Barbara Metzger (23 page)

In her own quiet way, Lisanne saw much and said little. With the two voluble
grande dames
by her side, she was not required to add much to the conversation. When the dowagers weren’t around, St. Sevrin and Trevor kept her entertained with their dissections of the war news, the international influences on commerce, and the state of the government—or outrageous compliments so she’d be used to having the butter boat poured over her head, they insisted.

Lisanne was hardly ever alone. A female wasn’t supposed to be, it seemed. She couldn’t take Becka to the locked park across the street without a footman at her heels. Heaven forfend she go to the bookstore by herself, or walk the short distance.

For now Lisanne was willing to listen to all the strictures and heed the warnings. She was here for one purpose only, and that was to see her husband’s honor polished. If St. Sevrin required her to be a pattern card of conformity in order to be invited to the highest sticklers’ boring parties, she would toe the mark—in shoes. If she had to be dressed to the nines to cast a good reflection on his image, she’d stand for being poked and prodded and dragged from shop to shop. She was going to make him proud of her and satisfied with this marriage, even if it killed her.

At night, alone in her bed, Lisanne had time to reflect on her situation, both the good and the bad. London was filthy, blanketed in soot, choking in poverty. It was also exciting, amusing, and informative. Just so, many of the people she was meeting were vain and empty pleasure-seekers. Why would anyone wish to be acceptable to such people? She’d be happier in the company of the carriage horses. But others, especially among the dowager’s circles of wealthy, powerful women, were able to accomplish untold good with their fund-raising and endowments, pushing their husbands toward legislated reform. Lisanne arranged for Mr. Mackensie to set aside a percentage of her income for just such charitable gifts, in addition to what she handed out to every unfortunate on the streets. When St. Sevrin took his seat, she’d be able to plead her causes with him.

Meanwhile she was becoming accepted. Even the servants at St. Sevrin House were starting to turn to her for orders, not to Aunt Hattie or Kelly or His Grace. She knew they weren’t comfortable with her, the aloof, polite footmen in burgundy livery and the skittery maids in their crisp aprons, but they obeyed her and catered to her wishes. Only the cook seemed actually to welcome her presence, though, especially after Lisanne provided a soothing footbath for her bunions. Mrs. Reilly also put sweetened milk out each night for the Brownies who brought the kitchen luck, so the bread would keep rising and rodents would stay out of her larder. With so many milk-mustached cats in the yard, how could the mice do else? Mrs. Reilly was happy enough to let Lisanne fill her sacks and pockets with rolls, apples, and sugar when she left for the park or the stables. The others, from the pastry cook to the potboy, looked away.

Lisanne saw those same averted glances whenever she arrived at the theater on her husband’s arm or at a milliner’s shop with Aunt Hattie. At formal gatherings ladies stared at her over their fans, as if she couldn’t see their assessing eyes. A few gentlemen ogled her through their absurd quizzing glasses, to be chilled by St. Sevrin’s frown or Lady Comstock’s cut direct. Still, conversations broke off when she arrived, none of the younger females approached her on their own, and practiced hostesses tended to fumble over handing her a teacup.

She was accepted because she had to be—with the queen’s nod, her illustrious sponsors, her title, and her fortune. But she wasn’t approved. Gossip followed and flowed around her like a chiffon overskirt. The Findleys had brought their servants with them to Town, the same servants who had seen Addled Annie reviled all her life. Even if Uncle Alfred never spoke a bitter word, even if that rattlepate Esmé never chattered to her twenty-three bosom bows, rumors flew. St. Sevrin’s cousin Humbert decided country air might be more salubrious to his health after the duke overheard him at White’s, but still the scandalmongers were working overtime. Lisanne had Trevor’s promise not to challenge anyone and her husband’s word not to engage in fisticuffs, not if he wanted to redeem his own reputation. Therefore she wasn’t upset by the gabblegrinders. Her husband was.

Everyone was waiting for her to do something outrageous. Her husband included. Lisanne was used to relatives and strangers looking at her as if she had horns growing out of her head. She wasn’t used to seeing the question in her husband’s dark eyes. That hurt.

While Sloane was being kind, keeping her away from the crushes, walking with Becka and Lisanne in the park, taking her to Horticultural Society lectures, he still needed a drink to face his wife. He still went out again after seeing her to the door after their evening entertainment, giving her a quick kiss for the servants’ benefit. He still came home in the early hours of the morning, loud, unsteady, reeking of spirits and smoke. He still wasn’t a real husband.

They’d have children sooner or later, Lisanne was confident of that. She’d seen the desire in St. Sevrin’s eyes after their all too brief embraces. But how could she share such intimacy with a man who was afraid of her, afraid she’d start banging her head against the wall or start rolling her eyes and speaking in tongues? Sloane trusted her to run his households. He didn’t trust her to give him normal, healthy sons, not even now when she was trying so hard to fit into the mold of propriety. Lisanne never even whistled the sparrows to her hand anymore, except here, at her own bedchamber’s windowsill. Sloane didn’t trust her, so she couldn’t trust him not to walk out of her life the moment she displeased him.

Lisanne felt she was treading on eggshells. St. Sevrin was charming, amusing, respectful of her opinions and appreciative of her womanly charms now that her gowns fit better. She wanted his love.

If her life was going to have any meaning beyond acts of charity and the performance of her duties, Lisanne needed him to love her the way she was coming to love him. He wasn’t perfect, heaven knew, and she wasn’t about to accept his faults without trying her hardest to change them. Still, she could see past those shortcomings to the man underneath, and love him. Why couldn’t he accept her for what she was? Why couldn’t he try to love her, just a little.

*

Dash it, Sloane thought, why couldn’t he protect her the way he’d sworn? Lisanne was being so good, so brave, enduring what no sensitive, intelligent female should have to. Confound it, his duchess could manage a huge estate. She was worth ten of Almack’s simpering debs, so why did she have to suffer being inspected by every bitch and biddy on their committee? And why couldn’t he scotch those blasted rumors? Blister it, Sloane couldn’t fight what he couldn’t see.

Findley
et fils
swore they’d kept their mummers dubbed, and Humbert was forcibly encouraged to seek greener pastures to spread his manure. Damn, the lady was stuck with St. Sevrin; she shouldn’t have to be stuck with a reputation for peculiarity also. Besides, Lisanne’s peculiarities were a deal more endearing than the average miss’s airs and affectations. And she brewed the most effective morning-after remedy he’d ever tried.

Sloane was ready to take his wife home to Devon. She’d been seen, had been declared a diamond of the first water, and had been given the stamp of approval on an Almack’s voucher. What more did anyone want? St. Sevrin wanted her happy, and he wanted her to himself. He wanted her, period. Possessive, protective, physically attracted—but it wasn’t love he felt, the duke told himself. He couldn’t love, couldn’t be faithful to one woman. He never had been, never would be. Then again, he’d never gone so long without any woman at all, a sacrifice in his effort not to disgrace Lisanne. He’d shown her the delights of London; now he wanted to show her the delights of the marriage bed, without his best friend and his aunt looking on.

Aunt Hattie wouldn’t hear of them leaving Town yet. Lisanne hadn’t attended Almack’s or a single rout party, to confront and confound the
ton
en masse. As a matter of fact, Lady Comstock declared, Lisanne ought to stay until they could throw a grand ball in her honor. Lisanne couldn’t think of many things she’d like less—the plague, perhaps—and St. Sevrin knew the preparations for one of his aunt’s extravaganzas could take months. “Why can’t she just share the Findley chit’s come-out in two weeks?” he asked at dinner that night. “It’s being held in Lisanne’s own house, after all.”

“Or you could move the cousin’s presentation over to here,” Trevor suggested. “The ballroom is larger, and you’d put out a more lavish spread than that nip-cheese Findley.”

St. Sevrin put down his fork. “No, that won’t do. I’ve forbidden the dastard my house. I don’t intend to go back on my word now and have that leech trying to bleed Lisanne dry.”

“If the ball is at Neville House,” Aunt Hattie mused over her turbot in oyster sauce, “then by rights the two of you ought to be on the receiving line.”

Lisanne was used to letting the others make such decisions. Someone was always telling her where to go or what to wear, and she really didn’t mind, since they knew London ways better than she did. This time, though, she cleared her throat. Three pairs of eyes turned in her direction. The leaves were all removed from the mahogany table, so there was no vast distance between St. Sevrin at the head and Lisanne at the foot. Tonight it seemed like a mile. Lisanne felt that Sloane just wanted to see the job of introducing her around over and done, so he could pack her off to Devon and get on with his life. “I will not share Esmé’s come-out.”

As far as St. Sevrin was concerned, that was that. They were already asking a lot of Lisanne. If she didn’t want to stand next to that gormless family, so be it. “Fine, we’ll give out that the Findleys are merely renting Neville House. You wouldn’t be expected to be hostess or honoree at a tenant’s affair. We don’t even have to attend.”

Aunt Hattie almost choked on her asparagus. “What, do you want to undo all our work? The Findleys are encroaching mushrooms, but they are Lisanne’s encroaching mushrooms and everyone knows that. Do you want them to think that she is not welcomed by her own family? Or”—another choke—“that she charged them for the use of her house?”

Lisanne cleared her throat again. When she had their attention, she quietly explained, “I did not say I wouldn’t go, just that I wouldn’t stand on the receiving line or share Esmé’s limelight when she has planned for this night her entire life. I’ll have many other opportunities; my cousin will not, if I know my uncle.”

Trevor nodded, impressed. “Deuced generous of you, Duchess, considering.”

Aunt Harriet knew better than to waste her breath arguing with her niece-by-marriage when Lisanne made one of her soft, even-toned declarations. The chit was nigh immovable when she got on her uppers. “But you’ll attend?”

“Yes, I’ll attend, Aunt Hattie, and hope that you will accompany me to lend your countenance to Esmé’s presentation. And you, Your Grace, will please dance at least one dance with Esmé to raise her status among the other debs.”

“Thank you, my sweet. That’s the first time anyone has considered my dancing with a young miss to be anything less than scandalous.”

“Hell,” Trevor muttered into his napkin, “it’s the first time I’ve been glad of my wooden leg.”

Aunt Hattie had plans of her own for that ball at Neville House. A hint here, a reminder there, and she and Viscountess Roehampton would have every notable in Town at that party. At long last they’d all make the acquaintance of the newest reigning Toast and her reformed rake. That spotted chit’s come-out would be successful beyond her mother’s fondest dreams. Feckless Findley and his featherheaded wife might even get the chit fired off in one Season, when all the bucks and beaux came to ogle St. Sevrin’s duchess.

Yes, they’d attend the ball at Neville House and kill off those unpleasant rumors once and for all. So content was Aunt Hattie with her plan that she thought she might even warn the Findleys to expect a few more guests. A few hundred more. Aunt Hattie helped herself to another serving of syllabub as a reward. Yes, Sir Alfred would just love laying out his blunt for all those extra lobster patties and bottles of champagne.

Aunt Harriet’s excellent plan was sure to succeed except for one thing: the ball was going to be cancelled. Esmé was sick. With less than two weeks before the party, Sir Alfred was ailing, too, since he had already ordered the extra supplies. With such elevated company now expected, his wife had insisted on more flowers, a finer orchestra, and additional servants. Findley immediately dismissed the new help—and a few of the old.

When he was told the news, St. Sevrin decided the Findley chit must be suffering the green sickness because her beautiful, wealthy cousin would be making her first formal appearance at the ball. People were coming to see Lisanne, not some brash baronet’s bran-faced daughter, and everyone knew it. If the brat had any honor, she’d be mortified that the ball was being held in Lisanne’s house, without Lisanne’s name on the invitations. Then again, if the brat had any honor, Lady Findley must have played her husband false.

He marched over to Neville House to demand the ball proceed as planned, sulky debutante or not. No one, least of all that flat, Findley, who’d caused all the difficulties in the first place, was going to steal Lisanne’s chance to shine. If they weren’t going to hold the party, Sloane would give the Findleys two days to pack and vacate his wife’s house. Then he’d hire an army to remake the party for Lisanne. She wouldn’t like it, but if they couldn’t leave London until she had a ball, then a ball she would have. And it would be the finest one money—her money—could provide. If that’s what it took to put to rest any notion that the Duchess of St. Sevrin was some harum-scarum hare-brain, that’s what the duke would do.

Unfortunately Esméralda truly was sick. Sloane met two doctors leaving as he entered Neville House. He knew both by reputation and couldn’t discount their claims that the chit was seriously ill with blinding headaches, nausea, and fever. One of the doctors even suggested the girl might succumb to the mysterious ailment. The eminent physicians were arguing as St. Sevrin handed his hat and gloves to the butler. “I say she should be bled to relieve pressure on the brain.”