The Dowager's Daughter
Read The Dowager's Daughter Online
Authors: Mona Prevel
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #Regency, #Historical Romance, #FICTION/Romance/Regency
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 2002 by Mona Prevel
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email
[email protected]
First Diversion Books edition April 2014
ISBN:
978-1-62681-272-7
Dedicated to those three handsome devils:
My sons, Stephen, Charles, and Richard.
Unaware that she was doing so, Althea Markham tapped her foot to the strains of a lilting tune emanating from the musicians’ gallery. She watched the elegantly attired couples dance by her chair, the gauzy dresses of the ladies reminding her of butterflies in flight.
Even when asked to dance, Althea did not feel that she belonged with such a glittering throng, but rather, was an outsider who had wandered by chance into their midst. It was as if there were a secret password that allowed one into their inner circle—and she did not know it.
She frowned slightly when a woman with flame-colored hair came into view, her slender form held firmly by the white-gloved hand of Marcus Ridley. He was considered one of the most handsome men in England, and where the fairer sex was concerned, definitely the most dangerous. Females, it was rumored, surrendered their virtue to him with the reckless abandon of lemmings hurling themselves to their doom—without even the slightest suggestion on his part that marriage might be included in the arrangement.
Althea’s gaze shifted back and forth between the pair. The woman was one of those fortunate redheads in possession of exquisite features and a rose-petal complexion. She was a fitting consort for the dark-haired, blue-eyed Viscount Ridley, son and heir of the Earl of Fairfax, and evidently knew it, for she appeared to have the upper hand in the exchange of flirtatious glances passing between them.
Even so, Althea thought,
Have a care, darling; duels of the heart can be every bit as lethal as those on the grass at dawn.
She drew in her breath as the viscount whispered in his partner’s ear. Seemingly without giving his words a moment’s consideration, the feckless creature nodded and they disappeared through the French doors leading to the terrace.
Althea’s foot ceased its tapping and her forehead furrowed in dismay. “Oh, dear,” she muttered under her breath. “Celeste Markham, I fear you have just torn what was left of your reputation to shreds. How too, too mortifying.”
Althea rose from her chair, snapped closed the ivory handles to her silk fan with an angry flick of her wrist, and departed the elegant rose-and-gilt ballroom.
She was tempted to desert her guests and repair to her chambers, but good manners prevailed and she retired to the comfort of the library, telling herself that as soon as she had regained her composure, she would return to their midst.
There were no candles lit, but the room was afforded a dim light from the glow of a slowly dying fire, so she felt her way to a leather wingback chair, invitingly obscured by shadows.
Althea had calmed down almost to the point of dozing off, when the creak of the opening door brought her fully awake. She was about to make her presence known to the intruder when a masculine voice with the affected drawl of a Corinthian dandy caused her to wince.
“You owe me twenty gold ones, Lampton old chap. Did I not say that Ridley would inveigle Celeste Markham to toss her petticoats before the dance was over?”
The tall, too-slender silhouette of the speaker could only be that of George Delville—one whom, up to that moment, Althea had considered to be a friend. She clenched her fists until her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands. How dare he speak in such a fashion about a member of her family while partaking of her hospitality!
“I suppose I do.” The one addressed as Lampton sighed.’ ‘Just a few words in her ear was all it took—and right in the middle of the dance, they both hared out to the garden like a pair of puppies in first heat How does he do it, Delville? I mean to say—the lady is a diamond of the first water.”
“I must concur. The lady in question is indeed one of Society’s loveliest flowers. Especially remarkable when one considers the fiery color of her hair. It has been my experience that women with ginger hair usually have ruddy complexions and faces like horses. Hortense Lavendar comes to mind.”
Francis Lampton shuddered. “Pray do not remind me. My father did his damnedest to leg-shackle me to Miss Lavendar. Her sire offered considerable acreage abutting his estate and ours as an inducement The rich mushroom was willing to pay dearly to make his daughter the next Baroness Lampton.”
Delville accorded his friend a sympathetic cluck.
Lampton shuddered. “I break into a cold sweat every time I think of it.” He peered around the room. “So where does the old uncle keep his cognac? I must say it’s as dark as a crypt in here.”
“For pity’s sake, that is easily rectified.” Delville bustled past his friend and stoked the fire into a sputtering flame, then took a wooden spill from a receptacle on the hearth and thrust it into the fire.
“There!” He turned, his hand cupped around the spill to protect the wavering flicker of light, and gave an impatient click of his tongue. “Pray make yourself useful and hand me a candlestick. It is deucedly drafty in here.”
Lampton peered around, removed a candelabrum boasting five sconces from a nearby desk, and thrust it toward Delville. “Here. There is no need to be so testy about it”
“Sorry about that It was unintentional.” Delville lit the candles and walked over to one of the booklined walls. “I say, such weighty tomes—and well-handled, by the looks of it. I am afraid that the present Countess of Camberly is too serious by half. Tide notwithstanding, no wonder she is still unclaimed, and this being her fourth Season.”
Lampton snickered. “No matter how great her beauty, the wanton ways of Celeste Markham would deter all but the most desperate of adventurers. Make a chap think twice before taking her to wife. I had intended to pay her court. Rather fancied the idea of having a son inherit an earldom—especially from such a beautiful mother. But as it is, my heir shall have to make do with a barony.” He laughed. “With such a jade, one could not claim with any certainty to have sired
any
of her children.”
The flames sputtered in the grate, revealing the ample form and ruddy complexion of Baron Lampson’s heir.
Delville shook his head. “If you did not bury yourself in the country from one year to the next, you would not be laboring under such a misapprehension.”
“What are you babbling about?”
“Celeste Markham’s beauty belies her years, but even if it were still possible for her to breed—that, I cannot say—you still would not get an earl on her. She is the
dowager
of the family. Her daughter, Althea, is the present Countess of Camberly. Surely you were presented to her upon arriving this evening?”
“Can’t say as I was. I put in a deucedly late appearance and she was not in evidence. Probably fussing over the refreshments or visiting the necessary, I should imagine.”
“Quite so.”
“Pray tell me the daughter does not demonstrate her mother’s wanton ways.”
“There is not a whisper of scandal attached to her name, but I doubt our Althea has been put to the test.”
Delville’s patronizing tone caused Althea to grit her teeth.
“Oh?” Disappointment weighed heavily on Lampton’s voice. “The countess is an antidote? Favors her father, then? I have heard the late earl was a dry old bird, more given to poring over musty books than to gaming and chasing the ladies.”
Althea’s body tensed. She dreaded to hear Delville’s assessment of what he no doubt considered to be her meager charms. It would have been far, far better had she done the proper thing and had made her presence known to the interlopers before the situation had deteriorated into such a nightmare.
Delville stroked his chin. “Considering she is only twenty-one, she is somewhat lacking in style—wears her hair in a tight little bun, and dresses more like a dowdy governess than a titled lady of great fortune—but an antidote? I would not go so far as to call her such. Her features do not command attention one way or the other—except, perhaps, her eyes …”
“Her eyes?” A glimmer of hope colored Lampson’s tone.
“Yes. They are quite large, and an unusual shade of green. Rather like moonstones in a tide-pool.”
“I say. That
is
a trifle fanciful. You would not be harboring a
tendre
for the lady yourself, by any chance?”
“Absolutely not. As far as I am concerned she is completely lacking in the feminine charm that I require in a wife.”
“I will not let such a detail deter me from my intent. Soften her with wine, divest her of her nightshift and douse the lights, and I daresay I should find the marriage bed quite tolerable.”
“What a noble chappie you are.” Delville affected a dramatic sigh.’ ‘Willing to sacrifice yourself on the altar of matrimony to further the fortunes of a brat who is yet to be born. Ah! Here it is.”
“Here’s what?”
Delville held a decanter aloft. “The Marquis de Maligny’s cognac. The wily old Frenchman had it tucked away in this cabinet.” Delville placed the candelabrum on the cabinet and returned to the fireplace. I believe you will find some glasses on that table beside you, old chap.”
Lampton gave a dismissive wave. “Forget about the cognac. I would far rather return to the ballroom. I should like you to present me to our hostess, and if I find her looks in the least tolerable, I shall make a point of attending her next ‘at home.’ “
“That would be Wednesday. But a word to the wise, old chap.”
“Hmmm?”
“Prepare yourself for a tedious and arduous courtship.”
“How so?”
“I rather suspect the lady is looking for true love and is apparently not easily deceived. Young Nigel Fortescue seemed to be well received by her for a while, but she eventually sent him packing with a flea in his ear.”
“Good Lord. Whatever for? The Fortescues are the very cream of the
ton,
and Nigel cuts a fine enough figure.”
“I have it on very good authority that she caught him dallying with one of her chambermaids. A fetching little petticoat, by all accounts.”
“The devil you say?” Lampson stroked his chin. “This ‘good authority’ could be mistaken. Who was it?”
“My butler. Servants know more about what goes on above-stairs than we do ourselves.”
“Quite. Then the sordid little tale must be true. Fetching little petticoat, eh?” Lampson chuckled suggestively. “I wonder what became of her?”
“Fortescue has her cozily ensconced in a modest little town house, I believe.”
Lampson slapped his thigh. “Good for him. She cost him dearly—it would have been a shame to let her go to waste.” He braced his shoulders. “Well, old chap, nothing worth having comes easily. It is time to beard the lioness in her den. Or should I say, ballroom?”
“Just remember how magnificent a place it is,” Delville rejoined. “It will help to keep you focused whilst you court our reluctant heiress.” He bowed and gestured toward the heavy double doors. “After you, would-be father to the future Earl of Camberly.”
Seething with outrage, Althea watched as the two men, seemingly overcome by their own wit, exited the library, laughing like a pair of demented hyenas.
Once alone, Althea’s emotions ran the gamut from teeth-clenching anger to wounded sensibilities, ending with the mortifying conclusion that compared to all the birds-of-paradise who at that very moment were most likely flaunting their feathers in the ballroom, she must be the veriest of sparrows.
The exchange between the two gendtlemen merely confirmed her worst fears. Not one of her suitors was likely to look beyond her fortune and seek to marry her for herself.
“Even so,” she muttered, “I would gladly see the Markham line die out rather than marry such an odious toad. What gives Francis Lampton cause to think he is in any position to assess
my
desirability as a mate?”
Althea rose from her chair and tried in vain to smooth her rumpled dress. Then it occurred to her that the offending gendtlemen had not even taken the trouble to extinguish the candles before their departure.
With an exasperated huff, she picked up the discarded decanter of cognac and returned it to the cabinet in which her great-uncle Jean-Claude kept his precious, not-to-be-shared contraband.
Upon closing the cabinet door, her brow knitted into a perplexed frown. The old gentleman might be approaching the ripe old age of seventy, but he was not given to forgetfulness—of a certainty not where his cognac was concerned—yet he had failed to secure it under lock and key.
Althea was about to snuff out the candles when she caught sight of her reflection in a small mirror hanging on the wall above the cabinet Moving the light to a more advantageous position, she peered thoughtfully into the mirror and ran her hand down her cheek and across the angle of her jaw.
“George Delville is absolutely right. My features
are
completely unworthy of attention. Although how he could have failed to notice my lamentably square jaw…” Althea shook her head while contemplating this point.
Actually, a discerning eye would have noticed that her strong jaw was in perfect symmetry to her well-defined cheekbones and, by way of contrast gave her mouth a rose-petal softness—at least on the rare occasions when she did not press her lips into a grim line. Althea took the responsibilities of running her estates very seriously.
“Eyes like moonstones, hmmm? What could George Delville have possibly meant by that?” She leaned closer to the mirror. “They are shaped well enough, I suppose, but I expect comparing them to moonstones is a polite way of saying they lack color. Oh, well.” She gave a philosophic shrug and blew out the candles, pulling a face at the resultant acrid smoke.
The ball not coming to a close until almost daybreak, Althea did not make her way downstairs until noon and found upon inquiring of Jarvis, the butler, that he believed she was the first of the family to rise. In any case, neither the elder Lady Camberly nor the Marquis de Maligny had as yet put in an appearance for breakfast.
This suited her very well, because she was in no mood to exchange pleasantries with her relations. Indeed, where the older Lady Camberly was concerned, Althea was not sure she could maintain even the merest of civilities. Her lady mother’s behavior at the ball the previous evening had been outside of outrageous.
With this thought in mind, she decided to forgo breakfast in favor of the serenity of the orangerie. There she settled into a white wicker sofa’s plump cushions of flowered chintz, and looked about her. The tropical foliage laden with exotic and sweet-smelling blossoms usually lifted her spirits. But not this morning. She was far too upset over the indignities she had endured in the library at the hands of those insufferable boors, Delville and Lampson.