A Sisterly Regard (26 page)

"Will she be tarred with the same brush as Chloe, do you
think?"

"No, I do not. So far she has taken well. Not spectacularly, but
there is certainly interest aplenty in her. Even that dreadful lady
Everingham has said she is nicely behaved."

"Well, I don't like it, but I'll leave you to settle her then. Still
think Farwell's the man for her, though."

Satisfied she had won the concessions she needed for today, she
laid her head on his shoulder. "George, I am truly in need of a nap."

"And do you wish company, my lady?"

"You know I do," she replied, as she pulled him to his feet. "Let
us stop acting as parents and take joy in each other's company."

* * * *

Phaedra, upon reaching her bedchamber, found herself too
overwrought to sleep. She removed her dress and curled up in bed, but
her eyes remained open and her body tense.

Mr. Farwell--Reginald Farwell, useless but decorative man
about Town--had actually asked for her hand in marriage. Even if made for
all the wrong reasons, she, Phaedra Estelle Hazelbourne, had received a
bona fide
offer.

Chloe had been wrong, after all. She was not to receive offers
only from widowers wanting mothers for their children. A member of the
ton
had asked for her. Never mind that he was an absurd fop and
cared nothing for intellectual pursuits, never mind that he did not love
her, but only admired her kind heart and sensible outlook--he wanted to
marry her. She would cherish his offer all her life, because he was at the
forefront of Society, a fact that had initially made her question Society's
collective wisdom.

Phaedra had always compared herself to Chloe. How could
anyone notice her beside someone so bright, so personable, so...so
lovable? Particularly, how could someone so much a part of Society as
Reginald Farwell consider her, a plain gray dove rather than a bright
peacock, as a wife?

She had secretly agreed with Chloe, that she would eventually
marry someone older, more settled. Someone staid, for anyone exciting
and interesting would not be interested in her. She had almost resigned
herself to remaining unmarried, even to receiving no flattering
offers.

But someone had offered for her. Not a sober, settled older
man, but a Pink of the
Ton
, a graceful, handsome, polished man.
That he dressed in outrageous fashion...that he fell asleep whenever the
conversation bored him...did either matter? He had asked for her hand,
and she would always treasure the gesture. Oh, she was grateful to Mr.
Farwell, even knowing she could not be the sort of wife he wanted.

If only I could love him.

She tried to imagine him kissing her the way she had seen Papa
kissing Mama on rare occasions when they thought themselves
unobserved. Long ago she had decided that she wanted that kind of loving
passion for herself, even though the very thought of having a man's hands
on her body sent embarrassing waves of heat through her.

No, I simply cannot imagine doing
that
with Reggie
Farwell.

Yet the very thought of his lips touching hers, warm and
intimate, brought a strange, fluttery sensation to her middle.

Phaedra forced herself to stop indulging in silly, romantic
fantasies. She told herself that Mr. Farwell's offer had nothing to do with
her more sterling qualities. It stemmed from pity, pure and simple.

As a long time member of the
haut
ton
,
Reggie Farwell was, probably more than most, conversant with gossip and
rumor. Surely Lady Everingham's evil tongue had not confined itself to
Chloe's reputation, but had attacked hers as well. Since she and her sister
were so similar in appearance, they were often thought of as being just
alike. Thus, if Chloe's reputation was in tatters, so must hers be. Society
would not care that she was the sensible sister. She would be considered as
shameless--no, have the word with no bark upon it--as wanton as her
sister.

Those three friends of Wilderlake who had seen Chloe in the inn
had assumed her to be a cyprian. They would not keep silent, she was
certain. Chloe had vowed that the one called Colly had been quite aware
of who she was, for she had danced with him at their come out.

So. Mr. Farwell had offered for her in order to save her
reputation, knowing that no one else would care enough to do so. She did
not understand why he, with whom she had ever disagreed, had done so,
but she appreciated his kind gesture.

But marry him? She could not.

How could she ever love such a man, with his garish clothing
and his mincing manners, and most of all, his sleepiness? And what did she
know of him, after all? He had spoken of hobnobbing with Mr. Brummel,
of attending house parties at various estates, and of hunting with the
Quorn.

Her father must have been satisfied with his prospects, or he
would not have considered Mr. Farwell's suit. Papa would never allow
one of his daughters to marry where she would not be comfortably
situated, though he would not demand a vast fortune. No matter. Mr.
Farwell's life style could never be hers, and that was the end of it.

She forced her eyes closed and tried to sleep, but the same
thoughts kept scurrying about in her head.
Reginald Farwell wants to
marry me.

She did not love him. She would not marry him.

Reginald Farwell wants me.

She finally drifted into sleep, but her dreams were
uncomfortable. She awoke with a splitting headache when Cousin Louisa
tapped on her door.

"Your mother thought you might wish to stay in your room
tonight. She and your father are doing so." Cousin Louisa set the tray on a
table near the window.

"Oh, thank you. I could not have faced Papa tonight. He is so
disappointed in me. Did Mama tell you?"

"She told me this morning that your father had received an offer
for you and that you would probably refuse. I take it you did?" Cousin
Louisa held a dressing gown out for Phaedra to don.

"Yes. Did she tell you from whom?"

"She did not have to. I have been expecting Mr. Farwell to offer
for you for some time."

"How did you know? I mean, he gave me no indication that his
intentions were such. Cousin Louisa, the man hardly spoke to me but to
criticize what he called my intellectual pretensions. We disagreed every
time we met."

"That was why," came the answer. "When he woke enough to
dispute with you, I was sure he was interested. My late husband knew Mr.
Farwell when he was at Eton. He was vastly amused with the young man's
predilection for napping whenever he wanted to avoid a situation." She
smiled, as if she shared her husband's amusement. "I never saw Mr.
Farwell show so much animation with other young ladies as he did when
you and he were brangling, even though he flattered them effusively and
was all that was polite."

"But he is such a useless, fashionable person. I know we should
not suit, even if I were to learn to care for him!"

"Of course not, my dear. I was not trying to change your mind.
I merely told you of my observations. Here. Come and eat. After a good,
substantial supper, followed by a hot bath, you will rest very well.
Tomorrow will be better."

She pushed Phaedra unresisting into the chair she had pulled to
the table. Lifting the covers, she revealed a large platter of thick cream
soup, a dish of spiced applesauce, and a buttered muffin. "I told Cook that
you would not wish anything heavy. I will put the teapot on the hearth so
it will not cool while you eat. Good night, my dear."

Phaedra ate with relish. After she had cleaned the tray of edibles,
she poured herself a cup of tea and sat musing. Perhaps she was being
unfair to refuse Mr. Farwell's offer out of hand. Would he consider
waiting for an answer until they were better acquainted?

No. That would not do. She did not love him and they had
nothing in common. But still... She toyed with the notion of asking him to
wait for an answer.

When her bath arrived, she was no closer to a decision. The
dilemma kept her from relaxing completely in the tub of warm water. The
problem was, she finally admitted to herself, that despite all the very good
reasons why she should do so, she did not really want to refuse her one
and only offer out of hand.

Despite her confusion and indecision, Cousin Louisa's
prescription for a good night's sleep must have worked. When she finally
climbed into her warmed bed, she fell asleep immediately and slept the
night through, with no bad dreams.

* * * *

By the time Lord Wilderlake and his new lady wife reached
Claridge's Hotel, Chloe was more than a little apprehensive. She realized
she knew nothing about this man who she had married, except that he was
handsome, thoughtful, quiet, and moderately wealthy. On the short trip
to their night's lodgings, he had been polite, excessively so, she
thought.

Perhaps he is as anxious as I. Oh, no, how could he be? He is a
man.

She dutifully explored and admired the suite that her new
husband had engaged for their wedding night, until she came to its single
bedchamber. Her polite smile froze on her face as she stood in the
doorway of the room in which she was to share a bed with this stranger.
Suddenly his dark face and lowering brows seemed threatening, and she
shrank away from him as he stood behind her looking into her nuptial
chamber.

Wilderlake, too, was suddenly aware of the lack of a second
bedchamber. He had not specified a larger suite. Now he wished he had.
As he stood behind this stranger whom he now called wife and looked into
the elegant bedchamber, with its silken white hangings and its immense
bed, he became aware of Chloe's withdrawal. Feelings hurt, he said, "I
have arranged for one of the hotel maids to assist you, my lady. I shall
retire to the lobby until you are settled. Please send for me when you are
ready to dine." He bowed to her and hurried to the door.

He found a chair in a corner of the lobby and threw himself into
it. Calling a footman, he requested that a bottle of brandy be brought to
him.
My God, what have I done? We are practically strangers, and she is
afraid of me.

Alternately regretting his chivalrous gesture and wondering how
to go about bedding his wife, he sipped at the strong spirits until a footman
informed him that his wife desired his escort to the dining room.

He could think of nothing more unnerving than to sit in a public
room among strangers, while he dined for the first time with his wife. He
arranged for dinner to be served to them in their suite. "Oysters," he said,
remembering what he had heard about their effects upon manly prowess.
"And champagne, let there be champagne." He quickly listed several other
dishes that were to his taste, and added, "Bring sweets too. Something a
lady would choose."

Satisfied with his own cleverness and fortified with bottled
courage, he made his way carefully to the stairs. When he knocked on the
door of their suite, Chloe opened it.

Wilderlake stalked into the room with careful dignity. He
looked his new wife up and down, then awkwardly enfolded her in his
arms.

Chloe, smelling brandy on his breath, drew her head away. His
arms tightened, pulling her against his hard body. "My wife," he
muttered. "Got a right to kiss my wife." He found her mouth and pressed
his lips against it.

Chloe had been kissed before. She considered herself quite
sophisticated. But this was nothing like the gentle kisses she had hitherto
experienced. His lips were open on hers and his tongue probed at her
sealed lips.

"You reek of brandy." she cried, jerking her head to one side.
"No! Let me go!"

Undaunted, he nibbled at her earlobe, sending little shivers
along her spine. Confused, embarrassed at the strange, new feelings his
touch engendered, she once again attempted escape. But her arms were
pinioned between them and she was his captive.

He returned to her mouth and probed her lips with his
tongue.

She sank her teeth into his lower lip.

"Ow!" he yelled, releasing her. Blood welled from his lip. He
held his hand against the wound for a moment, then pulled it away, staring
at the glistening stain on his fingers. "You little vixen."

He reached for her again, but was distracted by a knock on the
door. When he opened it, three waiters entered, carrying large trays.
They cleared the table of its knickknacks and unloaded their trays. Two
champagne buckets, each holding an iced bottle, were placed beside the
table. A waiter opened one and filled two tall stemmed glasses with the
golden, bubbly libation.

"Will that be all, my lord?" the first waiter asked.

Wilderlake, who was holding a handkerchief to his bleeding lip,
nodded. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a guinea and tossed it to
the leader. "Yes, that will be all. You may clear in the morning. We will
not wish to be disturbed again this night."

As soon as the door had closed behind the waiters, Wilderlake
said, "Be seated, my lady. Our dinner grows cold." He held her
chair.

With a wary glance at him, Chloe sat. She reached for a serving
spoon, saying shyly, "May I serve you, my lord?"

"First a toast." He handed her one champagne glass and raised
the other. "To us, my dear. May we build a comfortable life
together."

Chloe smiled as best she could. She wanted to tell him that her
dreams of marriage were for more than comfort. At her come out ball,
she had discovered a taste for champagne. Tonight it seemed even better.
She drained her glass. "May I have more?"

He refilled both their glasses. When she offered him the plate of
spiced beef, he waved it away and pulled the platter of shelled oysters to
him. "I have little appetite. I shall just eat a few of these while you enjoy
the rest." He ate the slimy shellfish slowly, dabbing occasionally at his still
oozing lip. Each time he slipped one of the revolting things between his
lips, Chloe had to contain a shudder.