Brenda Hiatt (4 page)

“That’s right, Prudence, we’ll win him to respectability in spite of himself,” she agreed, her expression solemn. She hoped that might prove impossible, however. A respectable Lord Foxhaven would not be nearly so intriguing as the rake her sister had described.

“Until tomorrow,” he’d said. She could scarcely wait.

Harry was well into his second bottle of port when Jack and Lord Peter joined him at their accustomed table at the Guards Club on St. James Street. “How went the first volley?” he inquired almost cheerily, as two more glasses were placed.

Peter shook his head sorrowfully. “Even worse than you predicted, Harry.”

“What, Lady M. turned you away from her door? I could have told you she would.”

The other two stared at him in disbelief. “You
do
need to cut back on the spirits, old boy!” Peter exclaimed. “But no, you were right the first time—she wasn’t willing to risk a scene by turning Jack away. It was once we were inside the trouble began.”

“Oh come now, Peter, it wasn’t so bad as all that,” Jack protested, irrationally nettled by his friend’s gloomy prospect. “No one gave me the cut direct, which I more than half expected.”

“Old Sherbourne came close, and Claridge managed to keep you from getting close enough to Lady
Constance for an introduction,” Peter pointed out. “We’ll have to come up with another plan to whitewash your reputation. That’s all there is to it.”

Harry raised his glass. “I’ll certainly drink to that! Damned idiotic thing to contemplate in the first place, marriage. Don’t know what you were thinking, Jack.”

Jack regarded his two longtime friends with mingled amusement and irritation. “Ready to turn tail after the first skirmish? I’m disappointed in you both. I’ll not give up so easily, I assure you, especially after the brilliant flanking maneuver I executed toward the evening’s close.”

Two pairs of eyes turned to him expectantly. “Eh? What?” Peter blinked owlishly, giving the appearance of having imbibed more than Harry had.

“I’ll have you know that I am engaged to call upon Lady Haughton at her sister’s house tomorrow morning.” He twirled his wineglass with a flourish, awaiting their reactions.

Harry gave a sour guffaw, but Peter gaped carpishly. Several seconds passed before he found his voice. “Never say Lady Creamcroft agreed to that? I saw how quickly she pulled her sister away from you when she found out who you were.”

“Lady Creamcroft is nothing if not proper. It would have been most unseemly for her to refuse my request after her sister had already acquiesced.” He saw no point in adding that he had not given Lady Creamcroft a chance to do so.

“So Lady Haughton is hanging out for another hus
band already?” Harry asked with a twisted grin. “How bitter a pill will she be to swallow? Must be pretty desperate to encourage you her first evening back in Society.”

Jack glared, but it was Peter who answered. “You have it all wrong, Harry, I assure you. Lady Haughton is quite a taking little thing, even in her blacks. Chestnut hair, big brown eyes, creamy complexion. When she’s back in colors, I daresay she’ll turn out a diamond of the first water. I can’t believe—” He broke off as Jack’s malevolent eye shifted to him. “That is to say, I’m delighted you’ll have a chance to speak with her again, Jack. Still…”

“Yes?” Though Jack’s tone was dangerous, it didn’t deter his friend.

“Try not to get your hopes too high, eh? I mean, I wish you the best of luck and all that, but it’s likely Lady Haughton is allowing the visit merely because she’s lived too secluded to hear the gossip. Could be that once she does, she’ll be as cool as all the others. And even your best drawing room manners are likely to shock her, with Cherryhurst and Haughton as her standard.”

He looked so worried that Jack had to laugh.

“Egad, Peter, it’s not as though I’ve developed a
tendre
for the woman! You of all people know I’ve never believed all that poets’ rot about love and such. My heart’s in no danger, I assure you. I merely see this as a promising opening for my campaign. If nothing else, being received at Creamcroft’s house is sure to nudge
my respectability up a notch—and put me that much closer to those funds I need.”

In fact, he hoped far more might come of tomorrow’s visit, but he had no intention of revealing the true reason for his optimism to his friends. Not until he was sure. Maybe not even then.

“Besides,” he continued, “this will be good practice for me. The worst that can happen is that I’ll have to go to an alternate strategy—in which case Harry and I can share a toast to my escape. But for the sake of both my grandfather and that money, I’m determined to give my initial battle plan a fair shot.”

Nessa sat in her sister’s tasteful drawing room attempting to concentrate on her needlework while wishing for the twentieth time that she could wear something other than black today, of all days. A sidelong glance showed Prudence the model sober matron in her high-necked gray silk, industriously netting a purse. Prudence would benefit from colors as much as herself, in Nessa’s opinion.

Though she didn’t actually fidget—her father and husband had trained that out of her years ago—Nessa felt inwardly jumpy. Would Lord Foxhaven really come to call?
Had
he recognized her from the masquerade? More importantly, would he say anything in front of Prudence if he had? Refocusing her attention on the fabric she held, Nessa realized she’d been working the wrong row. With an impatient click of her tongue, which for her was tantamount to cursing, she began undoing the work of the past ten minutes.

The front knocker sounded as she pulled out the last errant stitch, and she found herself holding her breath until Clarendon entered to announce Lord Foxhaven. She dared a quick glance as he followed the butler into the room, his beaver under his arm.

Against the prim formality of Prudence’s drawing room, he appeared more outrageously handsome than ever—and perhaps the slightest bit ill at ease. Prudence’s expression, as she rose gracefully to greet their guest, showed more acute discomfort.

“How nice to see you again, my lord,” she said stiffly.

Lord Foxhaven bowed over her hand with perfect propriety. “Lady Creamcroft.” Then, with another bow in Nessa’s direction, “Lady Haughton. I’m honored to have this chance to pay my respects to you both.”

Nessa bobbed her head in return. “Good morning, my lord.” She kept her voice low, as she had last night, and watched him closely for any sign of flirtation, or of a secret shared.

It did not come.

“Pray take a seat, my lord, while I ring for a tray,” suggested Prudence, motioning to a gold and white striped armchair.

He complied, then made an innocuous comment about the unseasonably fair weather. “So much more pleasant than our usual autumn rains, don’t you agree?”

Prudence assented with a further comment on the weather and Nessa nodded again, feeling oddly disappointed.
This
was the scandalous rake her sister had warned her against?

“You are abroad early, my lord,” Nessa observed. “You must not have kept particularly late hours last night.”

Prudence cast her a startled glance, and Nessa herself was nearly as shocked at her own boldness. But her eagerness for even a tiny glimpse into a rake’s night life had overset her well-learned reticence. What must it be like, to—?

“No, I retired shortly after returning from Lady Mountheath’s entertainment. I am finding that late nights do not agree with me so well as they once did.”

Nessa regarded him suspiciously, but he appeared perfectly serious. Only for the briefest instant did she imagine that she caught a hint of amusement deep in his blue eyes—but whether directed at himself or at her she had no idea.

“That’s very commendable, Lord Foxhaven,” Prudence said approvingly. “Rationality and restraint generally develop with maturity, I have observed.”

“Indeed, Lady Creamcroft,” he agreed. “I’ve also found that dissipation, while passingly enjoyable, leaves no lasting reward.”

Though Prudence’s eyebrows arched ceilingward at even this oblique reference to his purported wildness, Nessa stifled a sigh. Was all his debauchery behind him, then? No doubt she should be pleased, for his sake, but…how very dreary.

Indeed, he and Prudence seemed to be trying to outmatch each other in moral platitudes. “So I have always been taught, my lord. One need look no further
than the Book of Proverbs for numerous examples.”

With difficulty, Nessa refrained from rolling her eyes at her sister’s words—and wondered at herself. Whence had come this new impatience with propriety? Or…was it so new? Hadn’t she always secretly—so secretly—chafed at the strictures laid upon her? Her chafing was becoming more overt after a year of relative freedom, that was all.

Lord Foxhaven nodded as sententiously as any octogenarian at Prudence’s moralizing, making Nessa wonder if he could possibly be the same man she had met at the masquerade. Where was the humor that had attracted her?

As though aware of her thoughts, he turned toward her. “I’m more familiar with the Song of Solomon than with Proverbs, I must confess, but I am willing to be instructed.” The slightest of winks accompanied his words, making Nessa’s pulse flutter unexpectedly. For a moment she found herself drowning in his deep blue gaze.

A faint gasp from Prudence recalled her abruptly, reminding her that she should be equally shocked at his reference to the one book of the Bible their father had forbidden them to read.

“Very commendable, my lord.” Nessa managed to keep her voice from quivering with the laughter that threatened. “Don’t you agree, Prudence?”

“Certainly,” Prudence replied stiffly, with a pointed glance at the clock on the mantelpiece.

Lord Foxhaven took the hint at once. “I see I have
exceeded my quarter hour,” he said, rising. “The fascinating company must be my excuse.”

Seeing him about to depart, Prudence unbent to the extent of a genuine smile. “You are too kind, my lord.”

“I will bid you both good day, ladies,” he said. “I leave tomorrow for Kent, to deal with various estate matters, but I hope to see you again upon my return in a fortnight.” Then, to Nessa, “Perhaps then you will permit me to take you for that drive.”

With a start, Nessa realized—as Lord Foxhaven must—that in a fortnight her year of mourning would be over. Her spirit seemed to expand within her at the thought. Conscious of Prudence stiffening again at her side, however, she only said, “That might be pleasant, my lord.”

“Until then.” Lord Foxhaven bent over Prudence’s hand and then her own, his gloved fingertips lingering on hers for just a fraction longer than was strictly proper.

And then he was gone.

The next two weeks seemed an eternity to Nessa. No further invitations included her, beyond an art viewing followed by tea one afternoon. Prudence’s circle of friends seemed more staid and, yes, boring, than ever.

“You were unusually quiet today,” observed her sister as they rode back to Upper Brook Street. “Mrs. Heatherton twice asked you about Warwickshire, but you gave her only the briefest of answers.”

“I am sorry, Prudence. I must have been wool
gathering. I hope Mrs. Heatherton was not offended.”

“No, I think not. She mentioned something privately to me about your grief still preoccupying you.”

Nessa nodded absently. “May we go shopping tomorrow?”

Prudence blinked. “Why…I suppose so. Is there something in particular that you need? A new bonnet, perhaps? The milliner at the corner of—”

“Oh, let’s make a day of it,” said Nessa, as though on impulse. “I haven’t been shopping for an age.”
And I plan to make up for it over the next few days
, she vowed.

Though clearly puzzled, Prudence did not hesitate to agree. Half-guiltily, Nessa hoped her sister wouldn’t overly regret her compliance.

The next morning they left early, at Nessa’s urging. “Let’s start with Madame Fanchot’s,” she suggested as they stepped into the carriage.

Prudence gaped, for Madame Fanchot was the most
au courant
modiste in Town, dressing those at the very pinnacle of fashion. She offered no objection, however, to Nessa’s relief. If her sister had balked at this early stage, there was no knowing how she might react once she had a hint of what Nessa was really about.

She soon found out.

“Look at this pearl gray, Nessa,” said Prudence only minutes after they were ushered into the display room by Madame Fanchot herself. “This would be the very thing to ease you out of your blacks when you are ready.”

Nessa looked, then winced. Her sister had unerringly chosen the only drab swath of fabric in sight, and
looked as though she thought even that might be too daring. It was now or never.

“Oh, I am quite ready, Prudence,” she said, steeling herself against the shock on her sister’s face. “My proscribed year ends two days hence, and I wish to be ready. Madame, might I see that jonquil silk over there?”

“But that is so
…bright
,” Prudence hissed as the modiste went to fetch the bolt of yellow fabric. “It scarcely seems proper. I had thought you might go to half-mourning soon—grays, browns, perhaps a subdued lilac—”

“No.”

Prudence’s eyes widened further.

“Many widows, I’ve observed, go to half-mourning after the first six months of their bereavement. I feel I’ve done my duty and over by wearing nothing but unrelieved black for the full twelve.”

“But…but Father—” Prudence sputtered, her pretty head shaking helplessly from side to side.

“Hasn’t it occurred to you yet that Father’s standards were hardly those of the world in which we now live?”

“He was very proud of that,” Prudence reminded her severely.

Nessa sighed. “Yes, I know. Lord Haughton was the same. Admirable men, both of them. Most admirable. But now I am ready to experience life on my own terms, and wearing color—more color than I was allowed even as a daughter or wife—is a way to begin. Can you not understand that?”

Prudence still looked doubtful. She, of course, had never rebelled against their father’s tutelage, even though her husband was of a different stamp entirely—more was the pity. Still, she looked a fraction less shocked than she had a moment ago. “Perhaps,” she finally said. “Though I am still not certain—”

“Here we are, Lady Haughton!” Madame Fanchot spread the jonquil silk upon a low table for her inspection. “Will you want this made up before or after presenting it?”