A Lady's Point of View (17 page)

Stiffly she walked away into the
sunshine and did not look back.

Meg examined her gowns carefully,
an easy task since she had brought only four.

The first, her brown gabardine,
was out of the question, nor would her grey walking dress serve. The choice,
then, was between the blue dress she had worn to Squire Roberts’s house and a
simple peach muslin.

For a moment, Meg pictured one of her London gowns,
made-over and quite splendid on Angela. Lovely, innocent Angela, dancing with
Mr. Cockerell. What a pair the two of them must make, he tall and erect, she
small and blonde and lively. .

Meg recalled the letter she’d
received that morning. Engaged! Who would ever have guessed the man would be
the stiff-necked Edward Cockerell?

As for herself, she doubted the
marquis would condescend to dance with her tonight. If only one sister could be
happy, she preferred that it be Angela; but wearing a fine dress to the ball
might at least have soothed her pride.

Well, the peach would have to do,
she decided, although it had a rip at the hem. Perhaps Mrs. Franklin would lend
her needle and thread for mending.

Someone rapped firmly on the
door.

“Enter,” Meg called.

Germaine pushed the door open
with her shoulder and strode into the room amid an armful of silks and velvets
and satins in frothy colours.

“Oh, please, you needn’t have
brought your gowns! I should have been delighted to come to your room if you
need any advice,” said Meg, amused to find Miss Geraint was also having trouble
selecting her attire.

“Nonsense.” Germaine dumped the
lot unceremoniously on the bed. “These ain’t for me—they’re for you.”

“What?” Meg stared at her.

“Don’t know as they’ll fit,”
Germaine admitted, plumping herself beside the stack of dresses. “I’m a
considerable bit taller than you. Broader, as well. But with a tuck here and
there, one of them might do.”

Meg flushed as she fingered the
delicate fabrics, remembering that she’d been concerned about her effect on the
marquis. And here was Germaine, trustingly offering to help. She resolved
silently to bury her feelings for Lord Bryn, now and forever.

“You are too generous,” she
managed to say.

“Not a bit of it.” Germaine smiled
as Meg held one gown and then another against herself in the mirror. “Blooming
waste of time, fancying me up in fine laces and velvets. You’ve seen at fairs
how they braid up the horses’ manes with flowers? That’s how I feel at a ball.”

“So do I.” Meg whirled around, holding a flow of
sea-green silk. “Without my spectacles! Oh, Miss Geraint, you should have been
present.” She bit her lip barely in time to stop a description of the evening
at Almack’s. “I used to cut my best friends, simply from not seeing them,” she
finished lamely.

“You like that one, do you?”
Germaine nodded approvingly. “Let’s have a look at it on you, then.”

Donning the dress, Meg stared
into the mirror wonderingly.

The green intensified the blue of
her eyes, and set off the auburn highlights of her soft brown hair. Her skin
appeared ivory pale and clear against the rich silk, and the scooped neckline
and high waist accentuated her rounded bosom and slender figure.

She had never felt more than
mildly pretty before. Was it only the gown that had wrought this change, or was
it the depths of emotion she’d experienced for the first time here at Brynwood?

Within minutes, the women were
adjusting the gown to Meg’s smaller frame. Fortunately it was of simple design
and, as Germaine had predicted, a few tucks and a raised hem sufficed—at least
here in the country, where Meg wouldn’t be scrutinized as she would be in town.

Later that evening, Meg ate a
quiet supper in her room, declining an invitation to join the family at dinner.
She didn’t want the marquis to see her in this flattering dress, for fear of
playing upon the passions he had already evinced. The result could only be
extremely painful to everyone. And might it not further inflame those shocking
tendencies she had discovered in herself, those yearnings that no decent woman
should feel?

Although there had been no
announcement, she knew tonight was intended as an engagement ball. Curiously
Lord Bryn had shown no special attention to Miss Geraint, as far as Meg could
tell.

Could the reason be his own
uncertainty about the match? After the closeness she and the marquis had shared
on Thursday afternoon, she surmised that he had come to care for her at least a
little. But he had a duty to Germaine, and it must be fulfilled. If he scorned the
lady now, the result would be Germaine’s humiliation, and the end of her hopes
for a marriage.

So Meg determined to remain in
her room until most of the guests had arrived. She even considered putting
aside the new dress for her old peach one, but Germaine might be offended. Or
Meg could plead a headache and avoid the ball entirely. But Miss Geraint would
be certain to come and investigate.

She would simply go down and
blend into the crowd, Meg thought. The marquis had been properly distant the
past two days. No doubt, she had simply imagined that he favoured her.

There was one audience whose
attention she didn’t mind attracting. As the strains of the small orchestra
wafted up the stairs, Meg darted into the nursery to show her dress to the
children.

“Miss Linley!” For once Vanessa
was struck dumb, staring in awe at the shining lady in green.

“You are an angel!” declared Tom,
sitting up in bed. “Uncle Andrew’s certain to marry you.”

“Don’t be foolish,” said Meg.
“He’s going to wed Miss Geraint, and a good thing, too. She’ll keep the pair of
you in line, and she’s a fine horsewoman.”

“I want to grow up like you,”
said Vanessa stoutly.

Meg kissed them both and tucked
them in. “I shall miss you terribly when I leave. If I write, will you write in
return?”

“Of course,” said Vanessa. “I
shall write for Tom, too, until he learns how.”

Meg hurried away to hide the
brimming tears.

The ballroom, aired and cleaned
after a long hibernation, glowed with the light of hundreds of candles arrayed
in sconces along the wall. Potted ferns and orange trees had been placed
artfully about, screening the refreshment tables and the hovering servants. Meg
paused, unobserved, to watch the assembly.

Lord Bryn was standing up with
Miss Geraint to the strains of a quadrille. The lady performed the stylized
dance without the least pretence of grace. Indeed, Germaine looked as though
she heartily wished for a fence to leap, or a fox to pursue.

No matter how it hurt to see her
in his lordship’s arms, Meg liked her heartily.

When the music ended, the marquis
bowed politely and escorted his companion to the side for a glass of ratafia,
which she downed in a single gulp. It was then that he turned and saw Meg.

The noisy ballroom faded. He had
been preparing himself all evening for the sight of her, only to find that his
precautions had failed to arm his heart. She was radiantly beautiful, more so
than he had imagined possible. Vaguely he noted the striking colour of her
gown, but he had little interest in fashion. It was her face that held him, the
eyes widening as they met his, the lips soft and full.

Then she averted her gaze. A
straightening of the shoulders, a toss of the head hinted at that inner
strength he already knew.

A voice near at hand recalled the
marquis to himself. Ah, yes, Squire Roberts, asking for a dance with Miss
Geraint. Andrew yielded graciously, hoping the poor girl wouldn’t be bored to
death with the man’s talk of horses and hunts.

Bryn would take Mr. Geraint aside
later and request his consent to a match, and then put the matter to the lady.
He should have done so earlier in the visit, yet some matter always seemed to
require his attention, and the hours passed before he knew it. Well, there
would be plenty of time to arrange the betrothal and announce it before the midnight
supper. Certainly the request was little more than a formality, since his man
of affairs had already been treating with Mr. Geraint on a marriage settlement.

Lord Bryn took a sip of Madeira.
He knew he must not attend on Miss Linley, or his best efforts would be lost.
How he had come to lose his heart to a governess, he could not have said. The
marquis was no snob, and had he been free, he would have asked for her hand.

Indeed, on Thursday he had
cherished the hope that the matter of Miss Geraint might be resolved without
public embarrassment. He could have sent a note round to the inn where the
family was to have stayed. They need only have turned back, telling the world
any story they liked. Although his intentions were well known, the marquis
hadn’t yet formally asked to marry Miss Geraint, and scandal could have been
avoided had she called off their visit.

But they had arrived early—it
seemed Mrs. Geraint, weary of being on the road, had hastened their
progress—and once they reached his home their agreement to the match became
evident. For a gentleman to throw over a lady was to sully her reputation, for
it was generally assumed that he must have been given strong reason to do so.

He must not speak with Miss
Linley before her departure, must scarcely acknowledge her save as a member of
his staff, must pretend that he felt nothing for her. Did she guess? Did she
feel the same for him, or had she merely acquiesced to his embrace from fear or
respect?

In any event, propriety required
that he avoid her, for once in her arms upon the dance floor, Andrew knew he
could never free himself again.

Impulsively, he sought out Mr.
Geraint and they went to the study. With apologies for the delay, Andrew made
his request.

“Certainly you have my
permission, Lord Bryn.” It was the longest speech he’d ever heard from the
taciturn man. “But winning my Geri’s heart, that’s another story.”

The marquis almost choked on his
wine, but managed to maintain an earnest expression. The two men walked
companionably back to the ballroom, where Andrew stood among his guests feeling
uncomfortably like one side of a highly irregular triangle.

Miss Conley, who had considered
herself rusticating when she came from Liverpool to visit her elderly
great-aunts, was a sought-after Beauty at home. Therefore she found it all the
more difficult to understand why Mr. Roberts, the only eligible young man at
the ball, busied himself with Miss Ludden, a great gawk of a girl. Indeed, he
had danced with Miss Conley only once, and with Miss Ludden three times.
Intolerable!

When the music ended, Miss Conley
made her way to the young man, and smiled up at him warmly, although she would
have liked to slap his weak-chinned face. “I must have made a mistake,” she
murmured. “Did you not promise me the dance just past? I had written your name
on my dance card.” She produced the document and fluttered it beneath his nose.

“Did I?” Jeffrey turned a vivid
red that went all the way to his ears. “I’m terribly sorry. Will the next dance
do instead?”

“I suppose it must,” said Miss
Conley.

Thereafter, she kept the fellow
busy with one assignment after another: more lemonade, a sugary French fruit, a
walk on the balcony to enjoy the fresh air. By the time she slipped her hand
daringly into his and kissed his cheek, the man had forgotten the very
existence of the curate’s daughter.

A tearful Miss Ludden sought the
counsel of Miss Linley, who was only too glad of the distraction. The
excitement of viewing the assembly through her spectacles had vanished the
moment she witnessed Lord Bryn and Mr. Geraint leaving the room together.

Veronica explained her difficulty
and added, “There is Squire Roberts attending Miss Geraint. If you could
demonstrate on them how to win a man away...”

“I’m afraid it wouldn’t be the
same,” said Meg. “Miss Geraint is going to marry Lord Bryn. She has no interest
in the squire.”

The girl frowned. “Then why is
she enjoying her conversation with the squire so much?”

Meg followed her gaze. Germaine
and Squire Roberts stood to one side, engaged in a lively discussion that, from
the gestures, could only have been about fox hunting.

“They have a great deal in
common,” she explained.

“Well?” Veronica stared up
hopefully. “Can’t you help me? I’m at my wit’s end, Miss Linley.”

“We shall see.” Reluctantly, Meg
led the way to the animated couple, arriving at almost the same time as the
marquis.

There they stood, the five of
them: Veronica anxiously awaiting her instruction, Meg and Lord Bryn trying to
avoid each other’s eyes, and Germaine and Squire Roberts discoursing heatedly
as to whether it was unsportsmanlike to use bag foxes if none could be spotted
running free.

Aware of her responsibilities to
Miss Ludden, and feeling confident that Germaine wouldn’t mind disposing of
this extra gentleman, Meg offered her own opinion and joined the discussion.

The squire appeared highly amused
at this sally from such a delicate chit who had obviously never ridden in a
foxhunt, and he patted her shoulder.

A pretty lass, his careless attitude seemed to say,
but she could hardly compare with Miss Geraint. What was a slim girl compared
to a woman who could ride a man into the ground and outdrink him after dinner?

As for Lord Bryn, storm clouds
formed on his face when the squire laid his hand on Meg. Anyone would have
imagined he meant to fly to the rescue of a helpless female assaulted by a
beast.

No one but Meg noticed when
Veronica slipped away. She observed through the crowd how the girl walked up to
Jeffrey and Miss Conley and joined their chatter directly, and how a few minutes
later the young man was dancing once again with Miss Ludden.