Simply Perfect (7 page)

“We will wait,” the marquess said. “Will we not, young ladies?”

“Yes,” Edna and Flora said together.

“We have all the time in the world,” he added.

“Oh,” Claudia said at last, “my dream. Yes, it is to live in the country again in a small cottage. With a thatched roof and hollyhocks and daffodils and roses in the garden. Each in their season, of course.”

“
Alone,
Miss Martin?”

She looked unwillingly into his eyes and could see that he was enjoying himself immensely at her expense. He was even smiling fully and showing his white, perfectly shaped teeth. If there was a more annoying gentleman in existence, she certainly did not wish to meet him.

“Well, perhaps,” she added, “I would have a little
dog
.” And she raised her eyebrows and allowed her eyes to laugh back into his for a moment while mentally daring him to press her further on the subject.

He held her glance and chuckled softly while Edna clapped her hands.

“We used to have a dog,” she cried. “I loved him of all things. I think I must have one in my bookshop.”

“I want horses,” Flora said. “A whole stableful of them. One for each day of the week. With red, jingling bridles.”

“Ah,” the marquess said, finally shifting the focus of his eyes so that he was looking out through the window on Claudia's side, “I see that the rain has stopped. There is even a patch of blue sky over there, but you had better look quickly or you may miss it.”

He half stood and leaned forward to rap on the front panel, and the carriage drew to a halt.

“I shall return to my horse,” he said, “and allow you ladies some privacy again.”

“Ah,” Edna said with obvious regret and then blushed and looked self-conscious.

“My sentiments exactly,” he said. “This has been a pleasant hour indeed.”

After he had got out and closed the door behind him, the smell of his cologne lingered but the animation that had buoyed them all while he was there drained away and left the carriage feeling damp and half empty. Was it always thus when one was in male company, Claudia wondered crossly—did one come almost to
need
men, to
miss
them when they were not around?

But fortunately she remembered Mr. Upton and Mr. Huckerby, two of her teachers. She did not wilt—or notice anyone else wilting—when they went home every evening. She did not need Mr. Keeble, except to be the porter at her school.

She watched resentfully as the Marquess of Attingsborough swung with ease into his saddle, looking impossibly handsome as he did so. She was really coming to dislike him quite intensely. Gentlemen had no business trying to charm ladies who had no wish whatsoever to be charmed.

“What a lovely gentleman he is,” Flora said with a sigh, looking after him too. “If he were only ten years or so younger!”

Edna sighed too.

“We will be in London soon,” Claudia said cheerfully, “and we will see Viscountess Whitleaf again.”

Susanna and Peter had insisted that the girls stay at their house on Grosvenor Square as well as Claudia until they began their teaching duties.

“And the baby,” Edna said, brightening. “Do you suppose she will allow us to see him, miss?”

“She will probably be delighted to show him off,” Claudia said with a pang of something that felt uncomfortably like envy. Susanna had given birth to Baby Harry just a month ago.

“I hope she lets us hold him,” Flora said. “I used to get to hold the babies in the orphanage. It was my
favorite
thing.”

The carriage moved onward and for a short while the Marquess of Attingsborough rode alongside it. He dipped his head to look in and his eyes met Claudia's. He smiled and touched the brim of his hat.

She wished—she really,
really
wished that he were not so very male. Not all men were. Not that the others were necessarily effeminate. But this man possessed maleness in an unfair abundance.
And
he knew it. She hoped fervently she would not see him again after her arrival in London. Her life was peaceful. It had taken her many years to achieve that state of tranquillity. She had no desire whatsoever to feel again all the turmoil and all the needs she had fought so hard through her twenties before finally suppressing them.

She truly resented the Marquess of Attingsborough.

He made her feel uncomfortable.

He somehow reminded her that apart from everything she had achieved during the past fifteen years, she was also a woman.

4

The Marquess of Attingsborough's carriage delivered Claudia
and the girls directly to the door of Viscount Whitleaf's mansion on Grosvenor Square in Mayfair late in the afternoon, and Susanna and Peter were in the open doorway smiling their welcome even before the coachman had let down the steps.

It was a very splendid home indeed, but Claudia only half noticed in all the bustle and warmth of the greetings that awaited them all. Susanna hugged her, looking radiantly healthy for a woman who had given birth only one month previously. Then she hugged Edna, who squealed and giggled at seeing her old teacher again, and Flora, who squealed also and talked at double speed while Peter greeted Claudia with a warm smile and handshake and then welcomed the girls.

The marquess did not stay but rode off on his hired horse after exchanging pleasantries with Susanna and Peter, bidding Claudia farewell, and wishing Flora and Edna well in their future employment.

Claudia was not sorry to see him go.

Flora and Edna were given rooms on the nursery floor, a fact that delighted both of them after they had seen the dark-haired little Harry and had been assured that they would have other chances to peep in on him before they left. They were to take their meals with the housekeeper, who was apparently anticipating their company with considerable pleasure.

Claudia was simply to enjoy herself.

“And that is an order,” Peter said, his eyes twinkling, after Susanna had told her so. “I have learned not to argue with my wife when she uses that tone of voice, Claudia. There are dangers in marrying a schoolteacher, as I have found to my cost.”

“You look like a man who is hard done by,” Claudia said. He was another handsome, charming man with merry eyes that were more violet than blue.

Susanna laughed. But she already had an array of activities lined up for her friend's entertainment, and since there was a letter from Mr. Hatchard's office awaiting Claudia conveying the unfortunate news that he had been called away from town for several days on business and would, with regret, be unable to see Miss Martin until after his return, she relaxed and allowed herself to be taken on visits to the shops and galleries and on walks in Hyde Park.

Of course, the delay did mean that she might have stayed at school for another week, but she did not allow herself to fret over that unforeseeable circumstance. She knew Eleanor was delighted to be in charge for once. Eleanor Thompson had come to teaching late in life, but she had discovered in it the love of her life—her own assertion.

They did not see Frances until the day of the concert. She and Lucius had gone to visit Frances's elderly aunts in Gloucestershire before coming to London. But Claudia enjoined patience on herself. At least she was to be here for the entertainment, and then she would be together with two of her dearest friends again. If only Anne could be here too, her happiness would be complete, but Anne—the former Anne Jewell, another ex-teacher at the school—was in Wales with Mr. Butler and their two children.

Claudia dressed early and with care on the appointed day, half excited at the prospect of seeing Frances again—she and Lucius were coming for dinner—and half alarmed at the realization that the concert was to be a much larger affair than she had expected. A large portion of the
ton
was to be in attendance, it seemed. It did not really help to tell herself that she despised grandeur and did not need to feel at all intimidated. The truth was that she was nervous. She had neither the wardrobe nor the conversation for such company. Besides, she would know no one except her very small group of four friends.

She did think of creeping into the back of the room at the last minute to listen to Frances as Edna and Flora had been told they might do. But unfortunately she expressed the thought aloud, and Susanna had firmly forbidden it, while Peter had shaken his head.

“It cannot be allowed, I am afraid, Claudia,” he had said. “If you try it, I shall be compelled to escort you in person to the front row.”

Susanna's personal maid had just finished styling Claudia's hair—despite Claudia's protest that she was quite capable of seeing to it herself—when Susanna herself arrived at her dressing room door. The maid opened it to admit her.

“Are you ready, Claudia?” Susanna asked. “Oh, you
are
. And you do look smart.”

“It is not Maria's fault that I have no curls or ringlets,” Claudia was quick to assure Susanna as she got to her feet. “She coaxed and wheedled, but I absolutely refused to risk looking like mutton dressed as lamb.”

Her hair consequently was dressed in its usual smooth style with a knot at the back of the neck. Except that it looked noticeably different from usual. It somehow looked shinier, thicker, more becoming. How the maid had accomplished the transformation Claudia did not know.

Susanna laughed. “Maria would not have made you look any such thing,” she said. “She has impeccable good taste. But she has made your hair look extremely elegant. And I do like your gown.”

It was a plain dark green dress of fine muslin with a high waistline, a modest neckline, and short sleeves, and Claudia had liked it the moment she set eyes on it in a dressmaker's shop on Milsom Street in Bath. She had bought three new dresses to come to London, a major extravagance but one she had deemed necessary for the occasion.

“And you, of course,” Claudia said, “are looking as beautiful as ever, Susanna.”

Her friend was dressed in pale blue, a lovely color with her vibrant auburn curls. She was also as slender as a girl with no visible sign at all of her recent confinement except perhaps an extra glow in her cheeks.

“We had better go downstairs,” Susanna said. “Come and see the ballroom before Frances and Lucius arrive.”

Claudia draped her paisley shawl about her shoulders and Susanna linked an arm through hers and drew her out of the room in the direction of the staircase.

“Poor Frances!” Susanna said. “Do you suppose she is horribly nervous?”

“I daresay she is,” Claudia said. “I suppose she always is before a performance. I can remember her telling the girls in her choirs when she taught at the school that if they were not nervous before a performance they were sure to sing poorly.”

The ballroom was a magnificently proportioned room, with a high, gilded ceiling and a hanging chandelier fitted with dozens of candles. One wall was mirrored, giving the illusion of an even greater size and of a twin chandelier and twice the number of flowers, which were displayed everywhere in large urns. The wooden floor gleamed beneath the rows of red-cushioned chairs that had been set up for the evening.

It was a daunting sight.

But then, Claudia thought, she had never bowed to nervousness. And why should she now? She despised the
ton,
did she not? The portion of it that she did not know personally, anyway. She squared her shoulders.

And then Peter appeared in the doorway, looking all handsome elegance in his dark evening clothes, and behind him came Frances and Lucius. Susanna hurried toward them, Claudia close behind her.

“Susanna!” Frances exclaimed, catching her up in a hug. “You are as pretty as ever. And Claudia! Oh, how very dear and how very fine you look.”

“And you,” Claudia said, “look more distinguished than ever and…beautiful.” And glowing, she thought, with her vivid dark coloring and fine-boned, narrow face. Success certainly agreed with her friend.

“Claudia,” Lucius said, bowing to her after the first rush of greetings had been spoken, “we were both delighted when we heard that you were to be here this evening, especially as this will be Frances's last concert for a while.”

“Your
last,
Frances?” Susanna cried.

“And very wise too. You have had a busy time of it,” Claudia said, squeezing Frances's hands. “Paris, Vienna, Rome, Berlin, Brussels…and the list goes on. I hope you will take a good long break this time.”

“Good
and
long,” Frances agreed, looking from Claudia to Susanna with that new glow in her eyes. “Perhaps forever. Sometimes there are better things to do in life than singing.”

“Frances?”
Susanna clasped her hands to her bosom, her eyes widening.

But Frances held up a staying hand. “No more for now,” she said, “or we will have Lucius blushing.”

She did not need to say any more, of course. At last, after several years of marriage, Frances was going to be a mother. Susanna set her clasped hands to her smiling lips while Claudia squeezed Frances's hands more tightly before releasing them.

“Come to the drawing room for a drink before dinner,” Peter said, offering his right arm to Frances and his left to Claudia. Susanna took Lucius's arm and followed along behind them.

Claudia was suddenly very glad to be where she was—even if there
was
something of an ordeal to be faced this evening. She felt a welling of happiness for the way life had dealt with her friends over the past few years. She shrugged off a feeling of slight envy and loneliness.

She wondered fleetingly if the Marquess of Attingsborough would be in attendance this evening. She had not seen him since her arrival in town and consequently she had been her usual placid, nearly contented self again.

         

When Joseph wandered into White's Club the morning after his return from Bath, he found Neville, Earl of Kilbourne, already there, reading one of the morning papers. He set it aside as Joseph took a chair close to his.

“You are back, Joe?” he asked rhetorically. “How did you find Uncle Webster?”

“Thriving and irritated by the insipidity of Bath society,” Joseph said. “And imagining that his heart has been weakened by his illness.”

“And has it?” Neville asked.

Joseph shrugged. “All he would say was that the physician he consulted there did not deny it. He would not let me talk to the man myself. How is Lily?”

“Very well,” Neville said.

“And the children?”

“Busy as ever.” Neville grinned and then sobered again. “And so your father believed that his health was deteriorating and summoned you to Bath. It sounds ominous. Am I guessing his reason correctly?”

“Probably,” Joseph said. “It would not take a genius, would it? I
am
thirty-five years old, after all, and heir to a dukedom. Sometimes I wish I had been born a peasant.”

“No, you don't, Joe,” Neville said, grinning again. “And I suppose even peasants desire descendants. So it is to be parson's mousetrap for you, is it? Does Uncle Webster have any particular bride in mind?”

“Miss Hunt,” Joseph said, raising a hand in greeting to a couple of acquaintances who had entered the reading room together and were about to join another group. “Her father and mine have already agreed in principle on a match—Balderston was called to Bath before I was.”

“Portia Hunt.” Neville whistled but made no other comment. He merely looked at his cousin with deep sympathy.

“You disapprove?”

But Neville threw up his hands in a defensive gesture.

“Not my business,” he said. “She is dashed lovely—even a happily married man cannot fail to notice
that
. And she never puts a foot wrong, does she?”

But Nev did not like her. Joseph frowned.

“And so you have been sent back to make your offer, have you?” Neville asked.

“I have,” Joseph said. “I don't dislike her, you know. And I have to marry
someone
. I have been more and more aware lately that I cannot delay much longer. It might as well be Miss Hunt.”

“Not a very ringing endorsement, Joe,” Neville said.

“We cannot all be as fortunate as you,” Joseph told him.

“Why not?” Neville raised his eyebrows. “And what will happen with Lizzie when you marry?”

“Nothing will change,” Joseph said firmly. “I spent last evening with her and stayed the night, and I have promised to go back this afternoon before going to the theater this evening with Brody's party. I'll be escorting Miss Hunt there—the campaign begins without delay. But I am not going to neglect Lizzie, Nev. Not if I marry and have a dozen children.”

“No,” Neville said, “I cannot imagine you will. But I do wonder if Miss Hunt will object to spending most of her life in London while Willowgreen sits empty for much of the year.”

“I may make other plans,” Joseph said.

But before he could elaborate on them, they were interrupted by the approach of Ralph Milne, Viscount Sterne, another cousin, who was eager to talk about a pair of matched bays that were going up for auction at Tattersall's.

Joseph had accepted his invitation to attend the concert on Grosvenor Square by the time he escorted Miss Hunt to the theater that evening. He was related to neither Whitleaf nor his wife, but he had long ago accepted them as cousins of a family that embraced more members than just his blood relatives. Certainly he felt that he ought to attend any entertainment to which they had been obliging enough to invite him. He wanted to attend also because he had heard good things about the singing voice of the Countess of Edgecombe and welcomed the opportunity to hear it for himself. He wanted to attend because Lauren—Viscountess Ravensberg, his cousin of sorts—upon whom he had called after leaving White's, had told him that she and Kit would be there as well as the Duke and Duchess of Portfrey. Elizabeth, the duchess, was another almost-relative of his. He had always thought of her as an aunt though she was in fact the sister of his uncle by marriage. He wanted to attend because Neville's wife, Lily, who had also been visiting Lauren, had invited him to dinner before the concert.