Dawn in My Heart (2 page)

Gillian's further protests were stilled by her mother's words. She shivered. Why did it seem her life was ending before it had scarcely begun? Would she never have that fulfillment she read about in romantic novels—that she'd scarcely tasted before it had been snatched from her? Would the only avenue that remained to her be to hope for some furtive alliance sometime in the distant future? She considered the ladies she read about in the society news. Lady Melbourne and her daughter-in-law, Lady Caroline, women who were known for their lovers, and she wondered sadly if that was the only future left to her.

She thought of the pimply faced dandies that had surrounded her at every dance since her come-out and compared them to the ideal she'd been dreaming about and waiting for for so many years. A handsome, manly officer coming back to claim her as his own.

She sighed, dispelling the futile dream. Yes, she was ready for marriage. She needed a change. Too many years spent waiting…waiting for someone she was now resigned would never appear.

Her mother patted her hand as if reading her mind.

“What you need to think about is your wedding trousseau. We shall begin making purchases immediately. I shall have Mme. Rouget stop by and measure you for your wedding gown. How fortunate for Wellington's victory. Think of all the Paris fashions now available.

“Come, let us look at the spring edition of
La Belle Assemblée
. It's full of all the latest French gowns and bonnets. Since our glorious army has driven Napoleon off the Continent, everything has a military flair.” Her mother held out the magazine to her. “Look at this riding habit with the frogged neck and epaulets.

“You must have half-a-dozen new ball gowns at least. You'll no longer be limited to white muslin but can be much more daring in your selections.”

The thought was enticing. Gillian moved closer to her mother to look at the colored illustrations.

“You'll need a whole new wardrobe as the Countess of Skylar. Think of the estates you'll be mistress over. I imagine Lord Skylar will be purchasing his own residence in town and not expect you to live with Lord Caulfield, although his mansion on Park Lane is quite stupendous.”

As her mother talked on, flipping through the pages of the magazine, Gillian managed to forget her initial encounter with the cold, rude Lord Skylar and focus on the advantages of life as a young society matron.

The rest didn't bear thinking on. Her mother wanted her married by the end of the year. A good six months away. There was plenty of time to enjoy being betrothed to one of the most illustrious names in the ton without dwelling too much on the wedding night.

 

“What the deuce were you thinking of, Tertius?” His father paced the confines of Sky's dressing room as Sky finished his toilette. “From what the duchess tells me, the girl is balking at the marriage. Don't you know how to woo a lady? Who were you living among, a bunch of wild savages in the Indies?”

Sky opened his eyes and glanced at Nigel, his valet, who was shaving him. “No, there was your usual small, tight coterie of the well-bred. I wouldn't call them all savages, would you, Nigel?” He arched an eyebrow at his valet as the man wiped his jaw clean and handed him a glass.

“No, sir,” the black man answered, holding out a starched muslin square of cloth for his approval.

Sky lifted his chin as the man wrapped it around his neck and began the intricate work of folding it.

“Well, whatever they were, you're back among the civilized and grateful you should be. You at last have a purpose in life, thanks to poor Edmund's demise.”

Tertius frowned at his father's waistcoat. “You know, I never liked puce on you. It makes you look bilious.”

His father looked down at his middle, momentarily distracted. “No? Weston himself made it up for me.” He walked to Sky's full-length mirror and stood in front of it, his head tilted to one side, his hands pulling the waistcoat straight. He moved his body this way and that before turning back to Sky. “The color of my waistcoat is neither here nor there. To get back to the point, all I want is for you to exert yourself, make yourself tolerably agreeable to a lovely young lady of irreproachable pedigree—”

Tertius snorted. “Who has been thrust upon me as soon
as I set foot on British soil, my newly inherited title not even having a chance to settle on me.”

His father sputtered. “That's gratitude! I find you a perfectly suitable young lady to wed. I've already lost one son. I'll not let the other go without issue. You're five-and-thirty, Tertius. You look closer to the grave than Edmund ever did.”

“I said I'd marry the chit,” Tertius returned in an even voice. “What more do you want?”

“A little cooperation. You appeared long after Edmund's funeral,” Caulfield retorted. “You come back surly and disagreeable and looking like a victim of typhus. You can't make me believe it was such a sacrifice for you to pull yourself away from the Indies. It certainly hasn't done anything for you.”

“Oh, I don't know.” His cravat finished, Sky stood and eyed it in the glass. “I had quite a comfortable life on my sugar plantation.”

His father harrumphed. “Tending a plantation in the backwater of the kingdom, a job any good steward could do?”

Tertius's glance crossed Nigel's before his valet began silently putting away the morning's toilet articles.

“Well, what do you think, Father? Has Nigel mastered the
trone d'amour?
” He turned for his father to inspect the white neck cloth.

His father stepped closer and peered at his neck. “Not bad. Nigel, is it?” For the first time since entering his rooms, his father gave his attention to the manservant. “Got him in the Indies?”

“It would appear so,” Sky replied.

“Don't be impertinent. Almost everyone these days in Lon
don has a blackamoor footman—but this is the first time I've seen one for a valet. Did it take you long to train him?”

“Nigel was an amazingly quick study,” Tertius drawled. “From the cane fields to the intricacies of folding white linen, in what? Six months, Nigel?”

His valet's muddy green eyes met his. “Yes, sir, that would be about the time.”

“What a fine specimen,” his father remarked, as he took a turn around the West Indian. “Look at that brawn. He'd make a fine boxer. He reminds me of Cribb. I saw him spar it out with Tom Molineaux back in “10.” Lord Caulfield stood in front of Nigel and eyed the breadth of his chest. “Your man makes ‘the Black Diamond' look like a dwarf. Sure you wouldn't want to put him in the ring?”

“He's played Apollo for me at an evening's festivities, but I haven't as yet had him take up pugilism. It's an idea…” Sky mused.

“Apollo? Why not Atlas?” Caulfield asked, continuing to admire the valet's physique. “I imagine he looked splendid draped in a white toga.”

“Splendid indeed. I chose Apollo because of the loftiness of his thoughts. Atlas represents brute strength, and I believe Nigel has a bit more than that in his skull, eh?” he asked his valet with a smile before turning to shrug on the coat Nigel held out to him. He took his watch and fobs from him, along with a pocket-handkerchief.

“Thank you. You may go,” he told Nigel.

Lord Caulfield waited until the servant had left the room carrying an armful of linen. “Now, back to your affianced. You must make yourself agreeable. Take her out for a nice ride in Hyde Park. There are a dozen victory celebrations
planned with Wellington's arrival. The first thing you can do is meet her at Almack's tonight and pay her court.”

Tertius stopped listening to his father's instructions. Instead he thought about the young lady's angry tone and frosty green eyes. He admitted how deliberately unflattering his remarks had been. She'd had a right to take offense. He had nothing against her personally. If he was easily irritated, it wasn't due to Lady Gillian Edwards.

“Very well, Father, I shall see her tonight and endeavor to ‘woo' her as you so quaintly put it.”

 

Tertius scanned the company assembled in Almack's ballroom. Things hadn't changed much in his ten-year absence, he concluded as he took in the assortment of muslin-clad young ladies, most in white bedecked with pastel ribbons and flowers, standing amidst the gilt columns, their mamas and chaperones closely in attendance. The young misses simpered at the young gentlemen hovering around them. His attention went to the dancers and he finally spotted Lady Gillian. She was in the middle of executing a
tour de main
with her partner in the quadrille.

“She's a dandy little filly,” his longtime friend, Lord Delaney, opined, quizzing her through his glass.

“She's accomplished in the quadrille, at any rate,” observed Tertius dryly.

“From what I hear, she'll bring you ten thousand per annum. It makes little difference, in that light, I suppose, how well she dances,” Lane added with a chuckle.

“She strikes me as a bit lively.” Tertius narrowed his eyes, watching Lady Gillian laugh and bat her eyelashes at her dance partner.

“A tremendous flirt,” Delaney informed him.

Tertius's frowned deepened.

“But no one has ever been able to take the least liberties with her,” his friend added hastily, “on account of the dragon lady.”

Tertius raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

Delaney nodded across the room. “Miss Templeton. See the dark-haired lady with the pursed lips?”

“The one who looks as if she's swallowed sour wine?”

“The very one. That's Lady Gillian's companion. She appeared soon after her first season, and she hasn't let Lady Gillian out of her sight since then.”

Tertius felt a twinge of pity for the young lady if that disagreeable-looking lady was her watchdog. Miss Templeton looked like the typical spinster past her prime. “Let me guess, she's probably a distant relation living out some cheerless existence on too little.”

“Yes, who knows where the Duchess of Burnham found her, but she never hesitates to tell anyone willing to listen how she is accustomed to better things. I believe she's a third cousin to the late Duke.”

It crossed Tertius's mind to wonder how Lady Gillian would behave once her bodyguard were removed.

“Lord Skylar!” a lady exclaimed. “When did you arrive back in town?”

“Lady Jersey.” Tertius bowed over her kid-encased hand. “The prodigal has returned, as you can see.”

“My, yes.” She stood at arm's length, surveying him. “It has been years that you've been away.”

“A decade, to be precise.”

“A decade!” Her eyes opened wide. “You were a young
man about town then, quite a rake as I recall. So, you have come from making your fortune in the Indies, I presume?”

He sketched another brief bow. “That was the purpose.”

“Dear Lord Caulfield was at his wits' end, I recall.” She peered at him more closely. “I don't know how that climate across the Atlantic agreed with you. You're awfully brown and thin.”

He shrugged. “The sun is to blame for the one and a plaguey fever for the other.”

She patted his hand. “London will soon put you to rights.”

“One can but hope.”

“Well, I trust you will find some pleasant amusement here tonight. Still unmarried?”

He nodded. “A state shortly to be remedied.”

Lady Jersey, smiling delightedly, asked, “Is that what brought you here tonight? What think you of our pretty young ladies? There will surely be one to catch your eye.”

“One already has.”

“Oh, I'm all aflutter with curiosity. Tell me who it is, and I shall arrange an introduction.”

Things had certainly not changed at Almack's. “In point of fact, my dear Lady Jersey, the introductions have already been effected. Our two families came to an understanding ere I set foot on British soil. It but remains for the betrothal to be announced.”

Her mouth formed a small circle of astonishment. “Oh, my. When is the good news to be made known?”

“Within the week, I'm certain. Apropos of it, I would crave your indulgence on something touching this engagement.”

“Oh, yes, tell me.” Her eyes lit up in anticipation that she would be privy to some inside information.

“Since the young lady and I are already promised to each other, I would like to ask your permission to dance the waltz with her.”

Her mouth formed another O as she blinked at him. “Oh, dear Lord Skylar, we do so frown on the waltz. There's been a mania for it ever since the Czar danced it here earlier this month. We could hardly refuse
him
permission. But we don't encourage it. I know it is danced all over the Continent, and at private dances in town, but we have always tried to maintain a certain standard of propriety at Almack's. We've only just introduced the quadrille this season. We are the upholders of the highest decorum for the young ladies who are presented every season, you understand.”

“I understand,” he interjected smoothly when it was apparent she would continue in this vein. He smiled his most charming smile. “But seeing how my betrothal to
Lady Gillian Edwards
will shortly be announced, I can see no harm in indulging us in this one dance.”

“Lady Gillian?” Her eyes grew wide at this piece of information.

“Yes, though I know you can be trusted to be discreet about the betrothal until it is officially announced.”

“Oh, of course. You can trust absolutely to my silence.”

Knowing it would be all over town before another day had passed, he pressed his advantage. “So, my lady, will you favor me with this request?”

She pursed her lips and made a few sounds of debating with herself. Finally she drew herself up. “Very well, I suppose a waltz with Lady Gillian wouldn't be improper under these circumstances. But only one, mind you. There will be talk. I must go and explain to the other patronesses why I
have given you my leave.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “I shall even request that the orchestra play a waltz after this set.”