An Unconventional Miss (10 page)

‘I'm so sorry, Imo,' prevaricated her cousin. ‘It was difficult to reach you in the crush.'

Imogen gave a decisive shake of her head. ‘You had best leave it to Blanche to deal with,' she said. ‘Failing which, we will have to return it to Madame Devy to have it remade—how on earth did you come to rip it so badly?'

‘I—I think someone must have trodden on it,' Jessica, her colour heightening, was forced to dissemble. ‘The ballroom was so crowded—I just felt it tearing. Neither you nor Matt were anywhere to be seen, so I—I thought I had better come along here and see if I could fix it myself.'

With a brisk nod, Imogen stood up and held out her hand. ‘Well, we have no time to worry about it now. We must hurry. We will have to return home for you to change before we go on the Ilchesters—you know we are promised to them later this evening.'

A worried frown furrowed Jessica's brow. ‘But I have not yet paid my respects to her ladyship,' she protested, as her cousin drew her towards the door.

‘Matt has already made our excuses, my dear. He has collected our cloaks and has called for the carriage. Do come along, Jess, you know how he hates to keep Cartwright waiting.'

The pair exited the room and started back up the passageway. Jessica, racking her brains to think of some way to let Wyvern know when the coast was clear, was in the process of pulling on her gloves when, after hurriedly stuffing the second of the pair into her reticule, she came to a sudden halt.

‘Oh, my glove!' she cried. ‘I must have left it on the sofa—I shan't be a minute! Do go on—I'll catch you up!'

And, before Imogen could remonstrate with her, she had turned tail and sped back towards the retiring room where, to her considerable relief, she met up with the two former occupants who were just on the point of leaving. Allowing them to get well out of earshot before she spoke, she tiptoed to the sofa and called softly, ‘Make haste, my lord. You have no time to lose!'

Then, without waiting to see if the earl had understood her instruction, she scurried back along the passage, intent upon creating some sort of diversion, should she chance to encounter any other female who might have chosen just that moment to pay a visit to the ladies' salon.

S
hortly before eleven o'clock the following morning, Wyvern constrained himself to climb the flight of steps that led up to the front door of the Draycott's London residence in Mount Street. No sooner had he given the bell-pull a single peremptory tug than the door opened and he was ushered into the spacious hallway, where a waiting footman speedily relieved him of his hat and gloves.

Motioning the earl to follow him, the Draycott's butler led the way to his master's study, passing the closed door of what Wyvern vaguely recalled as being the breakfast parlour and through which could be clearly discerned the sounds of barely suppressed feminine chatter. A shiver of guilt ran through him when he realised that the supposed objective of this morning's visit could well be common currency throughout the household. Indeed, it would come as no surprise to him to learn that Miss Draycott and her mother were, at this very moment, ensconced within that parlour impatiently awaiting the expected summons from the baronet. The thought of which, in view of his actual intentions, was enough to make Wyvern's blood run cold.

‘Come in, come in, my boy!' declared Draycott, springing to his feet the moment the door was opened, waving the butler away without giving him the opportunity to announce the startled earl.

‘Sit down, sit down my boy,' continued Sir Jonathan in the most jovial manner and, indicating the tray of glasses and decanters on a nearby table, added, ‘You will take a drink, of course?'

Feeling greatly in the need for some fortification, Wyvern accepted a brandy and sat down on one of the high-backed leather chairs straddling the fireplace. Having poured himself a tumbler of whisky, the baronet took the chair opposite. After tossing back a goodly mouthful of the amber liquid, he smacked his lips in enjoyment and, placing his glass back on the table, leaned forward, his hands clasped on his knees.

‘Now, then, my boy,' he beamed. ‘No need for prevarication between us, surely? We both know why you are here, so what say we get the bones of the business over and done with?'

‘It was very good of you to see me at such short notice,' began Wyvern cautiously. Although he had rehearsed this speech over and over again in his mind during the past few hours, saying the words out loud in the cold light of day seemed, somehow, far more nerve-racking than he had expected.

‘Nonsense! Nonsense!' said Sir Jonathan, playfully tapping the side of his nose. ‘An absolute pleasure, I assure you! In fact, it don't hurt to tell you that Lady Draycott is quite beside herself with the good news!'

‘The very fact of which makes my present task all the harder, sir, I fear,' returned Wyvern, drawing in a deep breath.

A puzzled frown on his face, Draycott stared at his visitor. ‘I'm afraid I don't quite follow…?'

Mentally gritting his teeth, Wyvern pressed on with his self-appointed ordeal. ‘It would seem that there has been a good deal of mounting speculation regarding any intentions that I may have in regard to Miss Draycott, Sir Jonathan,' he said, striving to still the tremor in his voice. ‘The reason that I sought this interview was in an attempt to clarify this situation.' Pausing, he then looked directly into his host's eyes, saying, ‘I am here to tell you, sir, that I cannot find it in me to petition you for your daughter's hand in marriage!'

‘W-what are you saying, sir!'

Starting to his feet, Draycott pulled a large pocket-handkerchief from the pocket of his velvet smoking jacket and proceeded to mop the beads of sweat that were forming on his forehead.

‘In consequence of our two families' long-term acquaintanceship,' Wyvern went on quietly, ‘and, whilst I will always hold Felicity in the highest regard, the deep affection that I have always considered essential to the success of a marriage is, I am sorry to say, sadly lacking on my part. My feelings for Miss Draycott are as a friend—a close friend, it is true—but not as a prospective wife. That being so, I can only offer you my most sincere apologies if my recent attentions have given either of you cause to assume otherwise.'

Walking hesitantly over to his desk, Draycott stood absently drumming his fingers on the desk's leather surface. Then, turning, he made his way back to the fireplace, picked up his glass and tossed the remainder of its contents down before plonking himself back into his seat.

Draycott studied the earl in silence for some moments then, pursing his lips, he grunted, ‘Your lordship can hardly have been unaware that, for some time, my daughter has been in daily anticipation of a proposal of marriage from you!' And, with a nervous glance towards the door, he added, in a rather more wheedling tone of voice, ‘Possibly the knowledge that the girl comes with a dowry of fifty thousand pounds might go some way towards helping to promote the sort of affection you speak of?'

Wyvern stiffened. ‘In my opinion, sir,' he returned curtly, ‘any man who petitioned for your daughter's hand merely on the grounds of her large fortune would be doing her a great disservice. And I, for my part, could not contemplate such an abhorrent course of action. As her father, sir, you must surely agree that Felicity deserves far better than a marriage of convenience!'

‘Humph!' retorted Draycott, his scowl deepening. ‘Can't see that sort of argument going down particularly well with her ladyship!'

‘Then I fear I must crave both her ladyship's and your most humble pardon, sir,' interrupted Wyvern, as he rose swiftly to his feet. ‘I beg that you will convey my deepest regrets to Miss Draycott for any distress that I might—quite unintentionally, I do assure you—have caused her. And now, sir, since my presence is clearly somewhat superfluous, perhaps you will be good enough to excuse me?'

Then, without waiting for Draycott to summon a servant to show him out, the earl executed a swift bow, left the room and made his own way back to the entrance hall. Passing the breakfast parlour, however, he could hardly fail to remark the now rather pregnant silence that emitted from within.

Nevertheless, no sooner had the Draycotts' front door thudded shut behind him than Wyvern's formerly depressed spirits suddenly began to rise and it was with a considerably lighter frame of mind that he descended the steps to the pavement. For he knew that, despite having just forfeited his one chance of reversing the Ashcroft family's straitened circumstances, any suggestion of him coupling his name with Felicity Draycott had been rendered totally out of the question—ever since that brief but heart-pounding moment when he had held Jessica Beresford in his arms.

A rueful smile tugged at his lips as he recalled the series of events that had led him to this unassailable conclusion. Having based his entire opinion of the highly discomposing Miss Beresford upon the words of a disgruntled would-be suitor—and an inebriated one at that—he had been somewhat unprepared to discover how very mistaken he had been about her. Indeed, having already marked her unaffectedly compassionate attitude to the young simpleton's misfortunes in the Oxford Street scuffle, Miss Beresford's actions on the previous evening had only served to verify the earl's growing belief that she was not nearly as self-centred as Stevenage had given him to suppose. In fact, had he been a gambling man, Wyvern would have been prepared to lay odds that no other female of his acquaintance would have gone to such extraordinary lengths to attempt to extricate him from what could so easily have turned into the biggest scandal of the Season!

Added to which, he took no pleasure in reminding himself that the whole ghastly nightmare had been brought about by his own crass stupidity! That Jessica Beresford had been able to muster such presence of mind in the circumstances was quite remarkable and, in view of the highly reprehensible discourtesy he had shown her, her subsequent performance, culminating in the voluntary destruction of a very expensive evening gown, had been even more astonishing!

He fingered the barely perceptible graze on his cheek, a tangible memento of Jessica's breathless struggle in his arms—a struggle that he now felt might well have been more concerned with her endeavours to point out his error in entering the wrong room rather than a violent protest against his embrace! Having reached that conclusion, it was somewhat disheartening to realise that the likelihood of finding himself in a position to test out this theory at any time in the immediate future was looking somewhat remote!

No sooner had he escaped from his enforced confinement on the previous evening, Wyvern had hastened to the ballroom, in search of his benefactress, but Jessica had been nowhere to be seen. He had quickly sought out his grandmother, to enquire of the Beresfords' whereabouts, only to learn that the family had paid their respects and departed some few minutes earlier.

‘Although, why you should need to concern yourself with their comings and goings, I cannot begin to comprehend,' the dowager had remarked, after casting a suspicious look at his crestfallen expression. ‘I thought that we had already agreed that the girl is not for you.' Then, before he had been able to summon up a suitable reply, she had turned the subject to the scratch on his cheek, questioning him as to its origin.

Having been unaware, until that moment, that Jessica's spirited retaliation had left any visible mark, Wyvern had had to think quickly. ‘It's of no consequence,' he had replied. ‘I stumbled against one of your blessed palm trees—the crush in here is quite overwhelming!'

‘Yes, isn't it just!' returned his grandmother gleefully. ‘It looks likely to be the biggest of the Season!'

She had then drifted off with a trio of elderly admirers, leaving Wyvern to the mercy of Holt and Fitzallan, who had spent much of the previous half-hour or so in search of their missing comrade. In response to their queries regarding his prolonged absence from the room, he had had to resort to telling them that he had been called away to deal with a slight domestic crisis. Since this was not really so far from the truth, he had not felt too badly about this mild distortion. Unfortunately, however, since Fitzallan had then chosen to rib him about the mark on his face, suggesting that he looked as though he had come off worst in a bout of fisticuffs, it had then been necessary to repeat his earlier falsehood. Although both men had accepted this somewhat unlikely explanation without comment, Wyvern, having intercepted the questioning look that had passed between his two friends, had received the distinct impression that neither of them had been totally convinced.

The remainder of the evening had passed in something of a blur, as far as Wyvern had been concerned. He had stood up for every dance, each with a different partner, and had caused his two friends considerable merriment by choosing to escort one of his grandmother's elderly acquaintances into supper. This he had done in an attempt to avoid any accusations of partiality. Only when the front door had finally closed upon the last of the guests to leave had he allowed his guard to drop.

But now, as he strode through Berkeley Gardens in the late morning sunshine, he felt surprisingly light-hearted, despite the impending threat of ruin! Giving his coat pocket a little pat, as if to reassure himself that the slim box he had acquired on his way to the Draycotts' residence was still intact, his lips curved in a contented smile. He had spent most of the early hours persuading himself that there was nothing to prevent him paying a courtesy visit to the Beresfords. Having missed them on the previous evening, he had, by now, convinced himself that it would be perfectly in keeping for him to call and express his regrets. That done, he was certain that he would find some way of handing Jessica the small package. Strolling through the gates of the gardens, he crossed the busy thoroughfare, skirting nimbly between the gaps in the traffic.