Mesalliance (6 page)

‘That,’
complained Rockliffe gently, ‘is not very flattering.’

‘True. But I
daresay you’re accustomed to it and I doubt it causes you to lose
any sleep. Everything has to be paid for, you know.’

‘Is that what
you think?’

‘Of course.
Don’t you?’ Her smile gathered a note of provocative indulgence.
‘But I’ll give you some free advice, if you like – and that is to
point out that a wise man would take Thea instead. She’s just as
pretty and much less trouble.’

And, before he
could open his mouth to reply, she was gone.

It was not
until much later that he realised that their prior acquaintance had
not featured in the conversation at all.

*

Leaving the
garden behind her, Adeline made her way unhurriedly towards the
stables. She considered – without probing the question too deeply –
that she’d handled the interview tolerably well. He had not, after
all, said a tithe of the things he might have said; and, more
importantly, neither had she. Under the circumstances, it was
probably the best one could hope for and ought to render any future
meetings between them substantially less hazardous than they might
otherwise have been.

The stable-yard
was deserted. Adeline crossed it like a wraith and entered the dim,
straw-strewn abode of the horses.

‘You’re late,’
said Tom Franklin, tersely. ‘He’s fidgety.’

‘Yes.’ She
pulled an apple from her pocket and held it out to the great black
stallion who ate it as though conferring a favour on her and then
nuzzled her ear. ‘He needs some proper exercise.’

‘He won’t get
it. Ever since he nearly broke Andrew’s neck they’ve all been
terrified of him. There’s only you and me who’d dare ride him – and
we’re not let,’ came the bitter reply. ‘They’ll sell him. You see
if they don’t.’

‘I know.’

Tom directed a
speculative fourteen-year-old stare at her.

‘But then
again, maybe they mightn’t. Not if Father were to see how docile he
is with you.’

Adeline rested
her head against the velvety neck for a moment and then, lifting it
again to meet his eyes, said, ‘It wouldn’t make any difference. Who
takes any notice of me? And I don’t even ride.’

‘No. Thanks to
Mother, you don’t. Probably because she knows that, if you did,
you’d soon take the shine out of Di and Thea.’ He brooded on this
for a few seconds and then added, with a grin, ‘Not that it’d be
difficult. Thea’s mouse-scared and Di’s cow-handed.’

Adeline said
nothing. This was a mistake because it allowed Tom’s thoughts to
progress to what he plainly thought was a vital point.

‘You know, I do
think you might have told
me
that you knew this precious
Duke of theirs.’

She gave the
slight shrug that was so peculiarly her own.

‘I didn’t tell
anyone.’

‘No. I see
that, of course. But you could’ve told me,’ he insisted. ‘I’m not a
blabbermouth.’

‘I know you’re
not.’ She paused briefly and then said, ‘I’m sorry, Tom. When I met
him years ago his father was still alive and he hadn’t inherited
the title so I didn’t …’ She hesitated again and then said flatly,
‘It wasn’t until Diana referred to his sister as Lady Elinor
Wynstanton that I guessed – and, even then, I couldn’t be
absolutely sure until I saw him, so it seemed best not to say
anything. Who told you, anyway?’

‘Who didn’t?
Diana’s pretty well miffed over it – though I can’t see why. It
doesn’t make any difference to her, does it?’

‘None at
all.’

‘That’s what I
told her. But, if you ask me, she’s dotty. She must be – or she
wouldn’t be dead set on marrying some old man she’s never met and
scarcely even
seen
before … let alone telling everybody
she’s going to be a duchess before Christmas.’

Adeline looked
at him consideringly and then chose to answer the least contentious
part of his speech. ‘Is that what she’s doing?’

‘Yes. Well,
Thea says she told Cecily Garfield – and that’s the same as putting
it in the
Morning Chronicle
.’ He searched his pockets and
finally produced some fluff-encrusted titbit that the black horse
consumed with relish. ‘They’re coming today – Cecily and her
brother. I can’t think why Mother always asks them because nobody
really likes either of them.’

Adeline’s brows
rose and she smiled suddenly. It was a singularly beautiful smile
that only Tom was ever privileged to see.

‘Dear Tom,’ she
said. ‘Have you ever seen a plainer girl than Cecily Garfield?’

‘No,’ came the
prompt reply. Then, with a grin, ‘Oh, I see. No competition.’

‘Quite.’

Tom restored
his attention to the stallion.

‘So what’s he
like then, this Duke?’

Adeline allowed
her gaze to wander back to the horse while a dozen confused
thoughts jostled in her head. Foremost amongst them was the fact
that, when she had told Rockliffe that he had changed it had been a
lie in all but one particular. Eight years ago, he had left his
hair in its natural state and it had been thick and glossy and so
black it sometimes glinted blue in the sun. She remembered wanting,
more than anything, to touch it – but, of course, she never had.
And now he chose to wear it powdered … and, stupidly, illogically,
she had felt disappointed.

Realising that
Tom was still waiting for an answer, she said distantly, ‘He’s
clever. He’s probably also the only one amongst your mother’s
motley crew of guests who could not only appreciate The Trojan but
also ride him.’

*

She spent the
rest of the day – as, indeed, she spent every day – at the beck and
call of her aunt. The only difference was that today the weekly
task of untangling and sorting the embroidery silks was performed
to an accompanying lecture. Adeline answered with economy when
required and allowed the tide to flow over her. It was the first
art she had learned in this house and still the most useful.

In the early
days, bewildered by change, she had tried to go on as before,
escaping from time to time in order to walk barefoot on the grass
again and imagine herself far, far away from the cage that now
possessed her. At first, her aunt had done no more than rap her
knuckles and scold; then she took to confining her in her chamber
for a day or two. And finally, when all else failed and Adeline –
aided by a young and impressionable stable-hand – was caught trying
to run away, her ladyship had ordered a beating.

A part of the
older Adeline was able to appreciate the inevitability of what had
happened – but not the manner of it. For, Sir Roland having felt
unequal to the task, it had been her Uncle Richard who had taken
his riding-crop to her back … and who had, quite unmistakeably,
enjoyed it. She had spat in his face, ruining his
maquillage
and it had felt like a victory. But not for long. Not once she
found herself shut in the dark, cut off from every sight and sound
of freedom.

That week had
taught her to conform and marked the beginning of her
metamorphosis. For having begun by simply erecting invisible
defensive barriers about herself, she had swiftly progressed to the
discovery that it was also possible to fight back in small ways –
if one was subtle. And the result was a now flawless technique for
combining apparent docility with an under-current of clever, hard
to combat acidity. Self-protection and self-destruction
inextricably woven into one; and she knew it.

These days, her
aunt was rarely unkind and Adeline had come to recognise that what
she had at first taken for personal dislike was in reality more a
mixture of indifference and resentment. Indifference because a
dowerless niece was useless in the marriage market and resentment
at having the child of her dead sister – a sister, moreover, whom
she had plainly despised – foisted upon her. The truth, of course,
was that Lady Miriam was merely an ambitious, unfeeling woman whose
small store of affection was centred on Andrew and Diana – and, to
a lesser extent, on young Tom. Althea, existing perpetually in the
shadows, was the recipient only of duty and a good deal of
impatience; and Sir Roland, except in his role as provider,
appeared barely to impinge on his wife’s consciousness at all.

All things
considered, it was an ill-assorted and not especially happy
household. Andrew - loathing the role of delicate, dutiful son in
which his mother had cast him but too spineless to repudiate it -
grew daily more irritable and sulky. Diana, self-absorbed and
brought up to place too high a value on her beauty, was capable of
creating utter havoc when crossed. And Richard Horton … sly,
sadistic and too idle to fend for himself, all-too-frequently used
his brother-in-law’s house as a refuge from his creditors.

Nor, as Adeline
had intimated to Tom, were Lady Miriam’s regular guests much
improvement. Lewis Garfield had money but few graces and his
sister, the face and voice of a shrew. The Osborne’s were intent on
finding an
entrée
to polite society and Sir Oswald Pickering
and his daughter Lizzie cared for little save the hunting field.
About Lord Harry Caversham, Adeline as yet knew very little. He was
apparently her Uncle Richard’s newest friend; but, aside from that
rather damning fact, he seemed a pleasant enough young man – and
also appeared to be on very easy terms with Tracy Wynstanton and
his sister.

Tracy
Wynstanton? A mistake, that. He was the Duke of Rockliffe now – and
it was something she would do well to remember. But she could not
help wondering how he was going to enjoy two weeks of the kind of
company to be found in this house. Very little, she suspected
sardonically. It was almost a pity that she would not, from her
position in the background, be privileged to see it. Almost a pity;
almost – but not quite. For she was very well aware that if she
didn’t want her hard-won resignation to be damaged by useless
recollections of that other, unrestricted life, then the background
was the only place to be.

It worked for
two days and would have gone on doing so had not his Grace of
Rockliffe – sophisticated, clever and possessed of a streak of pure
devilment – decided to set the cat amongst the pigeons.

After
forty-eight hours of being openly pursued by Diana, fawned on by
Jane Osborne and bored to death by Sir Oswald, Rockliffe came to
the conclusion that, if he was to survive the fortnight, something
would have to be done to preserve his sanity.

It was not, he
felt, that he was particularly hard to please. On the contrary. All
he required was a modicum of amusing conversation, a little riding
perhaps and the occasional, stimulating hand of cards. But the
conversation was banal in the extreme; the rides – when taken
between neck-or-nothing Lizzie Pickering and a coquettish chit with
probably the worst hands in four counties – were a nightmare; and
the one game of macao he’d played with Richard Horton had resulted
in a mood of dire foreboding and a few very private words with
Harry Caversham.

‘May I ask if
Mr Horton is a particularly close friend of yours, Harry?’

Mobile brows
soared over startled blue eyes.

‘Dick? Lord,
no! I haven’t known the fellow above a month or two. Met him at
Devane’s – or that discreet little place off Bruton Street, I
think. One of them, anyway. Why do you ask?’

The Duke gazed
thoughtfully down at his snuff-box and ignored the question.

‘I see. Do you
often play in such … do you know, I really think I am forced to
call them … hells?’

‘And so they
are,’ came the cordial reply. Then,‘No. I don’t frequent them and I
don’t intend to start. Devil take it, Rock – you know I’m not a
gamester!’

‘I do, of
course. But neither, my dear, did I suppose you a flat.’

His lordship’s
habitual levity evaporated.

‘What are you
saying precisely?’

His Grace
sighed.

‘I am saying –
and I do beg that you will not feel impelled to repeat it just yet
– that your dear friend Richard fuzzes the cards.’ He paused and
met Harry’s astounded gaze with one of indulgent mockery. ‘I really
am surprised you hadn’t noticed.’

It was not a
good start; nor, with Nell growing daily more flirtatious, was
there any promise of improvement. Rockliffe found that he did not
care to see his sister acquiring the same unfortunate manners and
techniques employed by Mistress Diana and he was determined, at the
end of this horrendous visit, to break the association. But in the
meantime he was most definitely not enjoying himself. Indeed, the
only light relief so far had been provided by young Tom Franklin,
who seemed to have more sense than the rest of his family put
together and who had introduced him to the best bit of horse-flesh
he’d seen in months. But the prospect of persuading Tom’s father to
part with The Trojan was little consolation for having to spend
another twelve days in purgatory; and it was thus that, when he
experienced the first stirrings of his own particular devil,
Rockliffe did nothing to silence them.

He began by
encouraging Diana to go her length – a process which, in a well
brought-up girl, would have required a lot more than merely
alternating his very real indifference with a few ambiguous and
faintly indulgent compliments. And then, without any prior planning
whatsoever and purely because he couldn’t resist the opportunity,
he went on to hoist Diana’s mama with her own petard.

It occurred on
the third evening that the extended company sat down to dine and
Lady Miriam bemoaned, at some length, the unexpected departure of
Sir Oswald’s wife.

‘I fear that I
must crave your indulgence, your Grace,’ she began, ‘for the fact
that we shall be but fifteen to dinner. Poor Mary has been called
to the side of her eldest girl who is about to give Frensham an
heir. And though of course one understands completely, it is rather
regrettable. Quite vexing, in fact – since it means we are a lady
short. I can only hope, however, that you will appreciate the
suddenness of it all and not judge us too harshly. You may believe
that I am not so poor a hostess that I could not have remedied the
situation had I been granted a modicum of warning. Sadly, I was
not.’