Birds of a Feather

by Allison Lane

  Her intelligence was acute, yet befriending her could only lead to frustration. Despite avoiding the indiscriminate raking some of his friends enjoyed, he was a healthy male who already felt a strong tug toward that delectable body. Spending time in her company would only make it worse, fostering a mental war that would tear him apart.

  Her reluctance to wed him still rankled, though he was convinced that she did not understand the consequences of refusing him. She had no concept of how lonely her life would be once Society ostracized her. She might not have been born to its ballrooms and drawing rooms, but she had depended on Society’s good will for her support. Without a position, she would have nothing.

  The curtain rang down on the first act. He had arranged for his closest friends to call during this interval, filling the box to keep the curious and catty at bay until his wife found her footing.

  His wife. The phrase sent a shudder down his back. If only Randolph were in town. His good sense might help him through this trial. His own mind was in such chaos that he could hardly think. Nothing could penetrate the pain and anger engendered by trapping himself through his own stupidity.

  But Randolph was out of reach. And now that the moment of truth was at hand, new fears paralyzed him. She stammered whenever she was nervous. The problem intensified with embarrassment – an inevitable product of stammering, even if nothing else happened. And she admitted to clumsiness – which explained how she had managed to splash lemonade on every piece of clothing he had been wearing that night. He had frozen upon hearing her confession, though only now was he realizing the potential consequences. Reggie had also hinted that she sometimes forgot her surroundings, worsening her other problems. Charm might relax her, but he was too nervous to attempt it. Fear of her mistakes threatened his own control.

  But he must persevere, he reminded himself. No matter how bad the ordeal became, he must make the best of it if he was to salvage their place in Society. If he failed to pull this off, he might as well put a gun to his head. He could not tolerate becoming an object of ridicule.

  Stifling a shudder, he set an expression of pride on his face and welcomed the first callers.

  * * * *

  Joanna nearly jumped out of her skin when the first rap sounded on the door to their box. The sight of Lord and Lady Hartford did little to calm her nerves, though both had helped her introduce Harriet into Society, and Lady Hartford had stood up for her in church.

  “You must still be in shock,” Lady Hartford said, drawing her aside. Hartford was distracting Sedgewick.

  “Does it show?”

  “Not at all, but Sedge told us what really happened, so I know exactly how you feel. I was also forced into marriage because of an inadvertent compromise. My first public appearance was terrifying.”

  “How did that happen?” The question slipped out without thought. She stammered an apology, but Lady Hartford was already laughing.

  “A stranger passed out in my lap in the mail coach. One of the other passengers assumed we were wed, so after the coach crashed, I regained consciousness to find us sharing a bed.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “My feelings exactly.”

  “You seem reconciled to your fate.” She blushed at so personal an observation, chiding herself for speaking without thought.

  But Lady Hartford merely smiled. “More than reconciled. We soon fell in love. But it was initially a shock, for my background is the same as yours – connection to noble families but born to a country vicar. So hold your head high and remember that your breeding is as good as many in Society and better than some. Are you aware that Lady Jersey’s grandfather was a banker? Her parents eloped.”

  “But she’s an Almack’s patroness.”

  “Exactly. She held her head up and convinced everyone that she was just as good as they were. Granted, her grandfather’s fortune helped, but if you look, you will find skeletons in a great many Society attics.”

  Joanna relaxed a trifle, which was probably Lady Hartford’s intent, but she could not pursue the subject. Already the box was jammed with callers, many of whom examined her suspiciously. By the time the last one left, her face was stiff from smiling, and nervous terror left her a wreck. How was she to survive another interval?

  “You did quite well,” said Sedgewick.

  “None of them believed this charade,” she countered.

  “Probably not. These were close friends who know me too well. But they understand the need to establish you. The next interval will bring people who will be less supportive and more curious. But if you continue as you started, they will accept our fiction.”

  He turned back to the stage, though she doubted if he was paying any more attention than she was. If someone had asked the name of tonight’s offering, she could not have identified it. She had barely survived his friends – now that he’d identified them, she realized that they had been kind; curious rather than cutting, and anxious to set her at ease.

  She suppressed a shudder, for she remained in view of the world. There was more fiction being played out tonight than Sedgewick had admitted even to those he called close friends. His reactions went beyond the need to put a good face on a marriage of convenience. Most aristocratic marriages lacked emotional attachment, so their situation was hardly unique. Husbands displayed little beyond indifference for their wives.

  But in only a few hours, Sedgewick’s dislike had hardened, so he must recognize her unsuitability. He could have accepted the daughter of an earl or of another marquess. But being forced to wed the daughter of a vicar was too much.

  He was trying to hide his revulsion, but it was evident. His intensity had nearly overwhelmed her as he turned from closing the door behind the last caller. She had detected it more than once in the carriage while they waited to alight at the theater. Now his death grip on the chair arms and the rigidity of his shoulders revealed his growing turmoil.

  Yet he managed to hide it in company – far better than she hid her own emotions. How did he do it? It had to be more than mere acting. Could it be his clothes?

  Staring blindly at the stage, she considered his appearance. His coat was a rich wine red that added color to cheeks even paler than fashion demanded. His cravat sported a new arrangement that had drawn comment from every gentleman who had called. He had combed his hair into deliberate dishevelment, allowing the release of running agitated fingers through it. Perhaps that was his secret – dressing to distract the eye.

  And he had helped her as well. Her gown was a deep rose that added warmth to her own face. The double strand of pearls at her throat formed a contrast that enhanced that effect. And he had deliberately complimented her appearance to improve her confidence. As a result, she had stuttered far less than nervousness generally produced. She doubted any of it was coincidence.

  But clothes could not cover everything. By the end of the third interval, she no longer made any pretense of watching the stage, though she thought the performers had moved on to the evening’s second offering. Her head pounded. More than one cutting comment had reached her ears, though always spoken too softly for Sedgewick to hear. It boded ill for tomorrow. He would not be in the drawing room, for his presence would admit that he did not trust her.

  Either he sensed her growing strain or was suffering himself. He rose to leave, choosing a moment when action drew every eye to the stage. His carriage awaited them outside.

  “Sleep well,” he ordered as he escorted her upstairs at Glendale House. “Tomorrow will be worse, though the most sensational rumors should have run their course by the time we reach Lady Jersey’s. And by next week, a new scandal should push this into memory.”

  Depositing her at her door, he continued to his own room. She did not know whether to be relieved or insulted that he was apparently not interested in consummating their union.

  Neither, she decided an hour later as she stared at the canopy over her bed. Postponing it merely increased her dread – and not just of marriage duties. Now
that she had time to think, she was terrified. How was she to survive a future tied to Society’s leader? She did not belong here. She knew less about the ton than most aristocratic ten-year-olds. Even her recent sojourn on the fringes of London society had seemed alien, so how was she to manage a lifetime in town?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Four days later Joanna entered Almack’s on Sedgewick’s arm. For the first time since their marriage, eyes did not dissect their expressions the moment they arrived. The worst was past.

  At least in public. She felt as though she had aged ten years. Not because of Sedgewick’s continuing anger, for she had soon realized that it was not aimed at her, but from the stress of being the focus of attention wherever she went. And the suspicion and antagonism she faced was far worse than what Crossbridge had endured last week. He belonged. She did not.

  That fact had been confirmed on her first full day as a wife. Her at-home had been the most uncomfortable afternoon of her life. Callers had packed the enormous drawing room. Few of them believed Sedgewick’s tale. Even fewer considered her an acceptable addition to the haut ton.

  Cuts disguised as compliments predominated. Lady Wicksfield’s blatant absence was duly noted. Lady Thurston dropped any pretense of cordiality as she repeated Lady Wicksfield’s claims that Joanna had schemed to attach a wealthy gentleman while thwarting Harriet’s chances of making a match. A dozen heads had nodded in agreement as the vitriol poured forth.

  Yet she’d had supporters. Lady Hartford had arrived early, staying all afternoon. And Lady Thurston had barely finished denouncing her when Reggie arrived – had he been listening from the next room?

  “Welcome to the family, my dear,” he had said after cutting Lady Thurston dead. His voice had carried to every corner, curbing all conversation. “As I mentioned when I first presented you to Sedge, you are birds of a feather. We are delighted that he recognized it. Sometimes he focuses so closely on dress that he misses the character beneath the facade.”

  “You do him an injustice,” she had replied, dutifully supporting her husband. “He is far more knowing than many believe.”

  “Obviously.” He had laughed. But his words had caused a discernible shift in the women’s attitudes. He had thrown down a gauntlet that no one had been willing to pick up.

  So she was tolerated, and she could only thank Reggie’s sincere delight. Sedgewick’s credit probably helped, but even his friends remained cool, withholding their full approval for now.

  She wondered if Sedgewick realized that Reggie’s credit was more responsible for her acceptance than his own. If he was as astute as Reggie claimed, he must. As she had feared, their marriage had diminished his standing. Lady Wicksfield’s charges, which circulated with new details every day, made him appear gullible at best. The effect was apparent even to her untutored eyes. Several of his followers had already defected. The pain was undoubtedly feeding his continued fury.

  His anger had not dimmed since the masquerade, emerging as frigid orders about the day’s schedule when they were alone. He dictated her wardrobe, instructed her on the most minute details of behavior, chastised every slip, and filled every hour with activity. At times she wanted to scream at him, but only once had she lashed back.

  “Must you wear spectacles every waking moment?” he’d demanded when they were returning from Hyde Park that afternoon.

  “Yes, if I wish to see beyond the end of my nose. Would you prefer that I mistake Lady Horseley for Mrs. Arlington?” she’d asked, naming bitter enemies.

  “You exaggerate.”

  “Hardly. You may have perfect eyesight, but some of us are not so lucky.”

  He had given her the strangest look. Only later had she wondered if his constant use of a quizzing glass covered his own weak vision. Not that it mattered.

  He had ignored her spectacles this evening, and she had dutifully followed his other orders. He was the acknowledged expert about those things she did not know. She suppressed a nagging suspicion that shoving her into the ton was partly a game to test his power. He could have used the excuse of a wedding trip to retire to the country where he could teach her what she needed to know away from prying eyes. But he had not, raising her fears of mortifying him. Despite the fact that he had not yet commented on her clumsiness, they both knew that she was unworthy. His only acknowledgment of her confession was the tight hold he retained on her arm in public – a hold that had saved her from falling more than once.

  But for the moment, Society seemed willing to play his game. He had accompanied her to routs, balls, the fashionable hour in Hyde Park, and a Venetian breakfast, displaying a discreet infatuation that hid his true feelings. He’d waltzed twice with her at every ball and kept her close most of every evening. She danced other sets only with Reggie or one of his friends. But his hovering would diminish tonight. The patronesses frowned on couples who lived in each other’s pockets. Now that Society’s surprise had faded, she could no longer expect his protection.

  And that was good. She had come to enjoy hanging on his arm, which was dangerous. Admiring him could only make her situation worse, for his antipathy remained. His public regard was merely an act, a fact she must never forget.

  “Smile,” he growled as they began their promenade through the ballroom.

  “I am,” she murmured, nodding at Lady Cowper.

  He acknowledged Lady Beatrice and the Cunninghams, then raised his quizzing glass. “You look enchanting tonight, Miss Washburn. Madame Celeste has done you proud. Those who appreciate beauty will delight in the change,” he added to her mother.

  “It does become her,” agreed Lady Washburn. “But why Celeste? She does not dress your wife.”

  “Of course not. Both Celeste and Jeanette are artistes, but each creates a markedly different style. Celeste turns petite young girls into breathtaking angels. Jeanette works better with regal beauties such as Lady Sedgewick.” He bestowed a smile on the pair. “We must draw attention to Miss Washburn’s new look. I will partner her for a set. Perhaps the third.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Lady Washburn, barely restraining herself from kissing his feet. “We would be honored.”

  Joanna ignored his compliment, knowing it arose from the role he was playing, but his arrogance irritated her. “Why do you sound so condescending?” she murmured as they moved away. “You are haughtier than an emperor.”

  He raised one brow, but surprised her by answering. For once his tone lacked any trace of anger. “Society has seen fit to set me on a pedestal, so why should I not exercise that power? You must admit that the girl’s wardrobe was appalling.”

  “True. I rarely see gowns with so many ribbons and ruffles.”

  “Exactly. Her mother’s taste is atrocious, but the girl is of good character and deserves a decent match. So I recommended Madame Celeste, warning Lady Washburn to give Celeste free rein. As a result, Miss Washburn now appears gracious and pretty. Dancing with her will draw attention to that change.”

  “A worthy scheme,” she admitted. His taste was impeccable. Perhaps Reggie was not blinded by family loyalty after all. Now that she considered it, the Silverton twins had adopted simpler styles and more demure behavior after his brutal set-down at Lady Ormsport’s ball, and several of the most flamboyant cubs had toned down their attire after an encounter with Sedgewick’s quizzing glass. Rather than dictating fashion, he was helping newcomers present their best faces to the world. Just as he was doing with her, she admitted. She had never looked better. And her confidence was rising as she learned more about the nuances of behavior.

  But how would his diminished credit affect this crusade? That bored drawl could not hide his satisfaction at standing atop that lofty pedestal – a flash of blue eyes had accompanied the words. But wedding so far beneath him was bound to topple him off. How much blame would he place on her shoulders?

  He continued their promenade, drawling greetings, quizzing guests, shaking his head at Mr. Cathcart’s attempt to replicate the arrang
ement of his cravat, and frowning at Lord Pinter’s buttons, which were a handspan across and embroidered with pansies and butterflies. Mothers exhaled in relief when he smiled at their daughters. His tail of sprigs mimicked every gesture.

  But despite their seemingly casual meander, she felt judgmental, like an officer inspecting the troops. So when he paused to speak with a friend, she continued on without him, smiling when she reached Lady Hartford.

  “You seem relaxed tonight,” Lady Hartford said.

  “What a gorgeous gown!” exclaimed her companion before Joanna could respond.

  “Thank you.” It was the most ornate she had yet worn, with crape rouleaux around the neck, sleeves, and both scalloped flounces. Seed pearls and crape roses further embellished it, but with a restraint that made it appear elegant rather than fussy.

  “This is Mrs. Caristoke,” said Lady Hartford, realizing that Joanna had not met her friend.

  “Forgive me for missing your at-home, but my son has been ill. My years on the American frontier make it difficult to leave him to nurses at such a time.”

  “I cannot blame you,” said Joanna, but here was yet another unusual wife of one of Sedgewick’s friends. Was Reggie encouraging them to reveal oddities in their pasts to make her feel more at home?”

  “Did you hear about Crossbridge?” asked Lady Hartford.

  “He left this morning for a belated Grand Tour,” said Joanna.

  “Very belated. He is well past thirty.” Lady Hartford laughed. “But it seems he’d hidden that print himself – slipped it out of sight when his mother came to call – so he needs to rusticate for a spell.”

  “He didn’t!” exclaimed Mrs. Caristoke.

  “Sedge told Thomas he did, swearing Crossbridge confessed the whole.” She laughed.

  “I can see why he left, though. He’d made quite a cake of himself over the affair.”

  “Speaking of making a cake of oneself, you should have attended the fashionable hour, Alice,” said Lady Hartford. “Miss Delaney managed to fall out of her phaeton without even overturning it, landing with the most stupendous splash in the Serpentine.”