An Unconventional Miss (19 page)

‘Not if I'm any sort of judge,' piped up Fitzallan, as he heaved himself out of his armchair. ‘Got the distinct impression that she's just as smitten with you as you are with her. Don't seem able to keep those ravishing green eyes off you, in fact, you lucky devil!' Tossing back the contents of his glass, he placed it carefully down on the table then, raising an eyebrow, looked at his two companions and said, ‘Well, are we going or ain't we?'

E
arlier that same day, while the Beresfords were still in their sunny breakfast room enjoying their coffee, the butler entered to bring in the post, as well as announcing that several more floral tributes had arrived for Miss Beresford.

‘Thank you, Clevedon,' said Jessica, with a warm smile, as she spread herself another slice of bread and honey. ‘Ask Mrs Simmons to see if she can find somewhere to put them, will you please?'

‘I will do that with pleasure, Miss Beresford,' intoned the manservant, in his usual stately manner. ‘However, I did take the liberty of bringing this particular offering in to you as, being somewhat—unusual—in its make-up, I feared it might easily go astray if placed with the other, much larger bouquets.'

He handed Jessica a small and slightly damp package that appeared to have been wrapped in a simple square of muslin and secured with a length of dried grass.

‘Smells like violets,' observed Matt, casting an interested eye at the package.

A sudden pounding started within Jessica's chest as she fumbled with the fastening and carefully separated the fragile offering from its muslin wrapping. There, on its own little bed of moss, lay a cluster of the most beautiful violets she had ever seen in her life, their leaves and petals still damp from the morning dew. Her pulse raced and a rosy flush warmed her cheeks, as she bent her head to inhale the intoxicating perfume.

‘Fresh from the country!' exclaimed Imogen, in delight. ‘What a sweet thought! Who could have sent them—is there a card?'

Shaking her head, Jessica stared down at the gift, her trembling fingertips gently caressing the delicate stems. She needed no card to help her identify the sender of these particular blooms. Her lips curved and a faraway look came into her eyes.
The man is a complete contradiction,
she thought, wonderingly. Surely, no mere philanderer would have gone to so much trouble to offer such a token of his regard? For some minutes, she gazed down in a contemplative silence at the fragile blossoms in front of her then, with a sudden straightening of her shoulders, she resolved that, on the very next opportunity that presented itself to her, she would confront the maddening Earl of Wyvern and demand an immediate explanation for his recent behaviour towards her. His continual absence from the social scene, only to turn up and torment her once again, was getting to be more than any sane person could stand and she vowed that, if he was not prepared to face up to her like the man she believed him to be, she would tell him exactly what she thought of his foolish games.

‘Well, my dears,' announced Imogen, as she laid down her napkin and pushed back her chair. ‘I have a great deal to do today. I am promised to Mrs Newton for morning coffee and I need to pay a quick visit to Madame Devy's to collect some new gloves for the Conynghams' ball this evening.'

So saying, she picked up her letters from the table, turned to leave the room and then, to the consternation of her watchers, gave a faint cry of dismay and promptly slumped to a heap on the carpet.

Leaping to his feet, his eyes wide with apprehension, Matt hurriedly cast aside the missive he had been perusing and sped to his wife's side.

‘Imogen! Imogen, sweetheart!' he cried out as, kneeling beside her now motionless figure, he gathered her tenderly into his arms. ‘Speak to me, my love, I beg of you!'

Opening her eyes very slowly, Imogen gave a great sigh and would have tried to sit up had her husband not prevented her from doing so. She blinked once or twice then, rapidly registering her husband's anguished expression, she reached out her fingers and placed them on his quivering lips. ‘Please do not fret so, my darling,' she murmured. ‘I fear I got up too quickly, that is all.'

‘That's as it may be,' countered Matt, with a scowl, as he scooped her up and rose to his feet. ‘But it's back to bed for you, young lady, with a visit from Dr Frinton as soon as I can get hold of him!'

‘But, Matt,' protested Imogen weakly, ‘what about Mrs Newton and my visit to Madame Devy's? What about the Conynghams' ball?'

‘To hell with the lot of them!' he returned savagely as, striding to the door, he kicked it open and proceeded to carry his still-protesting wife across the hallway and up the curved staircase into her bedchamber. ‘You've had all the balls you're going to have this Season, my girl!'

Jessica, her eyes wide with concern and her fingers on her lips to still their trembling, was not sure whether to follow the pair or to remain where she was until her brother returned.
Oh, please don't let anything happen to Imo!
she prayed, as she bent down to retrieve the scattered letters and restore them to their place on the table.
I could not bear it if she…

She stopped and turned swiftly towards the door as she heard Matt recrossing the marbled hall footsteps and making his way back into the room.

Flinging herself at him, she cried out, ‘Please tell me that she is going to be all right, Matt!'

His face still pale with shock, he gave her a brief smile and patted her shoulder, before thrusting her away from him. ‘She seems to have recovered somewhat,' he replied, with a slight tremor in his voice. ‘Bertha is attending to her. However, I have sent for Dr Frinton and we will see what he has to say.' He paused, raking his fingers through his guinea-gold waves. ‘But I've a mind to pack up and go straight back to Thornfield,' he then told her. ‘I should have done so, as soon as she told me she was with child!'

‘Pray don't upset yourself so,' pleaded Jessica, placing her hand on his arm. ‘Imogen is awfully strong, you know—she throws off coughs and colds more quickly than any of us!'

Frowning, he stared down at her for some moments, then, ‘Do you have any further engagements this week?' he asked her. ‘Provided that the doctor considers Imogen fit enough to attempt the journey home, it is my intention to leave first thing on Saturday morning. That way we can take it in easy stages and be back home by Monday.'

‘Well,' she reminded him, ‘as Imo has just informed you, there is the Duchess of Conyngham's ball this evening. In addition, I am invited to accompany Miss Draycott and her friends to a supper party at the Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow evening—but I would not hesitate to send my excuses, if you would rather I did not attend,' she added hastily, having studied her brother's brooding expression.

Her breath held in fearful anticipation, she watched as her brother continued to frown and purse his lips. At the thought of having to leave the capital, with no likelihood of ever setting eyes upon Wyvern again, her heart was in turmoil, all previous notions of how she had intended to chastise him for his impudence instantly wiped from her mind. But to her unbounded relief Matt shook his head.

‘No need,' he returned, with a satisfied smile. ‘Your cousin is very keen that you attend the Conynghams' ball—it is said to be the biggest event of the Season and it would be a great pity for you not to have experienced at least one grand ball during your time in London. As for Vauxhall,' he continued, with another frown, ‘I took the three of you there myself, before Nicky went back to college, so it is not as though you are missing anything of great moment.' He paused, considering, while Jessica, who, in this case, was quite indifferent as to whether or not she attended the supper party, patiently awaited his answer. ‘Nevertheless, it would, perhaps, be rather impolite to cry off at this late stage.'

‘You mean that I may go?'

Her brother gave a decisive nod. ‘I cannot see why not. Miss Draycott's friends are all sensible and responsible adults. You have a suitable escort for this evening's entertainment, I take it?'

She nodded. ‘Mr Lyndhurst and his sister are calling for me at half-past eight.'

‘Rodney Lyndhurst? Oh, he's a most level-headed chap—you will come to no harm at his hands. That's settled, then—ah! I believe I hear the doctor at the door.'

And, turning on his heel, he left the room, anxious to return to his wife's bedside, leaving Jessica hugging herself in gleeful anticipation, as she pondered how best to utilise the totally unexpected opportunity with which she had just been presented. All that was needed now, she told herself, was for Wyvern to present himself at the duchess's ball and, regardless of what steps he might take to try to avoid her, she was determined that, this time, he would not escape her!

 

As she was soon to discover, however, the sheer size and opulence of the ballroom at Conyngham House was almost enough to daunt the resolve of even the most intrepid missionary.

From the moment of being handed out of the Lyndhursts' family coach by a powdered-haired and plum-suited flunkey, Jessica found herself quite overcome with awe at the unexpected richness and grandeur of the occasion. Never in her life had she seen such magnificent finery, such sparkling extravagance or such a heaving multitude of individuals gathered together in one room.

And such a room, she marvelled, as the little group that comprised the Honourable Rodney Lyndhurst, his sister Lady Sarah Lyndhurst and herself, having patiently waited its turn in the seemingly never-ending line of guests to reach the top of the great marble staircase, had gone through the usual offices of presentation and reception and was now descending the few shallow steps that led into the splendidly appointed ballroom.

On each side of the room, traversing its entire length, was a succession of white marble pillars in the Corinthian style, their capitals elaborately decorated with carvings of grapes and vine leaves and their tall columns artistically entwined with green ribbons bearing clusters of hothouse roses of every size and colour. Huge swathes of green-and-white silk were draped between the pillars, giving the room an almost Oriental tented effect. Four great crystal chandeliers hung suspended from the ceiling and dozens of ornate crystal sconces lined all four sides of the room, the light from their hundreds of candles shining on to the faces of the swarming assemblage beneath.

By craning her neck and standing on tiptoe, Jessica could just make out two pairs of doors at the far end of the room, their openings offering piquant glimpses of the balconied terrace outside and the huge formal gardens beyond, where a myriad of Chinese lanterns hung from the trees, lighting up the colourful scene with their radiant glow.

Feeling somewhat overwhelmed by such an abundance of sumptuous magnificence, Jessica began to doubt the chances of even catching a glimpse of Lord Wyvern, let alone speaking to him, given the teeming mass of humanity that surrounded her. But then, as the strains of the orchestra from the gallery above began to filter its way into the ears of the chattering masses below, the crowds began to disperse, many of them making their way out of the ballroom into the corridors and anterooms beyond, where a plentiful supply of refreshments and other amusements had been laid on to satisfy the needs of all but the most censorious of guests.

‘Come along, ladies,' said Lyndhurst, offering an arm to each of his companions. ‘I see Pevensey and Henderson have commandeered a set of chairs over in the far corner. Now, we shall all be able to sit together and view the proceedings in comfort.'

Upon arriving at the appointed place, they soon found themselves joined by other members of the Draycott set, including Felicity herself. Not having heard from Hazlett since her ill-fated conversation with him at the Hendersons', Miss Draycott had managed to convince herself that the hateful man must have been in his cups when he had sought her out and that his threatening behaviour had merely been his way to punish her for having refused his hand. Having done her best to curb her previous envy at Jessica's success with the members of the opposite sex and, contrary to what she had originally believed, it had soon become evident to Felicity that the younger girl made no effort to court such excessive attention. Reluctant as she was to have to face up to it, she knew that, no matter how long she waited, Wyvern would never look at her in quite the same way as she had seen him looking at Jessica. And, whilst she was aware that this somewhat forced association with Jessica could never really develop into a true friendship, the very sensible and highly correct Miss Draycott had been obliged to admit to herself that it had been unworthy of her to blame Jessica for Wyvern's obvious partiality for her. The net result of all this soul-searching was that Felicity had allowed herself to become quite attached to her new acquaintance and, this evening, had little difficulty in expressing her profound admiration for the cut of her young companion's ball dress, which was the most expensive gown that Jessica had ever owned.

Fashioned in the palest of figure-hugging green satins, with three deep flounces at its hem, its off-the-shoulder design sported a décolletage cut a good dealer lower than those of her other evening gowns. In fitting Jessica for the gown, however, Madame Devy had assured her cousin that, for a major occasion such as the Duchess of Conyngham's ball, a more daring style was positively
de rigueur
!

In the light of this highly auspicious occasion, Matt had been prevailed upon to splash out an enormous sum to have the famed modiste, whose creations were much in demand, fashion something slightly out of the ordinary for the two females in his life. Sadly, Imogen's lovely outfit was now in the depths of her wardrobe, still nestling in its muslin wrapper but when, earlier that evening, Jessica had tripped into her brother's study to show off her own finery, his summer-blue eyes had shone with pride and, putting his hands on her shoulders, he had held her away from him and, looking down at her, had said, somewhat huskily, ‘There is little doubt who will be the belle of this ball, dear child! Off you go and enjoy yourself and…' He had then paused, hesitating, before adding, more severely, ‘I am counting on you to remember your promise, Jess. Keep with Miss Draycott's set and try to behave yourself as Imogen would wish you to!'