Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2) (18 page)

‘I know dear, but you must have a care for her reputation. She seems a good girl despite her connexions.’ She studied her son carefully, noting the sadness that had covered his face. She prepared herself to disappoint him further.

‘But Mama, just let me explain . . .’ Frederick dragged a small upholstered chair across the carpet by the carved rail of its back. Its two rear legs left a trail of disturbed wool tufts. The Duchess blinked at the ache that had stricken her heart.

The chair righted beside the dressing table, Frederick folded himself onto it. He leant forward, arms propped on his knees, hands clasped and his face alight. ‘She’s a great girl, Mama. She’s the only one I ever met who knew anything about horses beyond their colour. She’s . . . well, she’s . . .’ His voice faded and a puzzled frown pleated his forehead. ‘I don’t know, Mama. I just like being with her. But . . .’

‘But ..?’

‘But there’s her father.’ He chewed his lip. ‘Trade.’ He raised sad eyes to his mother. ‘Do you think His Grace would ever agree to . . . well, you know?’

His doleful expression tore his mother’s heart further. ‘I fear he will not, dearest. He will expect a much better match for you.’

‘But I’m only the spare, Mama. There’s George to do the pretty for the family name.’

‘I know, dearest.’ His mother soothed his hands with tender fingers. ‘But George has placed His Grace at an impossible stand. He cannot refuse a request from Arthur Wellesley. George must accompany him to the Continent.’ A rare frown lined her smooth forehead. ‘You know His Grace’s health makes him desperate for one of you to wed. Now George is engrossed with sailing off into heaven knows what danger, it falls to you to oblige.’

‘Can’t George make a contract before he goes?’ Frederick gave himself to furious thought. He sprang from the chair and paced across the pretty rug. ‘There’s that niece Lady Fosbury keeps pushing at him. Or her daughter. She’s due out next Season, isn’t she?’

The Duchess’s pretty features came as close to disapproval as she would ever permit. ‘Constance Fosbury is an unwise woman. We could never allow George to wed such an unprepossessing creature as the Pinchford girl. And Elise is only fourteen.’ She shook her head. ‘No. I have my eye on the Duke of Wenham’s daughter. She does her come-out next Season. From what I’ve seen of her, she’s a biddable child. She will make an excellent Duchess when she is grown.’

Light filled Frederick’s eyes. ‘Couldn’t you make an agreement now? Get in first, so to speak? Ahead of the field?’

His mother sighed. ‘Do try to avoid such cant chatter, dearest.’

The hope disappeared from Frederick’s eyes. ‘Sorry, Mama.’ He took a steadying breath. ‘If only His Grace would get to know her. He cannot enter the sick room, of course, so he won’t see her there. I’ve tried to persuade Miss Neave to dine with us
en famille
but she refuses.’ Another deep breath. He stared pensively at the pastel patterns on the rug beneath his feet. At last his optimism resurfaced. ‘At least His Grace agreed Miss Orksville could go to Lidgate. That’s something.’

The Duchess looked over his head at a particularly attractive painting of an Italian lake on her wall. A distant, reminiscent expression softened her features. ‘Yes,’ she said in a sweetly dreamy voice. ‘His Grace was moved to say it was entirely up to me whom I invited to Lidgate.’

Frederick grinned. ‘Capital, Mama. Capital. It’s a start. Perhaps His Grace might even call. Then he’d see how good she is.’ He patted his mother’s knee with some vigour.

Her Grace of Ellonby winced.

Chapter Twenty Two

M
eredew Hopton, under butler currently in charge at Lidgate, Mr Sallis being with Their Graces in London, opened the door to Miss Leonora Pencombe. He might have been forgiven for assuming the lady’s enthusiasm for visiting was to hang on His Grace’s sleeve. He would have been wrong. Miss Pencombe was possessed of a small competence and a large passion.

She loved to paint. No, she adored to paint. Painting consumed most of her waking hours. It accounted for much of the appearance of her hands and clothes. It was not unusual for her to appear with splashes of colour on her gowns and traces of madder rose or laurel green under the tips of her nails. This passion had endowed her with something of a reputation. Her watercolours of the more charming of English landscapes were everywhere regarded. As were her pen and ink architectural sketches. An interpretation of the urn crowning Lidgate’s portico actually adorned the Duke’s own book room. Beautiful as these were, it was her delicate portraits of children that sent every mother of the
ton
into paroxysms of rapture. The fashion in portraits was for large, imposing oils. Miss Pencombe’s skill in producing small, ethereal watercolours of babies, toddlers and children that were just the right size to grace a Mama’s dressing table had made them objects of intense desire.

Unfortunately the muse had overtaken Miss Pencombe shortly before the Neave cavalcade drew to a halt at the imposing doors. Hopton found himself explaining to an irritated Lord Frederick that the lady was not available to greet them.

‘Where is she?’ His lordship thrust his horse’s reins to one of three hovering footmen.

‘Sketching the Greek temple, I believe, my lord.’

The news did nothing for Lord Frederick’s humour. The journey had not gone well. Despite her every intention of enduring the jostling, bumping and swerving of the coach with stoicism, Miss Orksville had been tried beyond silence. Several times Araminta had called a halt to allow the invalid time to recover herself a little. An overnight stop at the White Hart at Braintree had failed to restore her resolve. Not even Araminta’s demand that their own sheets and comforts be carried with them had aided recuperation. She had taken turns with Hollins to sit up with her through the night.

Lord Frederick returned to the shining magnificence of the Neave travelling coach. Araminta had let down the window and was looking at him with some concern.

‘Forgive me, ma’am, but Miss Pencombe is er . . . walking in the grounds.’ He had no wish to explain that his father’s cousin considered sketching a pile of old stone more important than greeting the arrivals who were responsible for her being there at all. ‘Hopton assures me, though, that everything is prepared.’ He hoped it was true.

‘Thank you, Lord Frederick.’ Araminta cast a troubled glance at her chaperone. ‘I think it would be as well if Miss Orksville was conveyed to her room as soon as possible.’

‘Indeed.’ Fredrick opened the carriage door. ‘If you will permit me.’

Araminta busied herself tossing aside the various pillows that were packed round the invalid to cushion the ride. Hollins, sitting opposite, caught two of them. The rest fell to the floor. Wilhelmina’s feeble protests that she was well able to walk on her own two feet were dismissed.

‘Nonsense. You are far more shaken than you think.’ Araminta pulled the rug off her knees. ‘Now, let Lord Frederick assist you.’

Wilhelmina allowed Araminta to raise her from the seat. She gave her hand to his lordship standing close to the door and set foot on the step. The truth of her fatigue appeared. Her knees gave way and she collapsed into Lord Frederick’s arms.

‘There now,’ Araminta said. ‘I said you were weakened.’ She looked at Fredrick in some alarm. ‘Do you think you could carry her to her room?’

Frederick clasped his burden inelegantly. He peered at Araminta round the blue bonnet slipping sideways on the grey head. ‘Of course, ma’am.’ With a quick repositioning of the lady that caused her to muffle a squeak, he mounted Lidgate’s steps. The shawl round her shoulders slipped to the ground. Araminta jumped from the carriage and scooped it up before Hopton or any of the footmen thought to move.

Sometime later, Lord Frederick was pacing the lengthy drawing room when Araminta entered at last. He spun on his heel and wound towards her through various chairs and tables. He stopped near a pie-crust stand of Delft ornaments. ‘Is Miss Orksville settled, ma’am?’

‘She is, thank you. A little more tired than she’ll admit but that is her nature. She’s drifted to sleep now so I’ve left Hollins with her.’

‘Hollins?’

‘My maid.’

‘Ah.’ Frederick paced towards the fire. He fidgeted his hands into his pockets. ‘I regret Miss Pencombe is still unable to greet you. It seems she is painting the Greek folly. I’ve sent a footman for her so she shouldn’t be long.’ A shadow crossed his face. ‘Or not very. It’s quite a hike to the folly but she’s taken the governess gig so she should be back quickly.’ He cleared his throat. Twice.

Isolated near a pair of matching armchairs, Araminta regarded him solemnly. ‘I trust we will not inconvenience your lordship during our stay.’ Watching his expression closely, she stiffened her spine. ‘Please don’t feel obliged to wait upon us. I’m sure there are far more interesting things to do in London.’

A look of astonishment widened his eyes. ‘No, ma’am. Not at all. I am entirely at your service.’

Her relief at the tone of his voice and the frankness in his eyes surprised her. Her spine relaxed. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I thought perhaps you were trying to find a way of departing.’

‘No. By no means, no.’ The hands escaped the pockets and swept an embracing circle. ‘I much prefer to be here.’

‘So do I. I mean . . .’ The titan curls shook. The cheeks coloured. ‘I mean in the country in general of course . . . not necessarily here. Although . . .’ Her voice faded into confusion. The heat rising in her cheeks brought another surprise. She was not one to blush like a schoolgirl. Irritation might cause it but never a man’s company. Turning quickly, she looked out of the windows at the spreading lawns dotted with small copses of broad trees. It took several moments before she felt sufficiently composed to speak without embarrassing herself. Or Lord Frederick. ‘Town is so constricting,’ she announced briskly.

‘Exactly.’ Frederick made to seat himself on the wing chair by the hearth. Part-way descended he stopped and straightened again. ‘I beg pardon, ma’am, please be seated.’ His hand indicated the many items where Araminta might do so.

Unwilling, after all, to risk taking her eyes from the view and face him, she sat on the upright chair nearest the window. The tapestry on the seat and back had faded with age. The carved arms glowed from frequent polishing. She rubbed the palm of a hand over one curved end. Her resolve to guard her voice slipped. ‘How lovely. It looks as if it’s grown up here.’ She sighed. ‘Everything pa buys is new.’ Her gaze travelled around the long room with its three tall windows and mismatched furniture. ‘It’s no wonder you prefer to be here. It’s so . . . comfortably old.’

‘Elizabethan, I believe, ma’am. Though my grandfather bought the furniture. I understand the . . . er . . . tapestries are, er . . . unique.’

A burst of laughter met his remark. ‘I won’t believe you’re more interested in tapestries than galloping across the fields.’

Frederick’s grin transformed him into a mischievous schoolboy. ‘You’re right of course. I do prefer it. Very much.’

His eagerness dragged hers back to the social niceties. ‘Please don’t deprive yourself of that pleasure on my account.’

Frederick watched her eyes turn sorrowfully back to the view. ‘Don’t be dismayed, ma’am. I’m sure Miss Orksville would raise no objection to you joining me. She must be quite safe with . . . er, Hillings.’

‘Hillings? Oh, you mean Hollins.’ The look cast from window to Frederick was brighter, almost conspiratorial. ‘Well, Pegasus is here . . .’

‘And he must need the fidgets shaken out of him. You wouldn’t wish to leave that to a groom.’ He frowned. ‘All though of course I would be happy to . . . er . . . I mean . . .’ His voice died. His verbal manoeuvring left him feeling a complete buffle-head.

Araminta’s eyes danced with merriment. ‘I’d be glad of your lordship’s company. I don’t know the estate. I might easily be lost.’

‘Absolutely,’ Frederick said, back on the trail. ‘Couldn’t have a guest becoming lost. Mama would never forgive me.’ A certain apprehension painted his features. ‘Neither would His Grace.’

‘Then I promise not to ride out alone. I fear once I am in the saddle all else fades. Miss Orksville quite despairs of me.’

The sun had slipped so low it shone almost horizontally through the tall windows. Araminta peered out. ‘Do you think there’s enough light for a short ride?’

Frederick fairly leapt from his seat to join her. ‘Just a short one.’

A beaming face turned towards him. ‘Excellent. If you order the horses, I’ll change my gown.’ She took three paces, then stopped. ‘Oh. Pegasus might be too tired.’

‘I doubt it, ma’am. He’d probably welcome a short canter. He’s been trailing behind the carriage for two days. No, ma’am. He’ll be fine.’

Araminta fairly bounced on her toes. ‘Excellent.’ She looked down, then up. ‘Might I ask a favour?’

‘Anything,’ Lord Frederick took one step forward.

‘Being called ma’am all the time makes me feel as old as Miss Orksville. I know it’s not proper but would you mind calling me Araminta when there’s no-one about?’

‘Absolutely.’ Frederick’s smile threatened to burst his cheeks. ‘But only if you’ll call me Frederick . . . well, it’s Freddie really.’

Two pairs of eyes met and shone. ‘Excellent,’ Araminta repeated. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

Lord Frederick Alexander Danver, second son of His Grace the ninth Duke of Ellonby, watched her run from the room and grinned like a schoolboy again.

Miss Leonora Pencombe sat in the drawing room and waited. A certain amount of irritability filled her mind. She had made a particular effort. She had changed into her cleanest gown and even scrubbed at the ochre paint where it had lodged under the little fingernail of her left hand. Now she had been sitting here alone for over thirty minutes. Much longer and the dinner gong would go.

Hurried footsteps and lively chatter approached the room. The door opened. Lord Frederick pushed it aside. A vision in a gold velvet with a bonnet á la
Ecosse
on its auburn curls entered. The riding habit’s hem flounced out, showing an unusual amount of gentleman’s riding boot. Miss Pencombe eyed the gold velvet skirts. They seemed to part in the middle.

‘Aunt Pencombe,’ Frederick said with a small bow, ‘permit me to present Miss Neave.’

Araminta saw the faded green eyes examine her. She braced herself for the sort of cutting comment in which Lady Tiverton specialized.

Miss Pencombe nodded. ‘That colour suits you, child. I used to wear it when I was younger.’

‘Thank you, ma’am. I have always loved it.’ Araminta remembered to curtsey before striding to a seat opposite her new chaperone. ‘I prefer strong colours but Miss Orksville says they’re unsuitable.’ She flipped her skirts straight. ‘White is what I ought to wear.’ She frowned. ‘And primrose or blue. Just like everyone else.’

‘Most suitable. But it’s what you put with it that makes all the difference. Now gold ribbons round the bodice and in your hair would make you look positively Grecian. Quite stunning. And of course –’

Frederick coughed. ‘Beg pardon, ma’am, but I think I heard the gong.’

‘Oh!’ Araminta jumped up. ‘Please excuse me, ma’am. I must hurry and see if Miss Orksville needs anything before I can change.’

She curtseyed and hurried after Frederick, her eyes alight with pleasure. ‘I like your aunt,’ she whispered to him. ‘She didn’t object to my habit.’

Frederick scanned the gold velvet. ‘Why should she? What’s wrong with it?’

‘Oh, everything. The colour. The style. The velvet’ She lifted the side seams. ‘And the split skirt is scandalous.’

Frederick took a closer look. ‘Looks fine to me. Very sensible. I don’t know why other females don’t copy it.’ He indicated the gold lacing that extended from her wrist to upper arm. ‘I like that stuff. Very military. Well fitted too.’ He became aware that he was paying too much close attention to Araminta’s person. He cleared his throat and looked away. ‘Almost looks as if it’s been made by a proper tailor.’ Another attempt at clearing a non-existent obstacle in his throat failed. ‘I mean a gentleman’s one,’ he said huskily. ‘Not but what the females ain’t good at stitching . . . it’s just, I mean to say –’

A peal of laughter swamped his words. ‘Don’t tie yourself in knots. I had it made by John Weston. I ordered it especially as soon as I came back from India.’

‘Weston, eh? No wonder it fits so well.’ He started up the stairs. ‘Never been to him myself but any tailor who can make the Prince look decent in a coat must be good.’ The topic of his remark suddenly weighed heavily on Frederick. The fitting of ladies’ garments was not at all proper. He fell silent, apart from a further attempt to clear his throat.

Consequently, they found themselves at the top of the second flight devoid of conversation.

‘Well,’ Frederick said after fidgeting with his cuff for several moments.

‘Yes,’ Araminta managed.

Frederick cleared his throat yet again. ‘I’ll see you at dinner then.’

Araminta felt her face redden and not from the ride. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes.’

Dinner took place in a large room on the first floor. A long table on bulbous legs stood in the centre, surrounded by ten high-backed chairs. Beyond it, dark panelling covered the walls. Ornate plasterwork wound across the ceiling from a chandelier as wide as a cart wheel. Portraits of the Ellonby Dukes with their horses stared down at Hopton and his acolytes hovering at a laden buffet by the far wall.

‘At last,’ Leonora Pencombe was already seated when Frederick showed Araminta into the room.

‘I beg pardon, ma’am.’ Araminta curtseyed. ‘Miss Orksville was not minded to drink her beef tea.’