Barbara Metzger (5 page)

“Like staying in my room so Prendergast couldn’t make his offer in form? That was brilliant, Dree!”

“And it got us this time. So do not fret yourself, but
do
try to smile at all the rich, handsome, charming earls you meet. It shouldn’t be too difficult. According to Mrs. Harribow at the inn, the gentlemen stopped there on their ride yesterday, and the earl was everything gracious.” She didn’t say how Mrs. Harribow only wanted to go on and on about the other gentleman, the one with blond hair and heavenly blue eyes, in the most elegant clothes that lady had ever seen. “Not high in the instep at all. And George at the livery said he was mounted on
the finest bit of blood and bone in all England, and rode like the wind. ‘A regular goer,’” she quoted.

“Oh dear. You know I can’t… That is, I don’t… They’re so big, Dree.” There went all the color from Carrie’s cheeks, except the spots brushed on.

Dree cursed herself and patted her cousin’s hand. “No gentleman expects a lady to ride neck or nothing, dearest. Just wait till he hears you at the pianoforte. That’s what a man admires.” She spoke authoritatively, to cover her total lack of knowledge, experience, or conviction. Carrie was trained in all the ladylike pursuits such as watercolors and needlework. They had to be worth something, hadn’t they?

Carrie was still worried about the horses, Dree could tell. Her cousin was twisting the strings of her beaded reticule into knots. Dree took the bag from her to untangle. “No matter what else, you can be happy that Lord Prendergast won’t be there tonight. He thinks himself above the common folk who can attend if they have the subscription fee.”

“I heard he once had to partner the butcher’s wife, and that was the last time he came to an assembly.” Carrie’s smile flickered. “Lord Blanford isn’t like that, is he? I mean, he won’t expect me to cut my friends dead, will he, like Mama’s family did? What if he… He might…”

He’d better not, Dree swore to herself, but she told her cousin, “Of course not. He wouldn’t be coming, else. And you know how the whole town was buzzing when Lady Halbersham reserved all those extra tickets.”

“Yes, for those London ladies in her house party. Oh, Dree, I know they’ll put us all to shame with their fine manners and clothes and jewels!”

“No one can outshine you,” Dree said firmly. “And the
on dit
is that those two friends of Lady Halbersham’s are firmly on the shelf. But if they try to capture all the gentlemen’s attention, I’ll…I’ll…” She was sounding
like her cousin now. “I’ll spill punch on their gowns so they have to go home.”

“Dree, you wouldn’t!”

Meg clucked her tongue again. “Miss Audrina, your papa would be shamed, he would.”

Papa would already be mortified if he knew his daughter was wondering what it would be like to wear diamonds and pearls and have an elegant gentleman flirt with her. Perhaps some handsome nobleman would ask her to ride? Dree had never been mounted on anything more exciting than her papa’s old cob. Perhaps he’d sweep her off her feet and away to London, to countless balls and entertainments. Perhaps he’d offer Papa a fortune, for the honor of his daughter’s hand.

Perhaps she’d get so excited if he even noticed her that she’d spill the punch on her own skirts.

Chapter Five

It was just a dance, like countless others the earl had attended, with the same overheated rooms, the same insipid refreshments, the same inane chatter. Unlike most parties Lord Blanford usually graced, here he would be expected to dance with the schoolmaster’s sister, the drayman’s daughter, and the not-so-prepossessing niece of the neighboring squire. He wouldn’t have minded in the ordinary way of things. Didn’t he always have a dance with his housekeeper at Public Day fetes? The mixed company reminded Max of his army days, which he hated, except for the men who’d likewise come from all walks of life. None of their sisters was a suitable Countess of Blanford either. And if he did take the floor, Max told himself, good manners dictated that he dance with his hostess and then the Peckham sisters, his fellow houseguests. Duty dances would take half the evening, with no opportunity to look about him for those females on Viola’s list. He was determined to find his bride as expeditiously as possible.

What convinced him to look for her along the walls rather than on the dance floor, though, was the music. No graceful waltzes for this company; they were too
fast. Instead the small orchestra played country dances, mad jigs and boisterous reels. With all that hopping and capering about in this heat, he’d be wearing his hairpiece as a mustache next.

Max dared not chance it, so he made his excuses as soon as his party was settled in the assembly room. “You’ll have to do the honors tonight, Gordie, Frances. You, too, Warden. My apologies, ladies, I can’t dance. War wound, don’t you know.” He limped off, leaving at least one of his friends openmouthed.

“War wound? I thought he caught a fever, not a bu—Ouch!”

Lord Halbersham kicked Franny. “Not the thing to discuss in front of the ladies.”

Max found the punch bowl, and a convenient post he could lean against, to watch the company. He made note of the females Lady Halbersham dragged Franny toward between dances, to put his name on their cards. From his vantage point, Max could see that Vi kept trying to head Franny toward two specific females, an absolutely stunning blonde and a little redheaded frump of a thing. The smaller chit kept taking the other’s hand and dragging her off, into the arms of the innkeeper, the squire’s son, and other local lads. All of the blonde’s partners gazed worshipfully at the beauty, while the redheaded girl kept throwing glances in Max’s direction, the forward baggage.

The little dowd in the dingy gown wasn’t the only female trying to catch his eye, of course, but Max couldn’t help watching the two girls, and wondering. One was so elegant, with a dress from one of Bond Street’s priciest modistes, if he was any judge, and a diamond necklace that outshone anything in the room. The other was as shabby as the worn-out draperies pulled closed against the night air. She was just as popular as her friend, though, dancing every dance also. The young sprigs she chose as partners didn’t just stare into her eyes, either, they laughed and chatted, and
skipped merrily along. Max was feeling ancient again. Dash it, he thought, if he hadn’t listened to Thistlewaite, he could have been on the dance floor having a high old time, too!

He asked Viola about the two females when the orchestra took a short intermission and his party gathered near the pillar he was supporting.

“The taller one is Miss Carinne Martin. I’ve been trying to introduce her to Franny all night, but the wretched girl keeps moving around and dancing. Her father is Augustus Martin.”

“Of the shipbuilding company?” At Viola’s nod, Max whistled. “Not even Franny could run through that fortune.”

Viola nodded again. “Exactly. And her father is said to be holding out for a title, so it’s perfect. The father is totally unacceptable, of course, but there’s good blood on the mother’s side. Miss Martin has been carefully raised, educated at a very proper young ladies’ seminary in Bath. And she is certainly a beauty. That’s why I’ve been trying to introduce her to Franny all night.”

It sounded ideal, for Franny. “And the other?” he heard himself asking. He watched the redhead laughingly accept her blue ribbon from her last partner and try to tie back the wayward curls that tumbled about her shoulders. That fiery mane would look better spread out on a pillow, he found himself thinking.

“That hoyden?” one of the Peckham sisters asked, jealous of his interest. “She’s naught but a poor relation, hanging on Miss Martin’s sleeve.”

Viola had also noticed Max’s interest, and she read it correctly. “She might be a poor relation, but it’s on the maternal side. One of the Dorset Kennleworths, don’t you know. Besides, she’s the vicar’s daughter, Max, so don’t get any untoward notions. You can take that gleam in your eye straight back to your fancy pieces in
London. I’ll not have you working your wiles on such an innocent child as Audrina Rowe.”

That innocent child was waving her fan at him in unmistakable invitation, unless Max missed his guess. He decided to stroll in that direction. For Franny’s sake.

“Come on, old chap. Let’s see if we have better luck scraping up an invitation to Miss Martin for you. Wealth and beauty, what more can a fellow ask?”

Conversation, for one. Miss Martin kept her eyes on the floor and her lips firmly closed. Luckily the cousin spoke up as soon as the squire’s wife completed the introductions. Unfortunately, the vicar’s daughter addressed all of her remarks to Max. Miss Audrina Rowe seemed determined to ignore Franny altogether, quickly asking about Max’s journey, his first opinions of the neighborhood, even about his horse.

“For you must know the villagers are singing the praises of your mount. My cousin has a great appreciation of fine horseflesh. She rides out all the time, don’t you, Carinne?”

Carinne blanched. She never rode anything but her ancient pony, and then only when no one was about to drive her in the carriage. Franny was squirming. Max crossed his arms over his chest, no help at all.

Audrina was not about to give up. “Do you enjoy music, Lord Blanford? We’re thinking of having a musicale. Carinne has the loveliest voice. I swear, she’s better than any I’ve heard.” Since Dree had heard no trained voices at all, ever, that was not such a rapper as the horseback riding. Encouraged to be once again on the side of the truth, she rushed on: “And watercolors! How Carinne can paint! I only wish I was artistic, but she must have received all of the talent in the family. Have you viewed Somerset House, Lord Blanford? One of Carinne’s instructors had a painting exhibited there. Perhaps you’ve seen it. What was the man’s name, Carrie?”

“Mr.…Mr.…” The beauty raised her eyes in agony to her cousin, but caught Lord Podell’s admiring gaze instead. Franny smiled.

“Not great on names m’self, Miss Martin.”

Carinne smiled back. Dree looked from her beautiful cousin to the beautiful young man in his burgundy velvet coat crisscrossed by fob chains and ribbons. They were gazing at each other like mooncalves. Carrie hadn’t spared a glance for Lord Blanford, keeping her eyes firmly on the toes of her shoes. How could Carrie prefer that dandy to the earl in his understated black with white unmentionables? Lord Blanford was elegant, refined, wearing his obviously expensive clothes with unstudied grace, instead of being worn by starched shirt collars and a cravat that could swaddle three infants. Why, the man was a fop, besides being a fortune hunter!

As the music started up again, Dree turned to the earl. “You don’t dance, my lord?”

So she’d noticed. Max wasn’t surprised. He was used to having females notice his actions. “War wound,” was all he said. “Sorry.”

“My cousin will be pleased to sit out with you, won’t you, Carrie?’“

“But I was… That is, Mr. Thatcher…”

“Why, Mr. Thatcher,” the minx chirped, “here you are right on time for our dance.”

As Max watched, Miss Rowe latched on to a gap-toothed lad in rough clothes who was as coherent as Miss Martin. Max would swear it was the first Mr. Thatcher knew of his promised dance with the little redhead. Before he or Max could protest, though, the chit grabbed the hand of a young female in yellow ruffles and had her partnered to Franny for the
contra danse
forming. They all left, leaving him with the tongue-tied heiress. Max was equally dumbfounded. Dashed if he hadn’t been outmaneuvered by a flea-sized nobody as managing as a dowager duchess. But why?

Viola had said the chit was an innocent, but she’d been casting out lures to him all evening. He’d caught enough in his time to know. The audacious female was a regular flirt who’d make a perfect Cyprian, if she wasn’t a vicar’s daughter. But why hand him, the biggest fish in the matrimonial waters, over to her cousin? What kind of female would do that? None he knew. Most young ladies he knew, in fact, wouldn’t stand next to such a diamond as Miss Martin, much less befriend her. Miss Audrina Rowe was decidedly not an ordinary girl.

Just look at her dance, Max mused, curls tossed every which way, her laughter ringing out when her hair ribbon got lost and trampled. London females would be devastated. They’d be cringing if forced to appear in such an outmoded frock, hiding in the corners so no one saw the darned patches on their gloves. Not Miss Rowe. She was laughing and enjoying herself—and so was her partner. The farm lad had got over his disappointment quickly enough, Max saw, as the boy laughed with her and held her hand longer than the figures of the dance required. Max didn’t like him. He was sure that Thatcher chap was a dirty dish. And hadn’t there been a whiff of the stables still about him?

The earl’s scowl had Carinne cowering at his side, which earned him a fierce look from the cousin, as she and Thatcher turned in the pattern of the dance. Miss Rowe’s frown brought Max back to earth, and back to his manners. He was a gentleman, after all.

“Your cousin is an excellent dancer,” Max put forth.

His conversational offering was the proper choice, for Miss Martin instantly agreed, without a hint of a stutter, even going so far as to add, “She is the finest cousin a girl could have.”

Max’s questions about her other relatives, her preferred dance, and comments on the neighboring scenery, anything he could think of, brought back the stammer. It took all of his charm to coax a complete sentence out
of the beauty. And then it was: “Oh dear, I wish Dree were here.”