The Sins of Lady Dacey (7 page)

Did she know how alluring she was, he wondered, with those huge trusting eyes? Probably not. She had an unconscious sensuality of movement that, combined with her unawakened air, made his senses quicken in a way that disturbed him. He felt his years. He thought briefly of his mistress and felt unworthy of this innocent creature, and then angry with himself for entertaining such uncomfortable thoughts. He saw Lord Herne approaching and frowned. Herne was a rich lecher. He asked Honoria to dance, and she accepted prettily. The duke saw the way Herne's eyes slid slowly over Honoria's body as he led her away and felt like calling him out.

That one dance with Honoria he had planned to be the last he ever had with her. But he told himself she should be warned against such as Herne and that Mrs. Perryworth appeared too unworldly to cope with London's dangerous men.

He knew that he was occasioning comment by asking Honoria to dance again so soon, but he did not care. It was a lively country dance that she performed with ease, crossing hands with him and dancing down the middle of the set, that flimsy gown of hers flying out around her supple body. He contented himself until the promenade and then began, “Miss Goodham, as you and Mrs. Perryworth are new to Town, I feel I should warn you against such gentlemen as Lord Herne. He has a bad reputation.”

“It is all very puzzling,” sighed Honoria. “He seemed very kind. But you, Your Grace, have a wicked reputation and yet you also seem kind.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“I believe,” went on Honoria blithely, “that the week before we arrived, you had a house party consisting of Cyprians, your mistress, and various Corinthians. So fortunate we did not arrive stranded on your doorstep at the same time, was it not?”

“You are behaving badly,” he said harshly.

She looked at him, wide-eyed. “But ... but it is a logical observation.” She looked across at Lord Herne. He was a tall, spare man with a thin mouth and cold eyes. “Lord Herne did not say anything he ought not,” she gave a nervous laugh to try to lighten the atmosphere. “Perhaps the most wicked gentlemen are socially the kindest.”

“Miss Goodham, I hope this is the very last time I have to tell you this. No young lady ever refers to a man's mistress, is that understood?”

“I am sorry.” She hung her head. “I have so much to learn.”

The duke saw Archie Buchan approaching, one of Lady Buchan's sons, tall, young, fresh-faced, and only two years older than Honoria, or so he guessed. He found himself saying quickly, “I would be of further service to you, Miss Goodham. Will you come driving with me tomorrow?”

“I should like that above all things,” said Honoria politely.

Honoria found Archie Buchan a relief. He was a cheerful young man with a mop of blond curls. He looked at her with open admiration and danced rather badly, which gave her a pleasant feeling of superiority. At the end of the dance, he asked her to go driving with him on the following day, and she felt genuinely sorry that she had to refuse.

She was never without a partner for the rest of her stay at the ball. She and Pamela left at two in the morning, surprised to see that they were among the first to leave. “Now I understand why everyone sleeps until two in the afternoon,” yawned Pamela in the carriage home. “You were such a success, Honoria. I was proud of you. There is only one thing that gives me a certain disquiet. I overheard you being described as “the new heiress.” Now, I know you have probably a good dowry by country standards, but I doubt if it would be considered very great in this profligate society. Did you note Lady Buchan's gown? The clasps on her overdress were of real gold and diamonds.”

“Just tittle-tattle,” said Honoria. “They will soon forget it. I had such fun. I did so want to go driving with Mr. Buchan—Mr. Archie Buchan, that is—tomorrow.”

“And why couldn't you?”

“I promised to go driving with Ware.”

“Oh, my dear, is that wise? There is no hope there, you know.”

Honoria laughed. “Pooh, just think how it will add to my social consequence to be seen driving with a duke!”

Honoria, wearing a carriage gown of golden brown velvet with a small Elizabethan ruff at the neck, entered the room. The duke stood up and bowed. He seemed detached, formal, almost as if he were already regretting his invitation, and Pamela felt herself relax.

She stood at the window and watched them drive off in the sunshine. Honoria unfurled a parasol, screening her face. With a little sigh, Pamela turned away from the window, feeling lonely, feeling the very
foreignness
of London, half wishing herself home in Yorkshire and back in her familiar shackles. A letter from her husband lay on the table, still unread.

She picked it up reluctantly, just as the butler announced Mr. Sean Delaney. She colored up guiltily, feeling the letter suddenly heavy in her hand. She could not very well refuse to see the duke's friend when that friend had been instrumental in saving Honoria from social disgrace. Mr. Delaney came in. “Faith, you look a picture,” he said, seizing her hands and kissing them.

Pamela drew back. “Mr. Delaney, I must make one thing very clear. I am a married lady, and your attentions are over-warm.”

“I forgot myself,” he said cheerfully. He took a turn about the room in his restless way and then swung round again to face her. “I have it!” he cried. “We'll strike a bargain.” He held out a hand. “We will be friends. Come! I can be useful to you and Miss Goodham. A platonic friend to escort you about until the Season is over.”

His expression seemed so open and so honest. She found her lips curving in a smile. A still small voice in her brain was warning her that she was seizing on his offer of friendship as a way of keeping him close, but the rest of her mind stubbornly rejected that idea. She and Honoria were in need of introductions and guidance through this London maze. “I accept your terms,” she said gaily.

“In that case, go and put on your bonnet. It is a fine day, and Ware and Miss Goodham should not be the only ones to enjoy the sunshine.”

For the first time since she had come to London, Honoria felt free of her chilly upbringing, of the fear of Mr. Pomfret. Only a little shadow in her mind told her that somehow she must marry before the Season was over, but the Season at least had not even begun. She thought instead of Archie Buchan. He had called to pay his respects earlier, his eyes glowing with admiration. He had come to press his mother's invitation to a turtle dinner, and both Pamela and Honoria had accepted with delight. What a contrast young Mr. Buchan was to Mr. Pomfret, thought Honoria. So affectionate, so gay, so
young.

“You are looking unfashionably happy,” came the duke's amused voice. “Do not you know you are supposed to assume a world-weary air?”

“I am enjoying myself,” said Honoria simply. “Home seems so very far away.”

“And that makes you happy?”

“I honor my parents, Your Grace, but in truth, they nearly arranged a most unhappy marriage for me. Had not Lady Dacey been kind enough to invite me, then I should already be married to a man I despise.”

“I do not want to dim your happiness, but that may yet happen.”

“How so? Lady Dacey cannot constrain me to marry anyone.”

“You do not yet know the pressures that can be brought to bear on a young miss before the end of the Season. You will be expected to repay your hostess's efforts on your behalf by marrying well, and ‘well’ does not necessarily mean the man of your choice.”

Honoria glanced up at him from under her long eyelashes. “Would you say the Honorable Archie Buchan is a good prospect?”

He felt a stab of irritation. She was treating him like some elderly uncle. “He is a pleasant young man, but it is well known the Buchans want heiresses for their sons.”

“Oh,” said Honoria in a small voice. Then she brightened. “I am not exactly an heiress, but...” She bit her lip. She could hardly start to discuss the size of her dowry. “In any case, Mr. Buchan called today to invite us to a turtle dinner on Saturday. He came with a most pressing invitation from Lady Buchan. Would ... would an heiress need to have a
great
deal of money?”

“Lord Chemford lost twenty-five thousand pounds at White's the other night. Those are the sort of figures you have to think of in this society.”

Honoria lowered her parasol slightly to shield her expression. Her dowry was fifteen hundred pounds, a healthy sum in the wilds of Yorkshire. But she refused to be depressed. So she was not an heiress. She had never pretended to be, and Lady Buchan was kind and her son, delightful and warm-hearted. Her good humor restored, she dipped her parasol and said, “And you, Your Grace. What of you? Do you plan to marry at last?”

“I do not know,” he said curtly, but aware that a short time ago he would have replied, “Of course not.” Although he had complained about her sermons, it had been pleasant to be nursed, to have a lady running his household, instead of housing some resident Cyprian, despised by his servants. Honoria was too young—he had no taste for young misses—but for the first time he was beginning to entertain the idea that a woman of his own rank and birth might be a good idea. The dukedom needed an heir.

And yet this young chit's very indifference to him was galling. He decided to flirt. “You are looking very beautiful today, Miss Goodham,” he said. “I am the envy of all men.”

“And the despair of some ladies,” remarked Honoria. “Who is that lady in the blue gown who is scowling at me?”

He looked across the park, following her gaze. There was his mistress, Penelope Wilson, driving a smart little carriage drawn by a white horse. He gave her a nod as they bowled past. He had not been to see her since his arrival in London.

“A Miss Wilson,” he said.

“Oh,
Penelope
Wilson—your mistress.”

“Miss Goodham, I am not charmed by gaucherie.”

“Nor by innocence, it would appear,” retorted Honoria, thinking of Miss Wilson's disgracefully low-cut gown and painted face.

“You displease me,” he said frostily.

“Then please take me home,” replied Honoria equably, and in that moment he could have slapped her.

He drove smartly out through the gates, maintaining a rigid silence until they reached Hanover Square. He helped her to alight, gave her a stiff bow, and said awfully, “I doubt if we shall meet again, Miss Goodham.”

She gave him a contrite look. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not mean to insult your mistress.”

“Miss Goodham.” He looked at her for a moment, outraged, and then jumped into his carriage and drove off.

“You did
what?
” exclaimed Pamela later that day when Honoria described her drive with the duke. “Honoria, you
never
mention a man's mistress. We do not know of such women. For us they do not exist. How
could
you?”

“Perhaps it was very bad of me,” said Honoria contritely. “He is a very disturbing man, and it is just as well I shall not be seeing him again.”

But Honoria had forgotten that the duke was to be present at the Buchans’ turtle dinner.

The duke had always considered petty malice a character defect of lesser mortals. He had found out that the Buchans believed Miss Goodham to be an heiress because of one of Mr. Delaney's ill-considered remarks, and when he met Lord Buchan in White's, he suddenly found himself saying, “I believe Miss Goodham is to be a guest at supper on Saturday.”

“Yes, indeed, the most beautiful and charming young lady to visit London for some time. Archie is smitten, you know, and he has our blessing.”

“I am so glad your son is not so mercenary as most of society,” said the duke. “It wearies me the way any heiress is automatically considered beautiful.”

“But that cannot be said of Miss Goodham,” pointed out Lord Buchan. “She
is
beautiful.”

“Although not an heiress.” The minute his words were out, the duke regretted them.

“But it is well known she is!”

Now was the time to draw back, but some imp goaded the duke on. “Miss Goodham is from a good but provincial family of the gentry. A teasing remark by my friend, Mr. Delaney, I fear, was what started the gossip.”

Lord Buchan fidgeted nervously. “Dear, dear. Excuse me, Ware. Pressing business, pressing business.” He strode off, and the duke looked after him ruefully.

He sat down and tried to read the newspapers but he found he could not concentrate. This was ridiculous. He was becoming boring and middle-aged. He had behaved like a monk since he had come to London. Time to visit the much-neglected Penelope. He half rose, but sank back in his chair as Mr. Delaney came into the coffee room.

“You are looking very happy,” commented the duke.

“I have been calling on my angel.”

“Mrs. Perryworth? My friend, I find it hard to believe that you are out to seduce a vicar's wife.”

“Not I! Heaven forbid. I have stopped my nonsense. We have agreed on friendship.”

“Who are you fooling? Yourself or her? That is the oldest deception in the game.”

“It may be for you,” said Mr. Delaney with uncharacteristic seriousness, “but you do not understand my love for her. It is of the purest—”

“Won't last.”

“
Of the purest.
I regret my misspent life. I shall serve her to the best of my ability and see that no harm comes to her or Miss Goodham. We are to attend the Buchans’ turtle dinner? So. Archie Buchan is taken with Miss Goodham. An excellent solution. He is all that is suitable.”

“Archie Buchan is prompted in his courtship by his parents. Your remark about Miss Goodham being an heiress went the rounds. I did not contradict it ... at first. It was not my concern.”

“At first?”

“Well, it did seem a trifle unfair that the Buchans should be so misled—and not fair to Miss Goodham either. I have just informed Buchan that Miss Goodham is not an heiress.”

Mr. Delaney studied him and then said evenly, “You did not do it for anyone's good. Little Miss Goodham ain't impressed by your title and fortune, and you can't bear that. You were getting revenge.”

“Not I.” The duke stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“To see Miss Wilson.”

“Excellent idea,” commented Mr. Delaney dryly. “You have been neglecting her shamefully and, after all, the members of the demimonde are the only women you know how to cope with.”

“Love is making you silly,” said the duke nastily.

His bad temper was exacerbated when he drove up in front of Penelope Wilson's slim house in Manchester Square to see Lord Herne taking his leave. He took out the key he had to the house, and let himself in without ringing the bell, and ran nimbly up the stairs to Penelope's bedchamber.

She was lying in bed, half asleep. But she shot up in bed when she saw him, her eyes wide and startled.

“I saw Herne leaving,” he snapped. “I am paying for your favors, ma'am.”

“He only called to pay his respects,” she said, stifling a yawn.

“People like Herne do not call to pay their respects to such as you,” he said brutally. “My lawyers will be writing to you. Our arrangement is terminated.”

Her eyes narrowed and a tide of angry red crept up her neck. “So you are turned Methodist now that you are courting that child you were driving in the park. Such a milk-and-water miss. But staying in such a stable as that of Lady Dacey! Does she know what you are like?”

“As I said, you will be hearing from my lawyers.”

He walked out. He was angry with himself. But guilt was an emotion foreign to his nature, and so he did not recognize it for what it was.