Enchanting Pleasures (4 page)

Phoebe squared her shoulders and took Gabby’s hand again. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t leave you alone. But perhaps you should fix your hair. It’s all falling down again.”

Gabby put a tentative hand up to her hair. “Drat!” She had deliberately tried not to touch it ever since putting it up that morning, in hopes of meeting Peter while looking her best. Gabby snatched off her bonnet and handed it to Phoebe.

Long experience had taught her that the only way to make an acceptable arrangement out of her long, messy curls was to start from the beginning.

Quill turned around from his conversation with the purser and paused, riveted to the spot. Gabrielle Jerningham was pulling pins from her hair. It was falling down her back, long bronze locks rushing in a tangled glory down to her bottom. Quill swallowed. He’d never seen a lady’s hair down in a public place, and here was Miss Jerningham—Gabby—blithely shaking her curls, as if the crowd of stevedores, sailors, and boatmen around her were naught.

Those men were staring, mouths agape, at the delectable young woman who appeared to be undressing in their midst.

Quill was at her side in a moment, his face like thunder. “Where the devil is your lady’s maid?”

Gabby blinked. “I don’t have one,” she replied. “My father never believed in them; he said that any lady worth her salt could climb into her own garments.”

“A
lady
does not groom herself in public!”

For the first time Gabby looked around them, catching a glimpse of the men just as they hastily turned away.

“I’m afraid I’m used to being on display,” she said brightly. “In the village, my father and I were the only Europeans. My hair was considered to be a good-luck charm—”

She broke off as Mr. Dewland grabbed her arm. “Come along, Miss Jerningham.” He looked down at Phoebe, who still clutched Gabby’s bonnet. “Here, give me that.” He took the bonnet and plopped it on top of Gabby’s head. It looked absurd.

“Miss Jerningham.” His voice was a command.

Gabby gave a little shrug and took Phoebe’s hand. She could put up her hair in the carriage.

She climbed into Mr. Dewland’s vehicle, tucked Phoebe next to her, and then briskly wound her hair into a knot on the back of her head.

“That looks much nicer,” Phoebe said as Gabby stuck in a few extra pins for good luck.

Quill looked at her and couldn’t think of anything to say. He’d never seen a woman more in need of a lady’s maid in his life. She had taken all that mass of gorgeous hair and stuck it up on her head somehow, but even he could see that it was tilting to the right, and in a matter of two minutes it would start falling out of its coil.

And now that he looked at Gabby more closely, he could see that the overall impression of inelegance he caught on the wharf was due to her clothing as well as her hair. She wasn’t very tall, and she seemed to have a rather—well, plumpish figure.

Quill’s heart sank and he drove home in silence. His mood didn’t appear to bother Gabby. She and Phoebe chattered about every bit of London they could see from the carriage. Gabby’s voice matched her face. It was slightly husky, a beautiful, dark, deep voice that spoke of bedtime pleasures to Quill’s mind.

But Peter—what was Peter going to say? There was no way to wrap it up in white linen: Peter was engaged to marry a plump, untidy girl who seemed to have no ladylike graces at all. The women Peter appreciated were tall, graceful sylphs. They were cool and sophisticated, women whose personal taste made them a match for Peter’s exquisitely groomed person. They did not have sensuous mouths and voices that sounded provocative even when talking about the most innocent things.

Quill snuck another look at Gabby. Perhaps if they hired a maid—well, they had to hire a maid! But, no, it was impossible to imagine Gabby metamorphosing into a woman of distinction. Her hastily bundled hair had already drooped and fallen to the right side.

As soon as they reached the house he would send Gabby up to her room and instruct his mother’s maid to wait on her. Something had to be done about that hair before Peter returned.

As Gabby walked up the steps to the portico of her future home, it was an even toss as to whether Phoebe held on tighter to her hand or she to Phoebe’s. Her brother-in-law had almost wrenched her out of the carriage. Suddenly he seemed to be in a terrible hurry, and even now she sensed that he was practically poking her from behind in his urgency to enter the house.

The door swung open as she reached the top step. A plump man stood in the entryway, murmuring a greeting. He bowed so low that Gabby was afraid that his powdered wig might fall to the ground. And he was so meticulously dressed that for a moment she took him for the viscount. But he said hello without meeting her eyes. Mr. Dewland seemed to feel no inclination to make an introduction, simply instructing the man to fetch their belongings from the wharf.

As he took her cloak, Gabby paused and put her hand on his arm.

“Thank you,” she said smiling. “Did Mr. Dewland call you Codswallop?”

The butler’s eyes widened. “He did, my lady. That is, Miss Jerningham. My name is Codswallop.”

Thank goodness, Gabby thought. Codswallop is not nearly as pompous as he first appeared, all starched up and fussy in his livery. She twinkled at him. “I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Codswallop. May I introduce Miss Phoebe Pensington? She will be staying with us for a brief time.”

Codswallop bowed as if he were meeting the queen. “Miss Phoebe.” Then he added, “The household is most pleased to know that you have safely arrived in England, Miss Jerningham.” He smiled before he could stop himself. “I am generally addressed as Codswallop, not Mr. Codswallop.”

“Do forgive me,” Gabby replied. “I am afraid there are many English customs that I have to learn. I have already thrown Mr. Dewland out of countenance by taking down my hair on the wharf.”

Quill broke in before Gabby could detail the hundreds of social blunders she was likely to make or had already made. “Miss Jerningham would undoubtedly like to refresh herself, Codswallop. Please direct her to her chamber, and ask Stimple to aid her.”

“I regret to say that Stimple has accompanied Lady Dewland to Bath, sir.”

Quill frowned. Of course his mother wouldn’t stir out of the house without her maid. What the devil was he to do now?

Codswallop opened the doors to the Indian Drawing Room. “I shall ring for tea,” he announced. “And I shall inform Mrs. Farsalter that Miss Jerningham is without a lady’s maid for the nonce. Mrs. Farsalter will solve this dilemma.”

“Oh, thank you, Codswallop!” Gabby smiled at the butler. “I had no idea that lady’s maids were so important in England. I’m afraid I shall have to rely on you and Mrs. Farsalter. Is she your housekeeper?”

Gabby turned expectantly to Quill, but a small voice broke in.

“I did not travel with a lady’s maid either.”

Gabby smiled down at Phoebe. “I feel quite certain that between them Mrs. Farsalter and Codswallop will find us two lady’s maids in the twitch of an eyelash!”

Codswallop surprised himself by nearly chuckling. “I believe that Mrs. Farsalter will wish to hire a governess for Miss Phoebe, if she is making a prolonged visit,” he observed.

“After you, Miss Jerningham,” Quill said in a tone ripe with suppressed irritation. He cast a lowering glance at Codswallop, who hastily backed away and disappeared into the servants’ quarters with their outer garments.

“Oh, goodness,” Gabby said faintly, as she walked into the room. “What—what a lovely chamber.”

Quill looked around. “My mother’s idea.”

Gabby walked rather tentatively over to a particularly monstrous table featuring a seated tiger as its pedestal.

Phoebe trotted after her and patted the animal’s head.

“Where did this piece of furniture come from?” Gabby asked, with some curiosity.

“My mother calls this the Indian Drawing Room, Miss Jerningham. Her fond hope was to establish herself as a leader of London fashion. Her designer assured her that Indian furnishings were going to be the next rage.”

He shrugged. “Unfortunately, it didn’t happen. But having spent so much money to become Indian, my father is unwilling to return to being merely English.”

Gabby looked at him sharply. Erskine Dewland’s face might not express much, but she could hear just the faintest hint of laughter in his tone.

She took it as an invitation and smiled back hugely. “How odd it is,” she remarked, her eyes dancing, “that we had no tiger tables in our household, given that I have lived in India my whole life. In fact, I do not remember ever seeing such…such lavishly tigerish furniture before.”

Quill did not smile, but his eyes laughed.

“I must beg you not to reveal such an unpleasant truth to my mama,” he said, leaning against the mantelpiece. “You see, having spent some twenty thousand pounds to achieve this Indian extravaganza, she would be devastated to find that most of her Indian treasures were produced in Southampton by a cabinetmaker named Fred Pinkle.”

“Fred Pinkle? You had the furniture investigated!” Gabby accused.

“I should hardly call it an investigation,” Quill remarked, moving over to lean against the back of a high-backed chair. “I used to own shares in the East India Company, so I have a reasonable familiarity with products one might actually buy in that country.”

Gabby’s mouth tightened. “You own part of the East India Company?”

Quill looked up, startled. It was the first time since he met her that Gabby had spoken sharply.

“Does that dismay you for some reason, Miss Jerningham?”

Gabby raised her chin and met his eyes calmly. “No, of course not. It is not my concern. But will you please call me Gabby, Mr. Dewland? We are to be family, after all.”

Quill pushed himself upright. He must have imagined the rebuke in Gabby’s tone. His leg was sending him brutal messages about the long carriage rides to and from Depford.

“Gabby,” he said. “Then you must address me as Quill.”

“Quill? Quill—what a lovely name!”

“Is that a
truly
lovely name, or something akin to the loveliness of this room?”

Gabby giggled, an enchanting low chuckle. “You have caught me out, Mr. Dewl—Quill.” She paused. “May I ask you a question?”

“Naturally.”

“Is your leg causing you pain?” She asked it rather hesitatingly, uncertain whether this question would be considered an outrageous impertinence.

Quill could have answered that. No well-bred young lady would ever ask such a personal question of a man, let alone of a relative stranger. His mouth quirked into an unwilling grin. Gabby was certainly going to wake up the staid Dewland household.

“I was in a riding accident some six years ago,” he explained. “And while I have been lucky enough to recover my ability to walk, I have difficulty standing for long periods of time.”

Gabby’s brown eyes were glowing with sympathy. “Well, then, why haven’t you sat down, you poor man?”

“Miss Gabby!” Phoebe, who had been wandering about inspecting the many groveling tigers and lions that adorned the viscountess’s furniture, was back at her side. “Mr. Dewland cannot sit until you do. My ayah told me that English gentlemen never, ever sit down in the presence of a lady. I mean, if the lady is standing up.”

Gabby’s face turned rosy. “I am so sorry, Quill!” She whisked around the side of a couch and plumped herself down. “I’m afraid I shall make many mistakes of this nature. My father did not believe in what he called aristocratic flummeries, and so I know almost nothing of English customs.”

“Please think nothing of it,” Quill replied, sinking into a chair, with a silent breath of relief.

Phoebe sat primly on a small footstool at Gabby’s feet. To Quill’s amusement, Phoebe and Gabby presented an image of precise opposites. Phoebe’s hair fell into meticulous curls that looked as if she had just brushed them. As she sat down, the little girl instinctively twitched the folds of her dress so that they spread evenly on either side. Her hands were clasped on her lap, and her ankles were neatly crossed.

But Gabby! It wasn’t that there was anything precisely unladylike in her posture—but she simply didn’t look groomed. For one thing, most of her hair had fallen down again. When she handed her bonnet to Codswallop, her hair tumbled with it. Her gown had a very odd look to it as well. Clearly it had been designed to hang from just below her breasts, the way women’s clothing did these days. But instead it was rather stiff, and it puffed out around her hips almost as if she were wearing starched undergarments.

Codswallop entered the drawing room and said, “Tea will be served directly.” He held forth a silver salver, graced with one card. “Mr. Lucien Boch has called. Are you receiving, sir?”

“No.”

Gabby looked at Quill sweetly. “Please do not deny your friend simply because of my presence. Surely Mr. Boch could join us for tea?”