a few years younger than myself, I believe,” Diana said.

  An amused expression entered Lady Jardien’s eyes. “Yes, he is, and I would be pleased if you would remind him of that fact.” She looked Diana up and down. “Not that I think an alliance would be amiss between the two of you, but I think the boy’s not ready for matrimony, not by a long road.”

  “I—I thank you, my lady,” Diana said, surprised.

  “Besides,” her ladyship continued, “I believe you have a better prospect than my Desmond.” She nodded at the earl, who had moved away to shake the hand of a neighbor. “And best wishes to you, too.”

  “Really, there is nothing—that is, we are not—he is not—” Diana took a breath, trying to keep her embarrassment under control. “Lady Jardien, I do not know what you have heard, but we are not even close to being—we will not marry.”

  Her ladyship stared at her for a moment, then shook her head. “Well, if he hasn’t proposed, then I am surprised, for he looks at you as if he wanted to—well, never mind that! And if he has proposed, and you have refused, then you’re more of a fool than
I ever thought you were,” she said bluntly. “For heaven’s sake, girl, if he proposes, take him! No one could do much better here or even in London, I daresay.” She gazed at Diana keenly. “Well, I won’t say more to put you to a blush. But I’ll tell you this: it won’t do to keep living under his roof, even with your mother. The word has got out about the will, and if a marriage doesn’t happen soon, people will wonder. Best to find yourself and your mother a cottage nearby if you don’t mean to marry him.”

  Discomfort made Diana shift uneasily on her feet, but she shook her head. “Nothing can happen until a suitable amount of mourning has passed,” she protested.

  “True, but take care. If he keeps looking at you as he has so far, rumors will fly.”

  Diana only nodded politely, managing to keep her tongue between her teeth so she would not retort that there was nothing she could do about the way Lord Brisbane looked at her. But Lady Jardien seemed satisfied, and after patting her kindly on her arm, moved away to speak to another guest.

  Only a few moments passed before Lady Jardien called everyone to attention, and introduced the first musician. It was Mary Colesby with her harp, and Diana sat down next to her mother and hoped the performance Would not be long. There was a movement to the other side of her; it was Desmond, and she gave a mental groan. She did not want his attention, but his bow and glint of interest as he gazed at her told her that he was determined at least to speak to her.

  “I hope she does not sing tonight,” he whispered as he sat down next to her. “Can’t stand her devilish caterwauling.”

  “That is unkind,” Diana replied in as repelling tones as possible. “I am sure she practices daily.” She glanced at him, almost smiling at his mode of dress: a combination of propriety and rebellion. No doubt he wished to emulate one of Byron’s dashing heroes, but she saw the influence of his mother in the black coat, properly tied neckcloth, and knee breeches. However, his rebellion shouted forth in the form of his very red waistcoat, possibly put on at the last moment.