Lucy Muir (8 page)

Since coming to recognize her growing affection for Lord Murray, Phoebe was experiencing a new kind of excitement and awareness whenever he was present. Also a new kind of pain when she saw other women behave in a coquettish manner towards him. Even to see Celeste so openly trying to gain his attention disturbed her. She considered confiding in Celeste, but fought doing so quite yet. Celeste would likely tease, and her feelings were too new and dear to expose to even the most gentle jest.

Another carriage, this one containing Miss Markham and her mother, stopped next to theirs and Mrs. Markham invited them all, but Lord Murray in particular, to her musicale. Phoebe sighed softly. Lord Murray was so greatly in demand. Did she really have any chance of being the one to win his affections? Perhaps Olivia had the right of it, and a plain Miss Hartwell of no fortune, little beauty, and worst of all, red hair, had no chance at all.

Chapter Five

Phoebe tucked the last strand of her bright hair out of sight under her bonnet and surveyed herself carefully in the glass. Good. With her hair covered and her deepest brimmed bonnet on, no one should be able to identify her, from a distance, at any rate. Although it was not likely anyone would pay much attention to her anyway, it was just as well not to take unnecessary risks. While she did not feel she was doing anything improper, some might consider her behaviour hoydenish at the least.

Twenty minutes before the hour. If the race were to begin at six, Wilfred had best arrive soon. Phoebe hoped to leave and return with no one the wiser that Saturday morning, but if she should be missed she had instructed Sara to say she had gone for a ride in the Park. Which was true, as far as it went.

She heard a clatter upon the street and looked out. Wilfred’s phaeton was just pulling up. She slipped quietly out of the house and Wilfred silently assisted Phoebe into his vehicle. As she settled herself upon the seat, Phoebe noticed Celeste waving to her from the window next door and waved back. She was glad to have been able to persuade Celeste not to attend the race.

Wilfred was keyed up and chattered on while Phoebe wondered just how she was going to contrive to stay in her seat once the racing began. She had never been in a high perch phaeton before and was rather alarmed to note that the body sat directly over the front wheels and that she was extremely high off the ground in a most unsteady-feeling small seat.

When they arrived at the Park, Phoebe did not get down, fearing that if she did she might be reluctant to climb back up or that someone might recognize her if they saw her too closely. There were several people assembled at the Ring. Mr. Tucker, Wilfred’s challenger, had already arrived and the loudly dressed female in his phaeton was laughing immodestly at something he said. Tucker’s passenger was not one of the beau monde—that was evident. Phoebe was relieved to notice most of the others present appeared to be young sporting gentlemen such as Wilfred—gentlemen unlikely to recognize her. Then she spied Lord Murray, his large form unmistakable. Oh dear, she thought, wondering why she had not considered that the Scottish laird might be present, given the friendship that seemed to have sprung up between him and Wilfred. She could not imagine what he would think if he were to recognize her. She wanted to gain his attention and interest, but not in this manner!

Phoebe did not have long to worry about Lord Murray, however, for Wilfred sprang back up into the phaeton and he and Tucker lined up in the Ring, the circular drive in Hyde Park. The signal was given, and they were off. Phoebe felt herself tip backwards at the sudden start, and soon forgot all her other worries as her main concern became remaining in the phaeton. The high vehicle dipped and swayed most alarmingly, and Phoebe clutched ignominiously at the edge of the seat. As it continued to dip, surge and sway, Phoebe was thankful that at least she did not have a weak stomach. The wind caught under the deep brim of her bonnet and she bent forward in an effort to keep it from blowing off. She noticed without caring that Tucker was in the lead. Wilfred did not seem concerned, however, and slowly gained on his opponent. Phoebe could hear Tucker’s passenger’s high-pitched shrieks over the thundering of the horses’ hooves and the grating of the wheels on the dirt surface. Wilfred flicked his whip lightly, and with another sickening surge, his phaeton drew up even with Tucker’s. The huge wheels appeared to come dangerously close together to Phoebe’s uneducated eyes, and she cravenly closed them. However, the feeling of rushing blindly down a tunnel was not much better, and she opened them again, just as a loud shout went up from the spectators. She saw with relief that they were nearing the end of the course, and prayed that she would stay in her seat until the race was over. She could hear Tucker’s phaeton close behind, but he did not pass them, and Wilfred crossed the finish line a whole length ahead.

Wilfred, overjoyed with his victory, gave a shout and jumped down to be surrounded by gentlemen who pounded him heartily on his back. A groom rushed forward to care for the horses, but no one thought to help Phoebe. Phoebe, anxious to feel the earth beneath her feet once more, looked down to see if she dared jump. She carefully swung her legs over the edge of the seat and let go. However, she had misjudged the height, and when she hit the ground the force of her fall pitched her forward into the dirt.

Wilfred was immediately at Phoebe’s side, assisting her up and apologizing profusely.

“You are not injured, I hope, Miss Hartwell? Forgive me,” he begged, concern evident in his voice.

Phoebe brushed herself off shakily. “Only my pride,” she said trying to laugh. “I cannot think how I came to be so clumsy.”

Reassured as to her safety, Wilfred remembered his triumph and hugged her enthusiastically. “We won!” he cried, emboldened to give her a victory kiss.

* * * *

Lord Murray watched Wilfred embrace Phoebe with a sinking heart. When he had first seen the woman in Wilfred’s phaeton, he had not been able to believe his eyes. Indeed, he had thought perhaps he was mistaken as to her identity, for her face was difficult to see under the deep-brimmed bonnet. But when she had turned towards the sun, there was no denying that the lady was Miss Hartwell.

His first reaction had been anger that Atwood intended to expose Miss Hartwell to the dangers of a race. How could Atwood do such a foolhardy thing if he loved her? Lord Murray had considered intervening, but hesitated, knowing he had no real right to do so. He had watched the race with a great deal more concern about the safety of Miss Hartwell than the safety of the money he had placed upon the outcome, and felt relief beyond compare when it was over.

When he saw that Miss Hartwell had been left in the phaeton he had started forward to assist her down, but before he could get there she had jumped. Though he had rushed towards her, greatly alarmed by her fall, Wilfred had reached her side first. Lord Murray observed Atwood’s solicitous manner and fervent embrace with combined anger and despair. Even he must acknowledge there was affection between the two. Miss Hartwell must care for Atwood deeply to have participated in the race, exposing herself to danger and censure. He had no choice but to accept the obvious. Biting his lip, he strode forward to congratulate Atwood.

* * * *

That afternoon Lord Murray sought solitude in the Atwoods’ library. It was the most restful room in the house with its book-lined walls and comfortable armchairs, and was rarely used by anyone but the baron. It was early, but Lord Murray helped himself to the decanter of port Lord Atwood kept in the room. He sank into one of the armchairs and prepared to think.

With Miss Hartwell out of the running, only two of his original four possible brides remained—Miss Laurence and Lady Sheridan. He had best make a decision between the two and get it over with. He did not wish to begin his search anew. There was no time and he hadn’t the heart. But before he could begin to consider the matter in earnest a footstep sounded outside the door and his host entered.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Lord Atwood asked. “If I am not disturbing you, that is.”

“Not at all,” Lord Murray said politely.

Lord Atwood poured himself some port and settled into a comfortable armchair across from Lord Murray’s.

“Have you come to a decision in your search for a wife yet?” Lord Atwood enquired of his guest after some polite conversation.

Lord Murray smiled ruefully. “No. I am beginning to think I was inexcusably arrogant or incredibly paper-skulled to think I could come and select a bride out-of-hand.”

“You could.” Lord Atwood smiled. “You are the envy of all us plain Englishmen. There is not an eligible woman in Society who would not be willing to toss her bonnet over the windmill for the handsome Highland lord.”

“Perhaps it might so appear, but it is not quite so simple,” Lord Murray said seriously, “My bride will be chatelaine of a remote Scottish castle. We have neither all the comforts you English are accustomed to, nor the diversions. While life in the Highlands may be romantic in a poem, the reality is very different.”

“Is there no one you have more of an interest in than the others? Perhaps I could give you information on her background or personality that would help you make a better-informed choice,” the baron offered helpfully.

Lord Murray hesitated, taking a sip of his port to disguise his discomfort.

His host smiled understandingly. “Do not hesitate to be honest. I will not say I did not hope at first that you might take a liking to Olivia, but I soon came to see it would not do. Olivia needs a husband who will control her. You would expect your wife to control herself.”

“I had rather thought of Lady Sheridan or Miss Laurence,” Lord Murray confided, naming the two remaining of his original four.

Lord Atwood looked thoughtful. “Lady Sheridan and Miss Laurence. Both good choices. Of course, Mr. Laurence works in the City, but nonetheless Miss Laurence is the granddaughter of an earl.”

Lord Murray raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Oh, yes,” Lord Atwood continued, noting his reaction. “Mrs. Laurence is Lord March’s daughter. He disapproved of her match with Laurence and cut her off completely. He has never communicated with her since the marriage, I believe. Still, Miss Laurence is of good blood, and I believe Mr. Laurence is quite well-to-pass.

“Now, Lady Sheridan. She would also be a good choice. Her beauty and breeding are self-evident. If she would accept an offer, that is. She has been wearing the willow these past nine years. Her betrothed was killed in the fighting in Egypt. She must be near eight-and-twenty now. Her parents despair of her ever marrying, and I am sure they would be glad if you made an offer.”

Lord Murray was taken aback at this information. Lady Sheridan did not look to be eight-and-twenty. He did not consider her age to be an insurmountable problem, but he was not sure he wished to marry someone wearing the willow. One would always feel one were a poor substitute. A living rival he could compete with, but not one enshrined in a lady’s memory. Not, he thought wryly, that he should dismiss Lady Sheridan out of hand for that reason. Would not any woman he married be his second choice? Still, of the two he felt he preferred Miss Laurence.

“If only Miss Laurence were not so young,” he said aloud.

“If I might make a suggestion,” the baron offered, “why not make a conditional offer? Don’t make it official yet, but invite Miss Laurence to travel to the Highlands and stay with you this summer. See how she likes it. If you find you don’t suit, no one need be any the wiser. An excursion to the Highlands, as I understand it, is all the rage anyhow,” he finished wryly, thinking of his own daughter’s insistence on a visit to Lake Katrine in July.

“Thank you, sir, that is an excellent idea,” Lord Murray agreed, feeling somewhat heartened to now have his course decided, but he could not deny that he was also somewhat disheartened that the outcome had not been resolved as he would have preferred.

* * * *

Once Lord Murray had made his decision to offer for Miss Laurence, he felt there was no point in further delay. He called upon Mr. Laurence the very next evening. He had never met Celeste’s father before, since Mr. Laurence spent his days in the City and chose not to attend evening entertainments with his wife and daughter. Lord Murray found himself favourably impressed. In appearance, Mr. Laurence was tall and thin, with greying hair and penetrating eyes. The two men exchanged greetings and smiled, each satisfied with what he saw in the other.

“Please sit down, Lord Murray. May I offer you refreshment?” Mr. Laurence asked courteously, seating himself after his guest.

“No, thank you, Mr. Laurence. I shall come straight to the point. I should like your permission to make your daughter an offer of marriage.”

“Celeste?” Mr. Laurence enquired needlessly. “Forgive me, she is my only daughter and of course you must be speaking of her, yet I am surprised. She is very young, and not, if I may be frank, the wife I would expect a man in your lordship’s position to choose.”

“It is true Miss Laurence is very young,” Lord Murray agreed, “but she has a warm heart, a quick mind, and of course she is very beautiful. However, owing to her tender years, I would like to suggest that the betrothal be unofficial at first. I propose that Miss Laurence and her mother, of course, come to Scotland and stay as my guests at Castle Abermaise so that Miss Laurence may see if she likes living in the Highlands. If she does not, she can return to London having simply been on an excursion to the Highlands such as many are planning this summer.”

Mr. Laurence nodded his approval. “That is an excellent notion. However, I doubt it will serve, for my wife is not in robust health. She suffered a severe bout of influenza earlier this year, and I doubt she is up to a long journey.”

“Could Miss Laurence’s friend Miss Hartwell accompany her?” Lord Murray suggested impulsively. “I assure you there would be no impropriety in their staying at the castle, for my aunt is in residence there, as are several other of my kinsmen.”