Amanda Scott (18 page)

“An excellent suggestion,” said Lady Jersey, relaxing at once in response to Simon’s charming smile. “You will join us, of course.”

“Delighted,” he agreed. “Come along, sweetheart. I’ll pour you a small glass of sherry. You look wonderful, by the way.”

Her smile felt more natural now. She could not deny feeling pleasure in his approval of her appearance. The gown was one of her favorites, made of white and silver satin, embroidered along the top edge of the bodice and the lower half of the slim skirt with tiny purple flowers. Her hair had been styled in a soft twist of ringlets fastened at the back of her head with a spray of artificial violets. Other, shorter ringlets framed her face, and her eardrops were amethysts so dark as to appear more nearly like sapphires. She placed her hand obediently upon Simon’s forearm when he held it out to her, and let him take her into the crowded drawing room behind the others. Once inside, however, Simon steered a course to one side, a little withdrawn from the chattering throng. When he stopped and turned to look down at Diana, the smile had gone from his eyes.

“What was that little charade in aid of, if you please?”

She met his gaze directly, intending to ask him with limpid innocence to explain his meaning, but the stern look she encountered deterred her at once. Simon meant to have a straight answer, and he would not be put off by prevarication. She decided to tell him nothing that was not perfectly true.

“I wanted to stop Lady Jersey from making a piece of gossip out of what she saw,” she said.

“We will hope you have succeeded in that endeavor, but I should like to know, all the same, what you were discussing with my brother. Since I was in my dressing room, where anyone might expect to find me at this hour, do not hope to fob me off with the tale you invented out there.”

“No, of course not. I wish you will believe I have no improper feelings for your twin, Simon. I merely wished to tell him that you had attempted to plead his case with your father. I met him as I came down the steps with Lydia, and since we could scarcely discuss the matter in the hall, we stepped into the library. I assure you, we were not inside that room together above five or ten minutes at the most.”

She had spoken earnestly, and noted now with relief that he relaxed, that his expression was not nearly as grim as it had been moments before. She smiled, saying demurely, “I also told him that I am as tired or his self-pity as I am of your ridiculous jealousy.”

There was an answering smile in the golden eyes now. “A home thrust, sweetheart. I must confess, you’ve certainly given me no just cause for jealousy since we’ve been here at Alderwood. You accused me once of jumping to unfair conclusions, and perhaps you had reason. I shall attempt to mend my ways.”

Slightly more than fifteen minutes had passed before Lord Roderick reappeared, but no one noticed his tardiness, and Figmore announced directly thereafter that dinner was served. Throughout the meal, then afterward in the drawing room with the ladies, and later when the men joined them and tables were set up for cards, Diana found her thoughts continually drifting back to her discussion with Simon. He had already mended a good many of his ways, she thought. Or had he? Certainly, they had argued a deal less during the past week. But he clearly believed the reason for that was that she was behaving better, and that was ridiculous. She was behaving as she always did. Or was she? As busy as she had been, preparing for guests and then providing for their needs as they arrived and afterward, she had certainly had little time to stir Simon’s temper. Indeed, she was more often moved to thank him for his efforts to assist her, for he had also been busy, carrying more than his share of the hosting duties.

Later that night when he came to her, she snuggled into his arms, meeting his overtures with an eagerness that delighted him, and afterward, as she lay with her head on his shoulder, she felt a contentment that she had nearly forgotten it was possible for her to feel.

“Simon,” she said drowsily, “would you like to have a child?”

His muscles tensed beneath her. “Are you trying to tell me something?” Without giving her a chance to answer, he sat up, turning to grip her shoulders tightly. “Are you…good God, Diana, you shouldn’t be doing so much! I daresay you ought to be spending your days with your feet up or something. Why didn’t you tell me? By heaven, I ought to—”

Her soft chuckle interrupted the string of sharp words. “To think you promised only a few hours since to stop jumping to unwarranted conclusions,” she said teasingly.

He expelled a long breath. “I ought to spank you. How did you expect me to react to such a question?”

“I just wanted to know,” she said.

He leaned back against his pillow, pulling her back into the shelter of his arm. “Of course I’d like a child,” he said. “I’d like a dozen children.”

“Not all at once, Simon, surely!”

“Oh, I’m willing to wait six years or so,” he said with a chuckle.

“Six?”

“Twins do run in the family, Diana mine.”

“Not in
my
family, they don’t,” she retorted. “I think we should begin with one child and see how we do as parents.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “My relationship with Rory distresses you, doesn’t it, even more than yours with him annoys me?”

She nodded, knowing that although he could not see the gesture in the darkness, he could feel it. “He has been bitter so long, Simon, and it is so easy to understand why he should feel as he does. But he is trying now—I know he is—not to give in to his feelings anymore. I wish you would help him, instead of always believing the worst of him.”

To her surprise he did not argue with her. Instead, he murmured something about doing his best. Diana knew her words were slightly unfair in view of the fact that he had already attempted to plead Rory’s case with the marquess, but she decided against retracting them. Perhaps if both brothers gave the matter their best efforts, they would come to be good friends.

“Brothers should like each other,” she said quietly, putting her thoughts into words.

“I do like him,” Simon protested. “If you don’t see that now, perhaps you will when you can compare us to Prinny and York—or Prinny and any one of his charming brothers, for that matter.”

A gurgle of laughter escaped her at the notion that the Warringtons could be compared in any way with the royal brothers, and the serious mood was broken.

When Diana awoke the following morning, Simon was already up and gone, and she regarded the clock on the mantelpiece with dismay. Though it was not customary for guests to arise before ten or eleven during a houseparty, it was certainly customary for any hostess to be up before that time, particularly when the family was about to be descended upon by royalty. Accordingly, she jumped out of bed and yanked the bellcord, summoning Marlie to her assistance and scarcely heeding that young woman’s assurance that the master had said she was to let Diana sleep.

“Never mind that, Marlie. No doubt he has forgotten that the prince meant to stay in Bath with his grace of York overnight and to come straight on to Alderwood this morning. He will very likely arrive before noon, and I must be ready. Lady Ophelia would never forgive me if I left her to manage alone.”

She had plenty of time, however, for the Prince of Wales and his party did not arrive until shortly after midday. There were no ladies with them, and they were a small company, merely the royal brothers and their attendants and Mr. Brummell.

Though the royal brothers were both rather fat and had been described as kin to whitebait because of their jowly faces, protruding eyes, and small, pursed mouths, nature had been a deal kinder to Mr. Brummell. He was slightly above medium height and the proportions of his form were remarkable. His hands, in Diana’s opinion, were particularly well shaped and his voice particularly pleasing. His face was rather long with a high, well-shaped forehead. His complexion was fair, his hair light brown, and his countenance showed a good deal of intelligence, though his mouth was wont to twitch unexpectedly with sardonic humor. His eyebrows were expressive, as were the gray eyes beneath them, and he used both to full effect when he wished to give additional point to one of the humorous or satirical remarks for which he was well known.

Lady Ophelia, greeting the new arrivals, gave no hint by her expression or behavior that she thought they, rather than the Warrington family, ought to be more gratified by their presence at the abbey. Indeed, although she looked down her long nose at them all after making her curtsy to the prince, her tone when she spoke was perfectly gracious.

“You will no doubt wish for refreshment after your journey, sir,” she said. “A nice luncheon will be set out in the blue parlor for you when you have seen your chambers.”

The prince winked at Brummell, then smiled at her ladyship. Since his smile was one of his best assets, Diana was not at all surprised when Lady Ophelia returned it, but the older lady’s expression changed ludicrously when his highness said, “We must hope, ma’am, that you have not planned to serve many green vegetables. George, here, don’t like ’em.”

“Good gracious, I’ve not the slightest notion if there are too many or not,” said Lady Ophelia, regarding the Beau in awed dismay. “Surely, you eat
some
green vegetables, sir.”

“Yes, madam,” returned the Beau with a twinkle. “I once ate a pea.”

“His highness is merely roasting you, Aunt Ophelia,” said Simon, putting his arm around her, “and no doubt is attempting to get his own back with Mr. Brummell for something that gentleman said to him earlier.”

“Damme, Andover,” said the prince, chuckling, “but you’re a sharp one. That’s it, exactly. Damn fellow refuses to say he likes this coat. And York, there, says it don’t become me. Well, I say it does, Weston says it does, and George here, if he knows what’s good for him, will also say it does.” His highness turned for them then, modeling the dark blue coat he wore over a green-striped satin waistcoat and cream-colored breeches that did little to conceal his plump figure.

The Beau’s lips twitched, and his eyelids drooped. “The fit is excellent, sir,” he murmured, “a masterpiece of Weston’s clearly considerable skills.”

Simon turned quickly as though to speak to one of the footmen, but Diana noted that the prince was well pleased by Brummell’s remark, and she was too grateful to the Beau for not indulging his sense of the ridiculous any further to worry overmuch about exposing her own smiles. Brummell said something to York just then, forestalling that gentleman’s entrance into the discussion, and a moment later they were all safely upstairs in their own bedchambers.

Realizing that Simon had judged Mr. Brummell more accurately than she had herself, Diana went about her business with a lighter step, believing the royal visit would indeed pass off without incident. And so it might well have done, had it not been for Lady Jersey, but when the Prince of Wales came downstairs that evening for dinner, he chanced to meet her ladyship making her way up the upper righthand wing of the grand staircase.

Diana, above them, talking with her mother, Susanna, and Lydia by the gallery rail, turned when she realized the prince had emerged from his bedchamber and saw Lady Jersey curtsy, right there on the narrow stairway, effectively blocking the royal passage. The curtsy was a deep one, and stiff bent, her ladyship looked coyly up at the prince from beneath her lashes. “Good evening, your highness.”

The prince said nothing, his attitude making it clear that he was merely waiting for her to move. People stood behind him on the stairway, and there were others along the gallery and below in the hall. Until the prince’s arrival on the scene there had been a babble of friendly chatter, punctuated now and again by a burst of laughter. There was no laughter now. There was stillness and a tension that spread quickly throughout the company. At last, her countenance darkened with mortification, Lady jersey rose, lifted her chin, and stood aside to let him pass.

As he moved past her, the prince turned to his aide, Colonel McMahon, behind him on the stair, and said in a voice loud enough to carry to everyone in the hall, “Pray, McMahon, tell that woman she is not to speak to me again.”

Joining in the general gasp of dismay, Diana turned instinctively toward her mother, only to find Lady Trent stifling a smile of unholy glee. “Mama, really!” she exclaimed under her breath. “What on earth are we to do?”

“Nothing, love,” replied the countess, her eyes still dancing. “That little scene is nothing to do with us, but it has been in the making these six months and more. We may all relax now and go about our business, knowing it no longer hovers over us, waiting to take place. Is that not so, Simon?”

Diana had realized even as her mother was speaking that Simon had come up behind her from the other side of the gallery. She searched his face now to see if he would agree with her mother. Apparently, he did. He, too, seemed to be laboring under the difficult task of controlling his mirth. “What a pity George missed it,” he said. “Or, did he?”

Mr. Brummell, his countenance for once betraying no expression, could be seen now at the top of the right branch of the stairway. Lady Jersey, her face still scarlet, passed right by him without so much as a glance, and disappeared in the direction of her own bedchamber.

Lady Ophelia soon received word that Lady Jersey, suffering from a migraine headache, would be unable to join them for dinner, but Diana had learned even sooner that her mother and Simon were right not to worry about the effect of the scene upon the rest of the company. Lord Jersey, as was his custom, had been in the new hall with the marquess, and neither Lord Villiers nor Lady Sarah Fane had been among the witnesses to the confrontation, so the others were able to go on with their evening very much as if nothing had happened at all.

The New Year came in merrily without her ladyship’s assistance, heralded by the pealing of bells and the blowing of whistles, and accompanied by a new snowstorm as well as much laughter and singing. Toasts were drunk and good wishes exchanged.

Shortly after midnight there was a clamor at the front door of the abbey, and the porter opened the doors to a snow-covered. Simon, who entered amidst more whistling and laughter, as well as offers of food and drink—particularly drink—since custom had it that the First Foot, or the first visitor to the house during the morning hours of the first day of January was the luck-bringer for the entire year. Since the luck would be good only if the first visitor was a man and not a woman, the Warringtons, like most families, took no chances. The oldest son played the important role each year.