My Favorite Countess (21 page)
Read My Favorite Countess Online
Authors: Vanessa Kelly
“Yes, I am.”
“So be it,” she said with a sigh, ignoring her grinning husband. “What else must I do?”
“You must rest and eat well. Your body is working twice as hard, and requires excellent nourishment and extra caution.” He extracted a pocket book and began to make notes. “Please follow these instructions. I'll send over more detailed ones later, along with something to help you sleep.”
“I will be all right, though, won't I? And my babies?” She rubbed a hand over her belly, suddenly looking like a very young, very green girl.
“You'll be fine, my lady. You must trust me.” He smiled. “I'm good at what I do.”
“I do trust you,” she said. He could tell she meant it.
John detailed a few more instructions and made his farewells. As he cut through Grosvenor Square on the way back to his house, he thought about Steele's likely reaction to the news that he had lost one of his most prominent clients. The man would be furious, seeing John as an upstart rival who had stolen a patient. Without a doubt, he would complain to Abernethy, and that would make life at the hospital more difficult. But the marchioness needed him, and John wasn't about to say no.
He had said no once before, and Becky and her twins had died. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice.
Chapter 15
For the first time in her life, Bathsheba wished she were sitting in the pit at Covent Garden, along with the half-naked Cyprians, carousing tradesmen, and drunken bucks of the ton who all looked to be enjoying themselves a great deal more than she was. Instead, she was ensconced in Sir David Roston's private box, hemmed in on one side by the mildmannered baronet and on the other by his sister, the most severely correct woman in London. For the last forty-five minutes, Miss Roston had engaged in a diatribe about the decline of modern manners, delivered in a flat monotone that stretched Bathsheba's nerves to the breaking point.
She had to give Miss Roston creditâthe aging spinster had a nose for sin, homing in with unerring skill on any member of the ton whose behavior suggested even a mild flirtation with vulgarity or vice. Since that represented almost everyone in the theater, she didn't lack material to fuel her outrage.
Several times, Bathsheba had cast a long-suffering look Sir David's way, hoping he would rescue her from his sister's dreary homily. But he had simply given her vague, placating smiles and turned away, launching back into his endless philosophical discussions with Mr. Peters, Lord Torton, and any number of political men who drifted in and out of their box. She might as well have been sitting on a clump of gorse in Yorkshire for all the notice the baronet had shown her this evening. That baffled her, for his attentions in the last few weeks had been quite pointed. She could only hope he had already decided to marry her, and so no longer felt the need to engage in active pursuit.
With a sigh of gloomy resignation, she tried to ignore the twinges sparking at the back of her eyeballs, hoping they didn't develop into a full-blown headache. The caterwauling on stage didn't help. Kitty Stephensâshe of the dulcet voiceâhad yet to appear, forcing the audience to endure a number of appalling musical interludes before the real talent appeared. Not that the hundreds of patrons stuffed all the way up to the pigeon holes seemed to mind. They came as much for the show in the boxes and in the pit as for the performance on the stage. Bathsheba usually did, too, often playing a part in the grand spectacle herself. But not one of her regular flirts had cared to subject himself to the utter boredom of Sir David and Miss Roston's company.
“Good gracious,” droned the taffeta-clad gorgon sitting next to her, “is that Lord Burton sitting with Harriett Wilson? One wonders what Lady Burton would say if she could see her husband openly peering down the front of that creature's gown. One can hardly imagine.”
Bathsheba pressed the throbbing point between her eyebrows, wishing she didn't have to answer. But she supposed she had to make some attempt at conversation with the woman who, horrible as the thought might be, could soon be her sister-in-law.
“Miss Roston, we might assume that Lord Burton would not be gazing down Miss Wilson's dress if Lady Burton were here with him. In any event, his lordship gazes down the front of every woman's dress, so I suspect Lady Burton is quite used to it.”
Although now that Bathsheba thought about it, his lordship would probably make an exception in Miss Roston's case, since the woman had no bosom to speak of.
“It's the principle of the thing, Lady Randolph,” intoned the other woman, sounding more priggish by the second. “One does expect one's husband to behave with a sense of propriety, doesn't one? Your late husband, for example, was by all accounts a most devoted and faithful spouse. If only all the men of the ton could display the fidelity and loyalty of a Lord Randolph. How devastating, how infinitely tragic that he was wrenched from your arms at so early an age. I pity you for his loss.”
Bathsheba's temples exploded with lancing pain. She swallowed her fury, fighting back the impulse to pull the stupid woman's tightly woven, mouse-colored braids out by the roots. Miss Roston surely knew as well as anyone that she and Reggie had had a terrible marriage.
“My dear lady,” she ground out, ignoring the sickening display of false sympathy, “if you despise the opera and theater so much, why do you come?”
The spinster lifted her evangelical gaze from the good-natured, lascivious romps going on below and fixed her cold eyes on Bathsheba's face.
“Why, I come at my brother's request, Lady Randolph. Could you imagine otherwise? As his hostess, I fancy I set a certain tone at all timesâeven in so depraved an environment as Covent Garden. You must know that Sir David's political career is very important to him. My presence discourages the vain and ill-mannered from pestering him, and I make sure to keep away those
women
,” she invested the word with volumes of contempt, “who seek to take advantage of his open and gracious temperament.”
women
,” she invested the word with volumes of contempt, “who seek to take advantage of his open and gracious temperament.”
Bathsheba frowned. “Your brother is an intelligent man, Miss Roston, well past the follies of youth. Surely he is capable of passing judgment on those who seek his friendship. After all, he is a politician.”
“For a politician, my brother has a most unsuspecting and open nature. This is especially true in his dealings with the fair sex. He seems incapable of suspecting any woman not of the lower orders of any ill intent. While it does him great credit, you and I both know his fortune and standing in society make him very eligible. Over the years, many an unscrupulous woman has sought to prey on him only to better her own situation.”
Bathsheba called up all her years of training to keep the panic from showing on her face. She suddenly understood what this demented conversation was all about. Miss Roston had always seemed like a footnote to her brother's life, fortunate enough to escape the sad existence of a poor relation but wielding no great influence on him one way or the other.
“Fortunately,” the spinster continued relentlessly, “my brother understands that his too-tender heart can be a weakness. He relies on me to guide him in these matters. We are very close, perhaps because our parents died when we were so young. I am his only sibling, and his elder. He trusts my judgment completely.”
At that moment, Sir David glanced away from his friends and gave Bathsheba an admiring smile. He was a rather colorless, self-contained man. But although she had always found his soft, hesitant manner of speaking rather irritating, she had never thought him weak. Not until this moment, when she saw him through his sister's eyes.
She managed to dredge up a weak smile, praying her dismay didn't show on her face. He appeared satisfied, for he returned to his conversation with a lifeless smile playing around his lips.
Bathsheba glanced at Miss Roston to find the woman studying her with a calculating assessment, her thin mouth folding in on itself. She allowed her contemptuous gaze to drop down and catch briefly on the low bodice of Bathsheba's burgundy silk gown.
“Lady Randolph,” she said, not bothering to hide her disdain, “I will not mince words, nor pretend to ignore what is happening between you and my brother. It is to be hoped that you appreciate your good fortune in attracting his attention. Although he and I have together led a useful and productive lifeâone which I have no desire to changeâhe feels a great deal of responsibility to our family name. For reasons which I must in all honesty say elude me, he has fixed his favor on you. Although you have many faults, you are not a stupid woman. I assume you realize he is considering asking you to be his wife.”
Bathsheba felt the muscles in her jaw begin to slacken. It would seem that Miss Roston did everything for her brother, including reviewing prospective marital candidates. “Ah, well . . .” she stuttered, at a loss as to how to respond to the harridan's interrogation. She cast a wild look around the box, but Sir David and his friends remained deep in conversation.
Miss Roston waved an impatient hand. “I beg you. Do not insult my intelligence, Lady Randolph. We both know very well that you do, and that you welcome my brother's attentions. Given the kind of life you have led these last few years, I must wonder why you chose a man so unlike yourself. But my brother is quite captivated with you . . .”
She paused to give a hard swallow, as if someone had shoved something large and bitter down her throat. “I mustâat least for nowârespect his choice. I speak frankly so that you may fully understand how your behavior will reflect upon him. If you are to be his wife, you must realize you will be held to a very high standard indeed.”
Bathsheba stared back, afraid even to blink as she silently commanded the panic in her chest to subside. Clearly, Miss Roston was her brother's keeper, and the only way for Bathsheba to reach her goal was to win the jealous sister's approval.
As she struggled to compose an appropriate answer, something deep inside fought its way to the surface, something she had once known and which cried out to be remembered. Whatever it was rebelled, urging her to stand up, leave the box, and refuse to be handed over again into another man's keeping. But this was nothing like her first marriage. It wouldn't be her father enacting the transaction, using her as coin to barter away his debt. This time, it was she who would sell herself. This time, loveâand yes, she had loved Reggie when she first married himâhad no bearing on the equation.
She blinked the hot sting of tears from her eyes, furious with her momentary weakness. This was her last chance to save Rachel, to save herself. If she had to toady to the likes of Miss Roston and marry a man she didn't care about, then so be it. At least Sir David would never be cruel, or make her life a misery. Everything she knew about him told her that he would honor any commitments he made to her. He was reserved and under his sister's thumb, but he had a reputation for keeping his word. She simply had to find a way past his sister and convince himâin bed, if necessaryâthat he was making the right decision by asking her to marry him.
“Have you gone deaf, Lady Randolph?” asked Miss Roston in a soft, malicious voice. “You are so rarely at a loss for words.”
Bathsheba almost did gape at her this time, stunned that she could have ever mistaken the woman for merely a pale shadow of her brother. A vaguely formed thought crossed her mind that she would rather throw herself on the rigid but just mercies of Miss Elliott than place herself in thrall to Sir David's sister. Perhaps life as a dowager countess in Yorkshire wouldn't be so unpleasant, after all.
She thrust that surprisingly attractive image away and leveled her most placating smile at the viper sitting next to her.
“Miss Roston, I do indeed understand. Let me assure you that I have the keenest appreciation for your brother's generous attentions to me. I hesitate to appear forward, but it is my fondest wish to find approval in his eyes and, of course, in yours as well.”
The other woman's gaze narrowed with suspicion. Bathsheba held steady, not challenging her, but refusing to be cowed. The seconds ticked by, the tension stretching between them, transmuting into a battle of wills no less fierce for being conducted in silence.
Suddenly, one of Sir David's companions laughed, and the chatter from the crowd around them seemed to swell. The second interval had begun and soon their box would crowd with visitors. Bathsheba kept a polite smile fixed on her face, resisting the urge to sag with relief into her seat.
Miss Roston made a scoffing noise. “Very well, Lady Randolph. I will take you at your word. But know that my brother's interests will always come first with me. If you toy with him, or I find that you are using him, rest assured I will turn him against you.”
Bathsheba gave her a dignified nod, actually relieved that her enemy had so openly declared herself. If Miss Roston felt the need to do so, then surely Sir David's intentions must be very serious. With a little luck, they might even be married before the Season began.
As Sir David rose from his seat and moved to stand next to her, she tried to imagine spending the rest of her life as Lady Roston. The bright red and gold trim of the theater, illuminated by three rows of gigantic chandeliers, shimmered and swam before her vision. She suddenly felt light-headed and ridiculously close to fainting. When Sir David's fingers brushed her naked shoulder, she had to repress an intense shudder of revulsion.
“My dear Lady Randolph, are you well?” he asked. He sounded puzzled rather than concerned. “You look quite pale.”
“Goodness, no,” she said with a forced laugh. She took a deep breath, and her momentary dizziness passed. “I am well, although I do find it quite stuffy in here.”
“Lady Randolph and I have been discussing your career, my dear brother,” interjected Miss Roston. “I have been explaining how important your work is.”
“I'm sure you must find that a dead bore,” he replied with a gentle laugh. “Most women do. My sister, of course, is an exception.”
“Not at all,” Bathsheba protested. “I find it absolutely fascinating.”
Actually, she found it dreadfully dull, but she refused to be compared to Miss Roston and found wanting.
His mild brown eyes warmed with approval. “I'm pleased you think so. Nonetheless, I do owe you an apology. I'm afraid I've been neglecting both you and my sister. But I assure you, my lady, you will now have my undivided attention for the rest of the evening. Not another word about politics shall pass my lips.”
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