A Lady of Letters (2 page)

Her sister bit her lip. "I meant no such thing, Gus, you know I didn't. It's just that..." Her words trailed off with a sigh.

"Come now, let's have no long faces." Augusta quickly changed the subject. "What was it you were in such a hurry to tell me?"

"Oh, as to that, Mama was wondering if you might attend Crestleigh's ball with me tonight. She is having one of her megrims and wishes to stay in bed. Of course, if you do not wish to, I should be happy to stay at home as well."

"And forgo an evening of watching Stonehill whisper insipid verses in your ear and Evershaw try not to tread on your toes as he gazes like a mooncalf into your eyes? How could I ever pass up such entertainment?"

"They mean well, poor things," she said, trying to stifle a giggle. "You don't mind, then?"

"I am looking forward to it—why, just yesterday I purchased a turban for exactly this sort of occasion."

Marianne rolled her eyes. "Rather, wear your figured emerald silk and see just who needs a chaperone." On that note, she picked herself up and left as precipitously as she had entered.

Augusta gave a little shake of her head as the door fell shut. What an odd notion her sibling had taken into that lovely head of hers, to imagine that she might be of the slightest attraction to the opposite sex. It was just as well it was utter nonsense. She hadn't time to waste fending off unwanted suitors, not if she was to get done all the things that she needed to in the next few months. Already she was a tad behind schedule to meet her next deadline.

And then there was the real reason she had agreed to leave the comfortable environs of Greenfield Manor and endure the distractions of a Season in Town. Good lord, she hadn't even had a chance to begin looking into that, she thought grimly. Perhaps tonight would provide the opportunity to start asking a few discreet questions. Her brow furrowed slightly as she turned her mind to formulating a plan for her investigation. That it would take luck as well as logic to succeed had already occurred to her. Being a female was going to be a great hindrance in this matter, but with Jamison's help, they might manage to discover what was needed.

The chiming of the clock on the mantel chased such thoughts away for the time being. If she applied herself, she decided on looking at the notes before her, she might be able to finish another page of her writing before it was time to dress for the evening.

But first, she would finish that interesting letter that had just arrived from Pritchard's office.

Sheffield strolled through the packed ballroom, noting with wry exasperation that at least four young cubs fresh from the country were wearing the same burgundy and charcoal striped waistcoat that he had sported last week at Audley's ball. Making a mental note to have his valet destroy it at once, he took glass of champagne from a passing waiter and swept his gaze over the latest array of young ladies to make their come out.

After a long look, his mouth tugged down at the corners. Hell's teeth, was he really getting so old? Why, the chits looked like mere children! And no doubt their thoughts would match their smiling faces—bland, agreeable, scrubbed of all hint of originality, . He drained his glass and turned in search of another.

"What? None of the newest Incomparables meet with your august approval? I had though the blond, at least, might catch your eye."

"Really, Fitz, when have you known me to consider ravishing little girls? " he muttered, moving restlessly towards a corner of the room. "Innocents have little appeal to me." His current unsettled mood led him to be more acerbic than usual. "Take the blonde you mentioned—I wager there is not one word worth hearing that would come from that rosebud mouth. And most assuredly she would have no idea of how to make any other part of her anatomy more... interesting."

His friend gave a muffled guffaw.

"No," he continued. "The trouble far outweighs any sort of reward one might expect. I shall stick to more mature ladies, who at least offer some sort of recompense for having to endure their inane chatter."

The two of them had paused beside a towering arrangement of potted palms woven with a cascade of ivy spilling from the terra cotta containers. The Earl's friend finished his drink and gave one more glance around the room. "I fear you are right. This evening promises to be a dead bore. Nothing here but scheming mamas looking to make a match. Care to join me for a bottle at White's? I might also decide to try my luck at that new gaming hell off Pall Mall."

Sheffield slapped at one of the long fronds brushing the shoulder of his immaculately tailored evening jacket. "Perhaps I will join you later," he said curtly.

The other man's brow furrowed a bit at the Earl's sharp tone, then he simply shrugged and backed off through the swirl of dancing couples.

Sheffield's attention turned once again to the crowded ballroom. Somehow, the violins were starting to sound like the screech of an owl, the deep bass of the violas no better than the lowing of a cow. The mingled laughter rang shrill to his ears and the scent of the flowers seemed unbearably cloying. His mood grew even darker as he rued the force of habit that had caused him to dress with great care and come out, even though his inclination had been to retreat to his library and begin perusing the sheaf of articles he had lately gathered on the state of child labor. Firebrand's essay had piqued him to look into the matter and it was proving a most interesting subject.

Abandoning his usual nonchalant manner, he turned abruptly on his heel—only to collide with a another figure nearly hidden in the wave of fronds. A goodly amount of lemonade splashed onto his cravat and dribbled down the front of his waistcoat. As he watched the sticky liquid turned the embroidered cream silk a sickly shade of yellow, the look of faint ennui on his countenance dissolved into an expression of undisguised anger.

"Damnation." The words slipped out of his mouth, just loudly enough to be heard. His eyes came up from the ruined garment, only to find the subject of his curse was a female. Still, his ire was roused enough that he continued on, despite the look of shock on her ashen face. "Cannot you look where you are going?" he snapped. Taking in the spectacles perched on her nose, he added, "Or do you require even more than four eyes to avoid being a menace to Society?"

"I... I..." she stuttered.

"Eyes, not eye. Plural, not singular. Try keeping them open!" He knew it was hardly fair, using such biting sarcasm on one who clearly would not have the wits nor the backbone to fight back, but he found he couldn't restrain himself.

The young lady drew in a sharp intake of breath.

The Earl's eyes pressed closed. Hell's teeth, that was all he needed! No doubt the chit was about to dissolve in a fit of hysterics and the whole room would know of this ridiculous incident. Why hadn't he reined in his temper—

"Pompous ass."

His lids flew open. "What!" She had spoken so softly that he wasn't sure he had heard her correctly.

The young lady's hand flew to her mouth, as if it could belatedly snatch the words back. But instead of mumbling some distraught apology, she sucked in another breath and went on. "And a vulgar one as well. How dare you speak of the young ladies here as if they were... idiots."

With a start he realized she must have overheard his previous words. His lips compressed. He was certainly not showing to advantage in this whole mess, but somehow, the knowledge only goaded him to further rudeness.

"They are idiots. All of them." By the way his disdainful gaze slowly traveled the full length of her person as he spoke, he made it quite clear she was not excluded from the sweeping generalization.

She gasped, whether in horror or outrage he wasn't sure. Then he looked through the glass lens of her spectacles and caught sight of the storm of indignation swirling in a sea of hazel frothed with specks of gold. Oh, it was anger all right, nearly as tempestuous as his own. For a moment he regarded the face glaring up at him. Or rather straight at him, for she could hardly be described as diminutive. She was not quite so young as the other misses gathered under the watchful eyes of their chaperones. Aside from the intriguing eyes, which showed no lack of expression, her cheekbones were high and prominent, her mouth a little wider than conventional beauty allowed, giving her features a certain unique character. She was not exactly pretty, but... interesting, especially now that a flush of color had returned to her cheeks and several tendrils the color of wheat at harvest time had escaped the simple arrangement of her hair and fallen to accentuate the graceful curve of her neck.

By now, she had finally managed to think of a reply to his mocking statement. "Well, why are you complaining, then? I... I thought that is what men wanted—ladies who are idiots."

He was rather surprised she hadn't simply turned tail by now and slunk away. Never had he encountered a female who dared raise her voice to him—or any gentleman—much less mutter unflattering epithets. She was certainly exhibiting an unusual spirit to go along with her looks, he granted. However, right now such singular behavior was only serving to fan the flames of his temper.

His dark brows drew together in a manner calculated to appear intimidating. "Ah, but what we want are charming idiots," he countered. "Well behaved idiots. Not ones whose tongues are sharper than their wits and who have no better common sense than to create a hoydenish scene in a crowded ball room." His gaze raked over her once again, taking in the defiant tilt of her chin, the unladylike scowl. "With such lack of restraint, not to speak of clumsiness, no wonder you have reached an advanced age with no success in snaring a husband."

Her color deepened to a bright red. She stood utterly tongue tied for several moments, her mouth opening then shutting without a sound coming forth. Then, with the half empty glass still clutched in her hand, she whirled and disappeared behind the trees.

Sheffield's mouth thinned into a tight line. That had been needlessly cruel, he thought with a twinge of conscience. It wasn't at all like him to act in such a ungentlemanly fashion, but somehow the chit had caused the frayed ends of his patience to snap. He supposed he ought to follow her and make some apology. He had been wrong to let his damnable temper cause him to lose control. If he were honest with himself, she had not been entirely to blame for the unfortunate incident. After all, his words had been rather harsh and, as she had put it, rather vulgar.

The young lady—for despite his cutting words, she did not appear to be entirely on the shelf—didn't deserve to be so ruthlessly skewered for trying to defend those of her sex. She had shown more grit than he had ever expected in a female, even though she had been no match in trying to cross verbal swords with him.

His lips suddenly twitched as he recalled she hadn't been totally unable to express herself. Why, she had called him a pompous ass! A glance down at his ruined garment caused another wry grimace. He could almost believe the chit had done it on purpose, but that would most likely be according her too much credit for clever retribution. At least, she had made his decision on how to pass the rest of the evening a simple one. He had no choice but to return to his townhouse and change out of the sticky mess. And given the way the evening had been progressing, the thought of reading by the fire seemed even more appealing.

Odious coxcomb!

Augusta took a deep breath and tried to settle her seething emotions. Why was it she seemed to need ink and paper in front of her to compose her thoughts properly? From her pen, the right words seemed to run with an exuberant spontaneity while when in the presence of strangers they tripped on her tongue, tangling themselves in such a way as to make her sound, well, idiotic, if she spoke at all. Only the fact that she had been absolutely furious over the insult to Marianne had allowed her to make such a bold assault on the gentleman before her natural reticence reasserted itself. That she had turned and fled without coming up with even a halfway pithy retort to his insult made her annoyance with herself even greater.