The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) (22 page)

Elizabeth expected Washburn’s return from her ‘surprise’ holiday that day or the next
¹⁷
. In the meantime, an upper maid could help her dress for the day. Her first note must go to Constance Traviston to invite her for tea later.
 

Elizabeth rang for a tray. She’d missed her morning cocoa and buttered rolls while she was gone, but she had not once missed the fog.

London’s odd variegated miasma fascinated her in a morbid way. With a breeze, it thinned to a scrim of dirty-shirt-cuff gray hanging everywhere in the city. On a still, late autumn day like this, it coagulated into clots of ungodly dinginess in one of an alarming spectrum of vile colors. It might be blackish purple as a bruise, green as phlegm, excremental brown, or now a streaky orange shade she’d never seen before. As sunlight struggled through, it created the metropolitan analog of a rainbow. She’d grown up seeing
 
this fog in Town and had yet to become accustomed to it.

London was not always thus enshrouded, of course. On clear, breezy days, it was lovely. In summer, the plane trees’ broad canopies of greenery shaded the streets and pavements. Without their leaves in autumn, the tree branches would appear like crazing on a Wedgewood blue sky, if the air were clear.
 
This day, however, did not dawn clear. It dawned, well, marmalade.

It was doubly hard to reconcile herself to this urban prospect because Elizabeth awoke briefly under the impression that she was still at The Graces. Beyond her windows there, the days dawned either clear or overcast — not jammy. A clear day presented lavender, coral, gold and cerise colored clouds at dawn. And featured birdsong, the joyous throbbing of larks and thrushes and the mewing calls of pipits. On Damogan Square, she heard the clip-clop of horses, the rumble of cartwheels on cobblestones and the burbling of pigeons on the sill. Farther off, newsboys competed with milkmen and muffin men to hawk their wares over one another.

After her morning ablutions, Elizabeth opened her bedroom door and asked the first passing maid to dress her. She slipped into undergarments, light corsetry and a comfortable, Mameluke-sleeved cotton percale morning dress with green ribbon trim. Much as she welcomed wearing her own clothes, they fit like a stranger’s, for she had lost weight on her western adventure. Now, her short stays stayed a bit loose at her bosom even laced up tight. Her frock fit as ill as the corset. The maid tied the ribbons tighter behind her to take up the slack.

“M’lady, if I may, you must eat or you’ll fade to nothing ’fore you’re wed.”

Elizabeth offered no rebuke for the young maid’s impertinence, touched that someone noticed and expressed concern. “I’m fine, really. Thank you, Hester.”

The blushing maid plaited and pinned Elizabeth’s hair into a chignon.
 

“That’s very well done, thank you,” Elizabeth dismissed her with a smile.
 

She debated wearing a cap. Strictly speaking, she ought to as a twenty-year-old woman, but lace caps were too fussy by half. She hesitated before tossing it back into a dresser drawer. Another nit-picky stricture ignored, and her scandalous want of delicacy demonstrated.

Elizabeth’s impatience with rules and other hoydenish impulses probably explained why her life ricocheted off obstacles without forward progress. Only consider her current dilemma: she’d run away to avoid marriage to Lord Clun only to realize she’d like nothing better. Now, his resistance to the match was their sole impediment. It was so vexing to have been hoist with her own petard.
 

She stared into the Cheval glass. So much had changed since she last wore this dress. She was a different person — no, a different woman. Soft, girlish features were now refined. Her jawline had definition, her eyes a new steadiness and her cheekbones, patrician prominence. She had no clear idea how to proceed and no Mrs. Abeel to guide her, but calmly looking back at her in the mirror, Elizabeth saw a woman who could make of her life what she desired.

She sat at her escritoire, dashed off her note to Constance, sealed it and sent for a footman to walk it over.

As far as Elizabeth was concerned, the only good to come of her return to London was having her best friend’s company and support in Society. Unless, that is, the earl confined her to the house in perpetuity after last night’s harum-scarum horrification.
 

Constance’s reply confirmed tea together. Depend on Con to postpone plans to find out about her mysterious adventure.
 

Elizabeth prayed her friend would have advice on brokering peace with intractable barons.
 

Chapter 18
 

In which the mysteries of Man are elucidated.

E
lizabeth had known Constance Traviston since they were very young. And in ways most important to genuine friendship, they were much alike. Both were spirited, well-read young ladies who valued intelligence, resourcefulness and good-humor. Both were born into mind-boggling riches but paid it no mind. In fact, they preferred to use their ample pin money to support Lady Jane Babcock’s pet causes or to pay subscription fees at circulating libraries such as Hookham’s and Miss Flinder’s shop by Walpole rather than waste it on frivolous furbelows.
 

They were literally close, too. The Damogans resided at the head of the eponymous square; the Travistons lived at its foot in an equally imposing mansion at No. 10.
 

When the girls were little, they played together in the gated park at the center of square under the watchful eyes of their nannies. While growing up, they spent time together at one house or the other and frequently shared a footman to shop in the Strand, or in New Bond Street. They listened, rapt, to Mrs. Abeel’s seafaring adventures and learned the intricacies of court etiquette from Lady Petra. They enjoyed the closeness of being sisters without the strife of sibling rivalry.

Mrs. Abeel had been too elderly to undertake the full rigors of Elizabeth’s first Season in 1813. So without fuss, Lady Petra organized Elizabeth and Constance’s come out as if they were in fact sisters. Thanks to Lady Petra, Elizabeth did reasonably well, despite abbreviated men and their blatant bosom-ogling and despite having a countenance that revealed rather too much of her opinion of both.
 

Elizabeth’s first season ended without a proposal, which suited her perfectly. Constance had offers, which she declined graciously. They both awaited men who caused a quickening of their pulses and exhibited Mrs. Abeel’s sure signs of affection.
 

The year 1814 did not bear reviewing. Mrs. Abeel passed away suddenly in late January. Elizabeth missed the Season, not that she cared. In 1815, at the end of her belated second Season, she still had no acceptable offers. So when Lord Clun discreetly approached
 
the earl, her father accepted him without so much as a ‘by your leave.’ Her subsequent, rash actions were motivated by her outrage over the earl’s disregard for her opinion.
 

That she ultimately agreed with her father was nothing but dumb luck. Still, it did complicate matters.
 

Good as her word, Constance Traviston arrived at No. 1 Damogan Square at the appointed hour. Nettles ushered her into the morning room without formal announcement. She was, after all, an intimate family friend. Shortly after tea arrived, the two settled in for a private chat. They stripped off their gloves to tuck into teacakes and sip cups of Traviston’s Select Darjeeling.
 

“Tell me everything, Lizzy. First, where on earth have you been? You forbade me to ask after you here so I’ve been agog to know everything. I began to wonder if the baron had come early and whisked you off to Shropshire with nothing more than a wedding by special license.”
 

“You would not credit it if I told you,” Elizabeth replied, unsure how to raise the subject she needed with her friend.
 

“Did you go to Devonshire?”

“Not precisely.”

“Did you visit Jane in Bath?”

Elizabeth shook her head slowly.

“Where precisely were you then?”

“Promise you won’t scold, Con.”

Constance frowned. “Oh, Lizzy, what have you done?”

“Nothing ruinous, I assure you.”

“Small comfort, but I give you my word. Not a peep of reproach, unless I can’t help gasping in horror,” Constance said, clearly anticipating the worst.

Elizabeth considered her friend, their history and what Constance already knew about her, and decided her pledge was the best she could expect. In short order, Constance knew of Elizabeth’s recent misadventures in Shropshire with her betrothed. She gasped several times, but she said nothing reproachful.

“So you’ll have him after all?” Constance said and smiled her reassurance.

“I would, if I hadn’t bungled it.”

“Surely not.”
 

Elizabeth gave her a look.
 

“Oh, Lizzy, what happened?”

“I told him I’d only marry for love and he wouldn’t have me.”

“The beast!”

“From the start, he was frank about wanting an unemotional marriage,” Elizabeth said.
“Con, he insists romantic feelings lead to resentment and worse. In fact, he’s adamantly opposed to love, on principal.”

“What a cod’s head.”

“So we quarreled. I won’t compromise because I am right. And he won’t compromise because he is wrong and refuses to admit it.”

“Perhaps,” Constance hesitated, “Lord Clun is right from his perspective. Some men seek marriages of convenience. It was a rather cold-blooded arrangement, don’t you think?”

“But he pledges to honor his vows and I believe him. He won’t stray.”

“Perhaps he’s cold hearted.”
 

“He wasn’t always cold toward me. In fact, he was warm when first we met and rather affectionate thereafter,” she mumbled, recollecting the bearskin rug. “He grew chilly suddenly. I’m not certain why.” Elizabeth looked at her friend. “What am I to do?”
 

“One cannot force a man to feel something, Lizzy.”

“But he’s shown several unmistakable signs of affection. He’s been protective and thoughtful with hints of possessiveness, also chivalry. And I believe there is a physical affinity. At least, I feel it.”
 

 
“Mother says that to understand a man, one must first comprehend immutable male behavior,” Constance began.
 

Elizabeth beamed at her friend. Lady Petra was an unimpeachable source of useful information.
 

Constance whispered, “If one sets one’s cap at a man, he is certain to withdraw. If he’s a gentleman, he withdraws for your sake. If he’s not interested, he also does so, for his own sake.”

Elizabeth frowned. “There’s no discerning his motive if the outcomes are the same.”

Constance raised a finger and continued, “If, on the other hand, one withdraws from
him
, a man with a tendre will pursue. He cannot help himself. A disinterested man will let you go. And the easiest way to withdraw, Lizzy, is to resume your life.”

“Resume my life?”

“In full.
Pursue your interests. We’ll go to libraries, the opera, let’s support Jane’s efforts against animal cruelty and prepare for Christmas. Advent will bring heaps of invitations. You mustn’t ruminate about him. It serves no purpose.”

“Right, I can do that. I feel better already, Con.”
 

“Second,” Constance continued, “Mother says men deny emotions because feelings are unpredictable and worse, uncontrollable. Yet, men act on the feelings they deny because they cannot help themselves. Therefore, a man’s actions reveal all.”
 

“I must live my life and judge his actions not his frequent, dyspeptic pronouncements on love,” Elizabeth summarized then added, “Clun is often gruff with me, Con. He’s gruff in general, but he’s behaved thoughtfully at times.”

“Good,” Constance said and patted Elizabeth’s hand. “But you must keep contact with him to a minimum. Ideally, one set at a ball or assembly, no more.”

“One? To what end?”

“To see if he wants another, silly.”

“And if he doesn’t?”
 

“Give him time. After a number of parties, you’ll have an answer,” Constance told her firmly. “If he passes that test, there’s another. You must be very careful with this.”

“Of course, I always am,” she lied, thinking again of lounging on the man whilst he sprawled in dishabille atop his bearskin rug. “Tell me, Con.”

“I probably shouldn’t. You can be awfully heedless,” Constance shook her head. “With emphasis on ‘awful.’ Shropshire, Lizzy, what a notion!”

“Never mind about Shropshire. I’ll be circumspect, I promise,” Elizabeth cried.

Constance narrowed her eyes and repeated: “Shropshire.”

“I had no choice.” Elizabeth wrung her friend’s hands to beseech her. “I was running away. Now I’m not.”

Constance relented. “Promise me you’ll be careful, Lizzy. If you’re not, you’ll end up married to a very unhappy man.”

“I promise, Con.”

“Find an opportunity to be private with him at some to-do, say, on a terrace in a shadow.” Here, Constance shook her head. “It’s a shame no one knows you’re betrothed, it wouldn’t be so improper to seek some privacy in that case. Ah well, do what you can with propriety. Then when you’re alone, speak in a whisper so he must lean close to hear you.”

Elizabeth frowned. “And when he’s close?”

“Wait and see.”
 

Elizabeth eyed her. “I don’t see how doing nothing will encourage a disclosure.”

“It’s not what he might say,” Constance reminded her, “but what he might do.”
 

“Oh.” Elizabeth smiled. “Yes, I see.”

Chapter 19

In which universal truths of Society become self-evident
.

T
own tabbies delighted in handicapping each year’s debutantes in their race to the nuptial finish. They weighed comparative rank, prestige and qualities of countenance, bearing, manners and dress, in much the same way gentlemen of leisure judged contending thoroughbreds in a cross-country event. These worthies opined endlessly about who had the bloodlines, who the stamina and who the
je ne sais quoi
to make the Season’s most brilliant matches. Of all assets, however, there was no greater advantage than money.