Improper Ladies (27 page)

“Have you finished with the tea things, ma’am?” Molly asked.

“Oh, yes, thank you, Molly. I am done with them.” Rosalind watched the maid as she gathered up the tray. “Molly?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“None of the gardeners are still here, are they?”

Molly seemed surprised by the question, as well she might. Why would anyone be asking about gardeners at nine o’clock at night? “No, ma’am. It’s just you and me and Miss James now.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

Molly lifted up the tea tray. Before she turned back to the door, she said, “I’ll come right back, ma’am, and help you with your gown, if you’re ready to retire.”

“Yes, thank you, Molly.” Rosalind rubbed her hand over her eyes. She
was
ready to retire—obviously, she was in need of some sleep. Exhaustion was making her fanciful.

She had been reading one of Mrs. More’s edifying epistles before she went to sleep. But perhaps tonight she might take a peek at some more of that poetry ...

“Parents and other elders should always be respected.”

—A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior,
Chapter Seven

 

“
S
o, here you are at last. I thought that with the harum-skarum way you drive, Michael, that you would have been here hours ago.”

The Earl of Athley’s voice, stentorian as a brass gong, rang through the cavernous drawing room as Michael and Violet stepped inside the door. Michael squinted through the gloom of the room, until he saw his father seated by the fire.

As usual the drawing room, indeed the whole house, was dark and stuffy, the air thick with smoke and the overpowering sweetness of the rose and orchid flower arrangements. Heavy green velvet draperies, hung with swags of gold fringe, covered all the windows. More green velvet upholstered the dark, old-fashioned furniture, and gloomy landscapes hung on the paneled walls.

It was overpowering, suffocating. Michael felt his chest tighten painfully, his throat close as if gasping for a breath of clear, true air.

He felt this way every time he entered the house. And that was why he stayed far, far away, unless his duty to his sister pulled him back. At least he could leave—she could not.

He reached up to loosen his cravat slightly, as Violet’s hand slipped from his arm and she crossed the room to their father’s side. Her lilac-colored carriage gown and white bonnet were like a flash of springtime dropped into the gloom.

She leaned down to peck a dutiful kiss onto the earl’s wrinkled cheek. “It was my fault we are late, Father. I stayed too long at the school, saying good-bye to everyone.”

The earl scowled. “Who at that pitiful Seminary could have been worth your taking all that time? Some parson’s daughter or merchant’s niece?” He banged his stout walking stick on the floor, the hollow thud of it echoing up to the rafters. “I was a fool to ever send you to that school, Violet. I should not have listened to your aunt’s blandishments. Associating with people of all sorts has obviously made you forget your position. You should be here, learning to prepare for marriage. What else are girls good for?”

Violet turned panicked eyes onto Michael.

Michael came toward her, breathing a bit easier now that he had somewhat adjusted to the dimness. He understood Violet’s panic—the Seminary, as fusty as it was, was her refuge from this place. But he was not as worried as she. Their father often ranted about the school, about Violet’s “forgetting her position” there, getting too educated and not being able to find a suitable husband because of it. Yet the truth was, the earl would rather not have the trouble of his daughter being underfoot. So her school was safe—for now.

“Father, you know that the Seminary has only students from the finest families enrolled there,” Michael said, gently taking Violet’s arm and leading her to a chair away from the overpowering heat of the fire. “Violet has only the most suitable friends, who will be of great help to her when she makes her debut next Season.”

Michael had almost said “use” rather than “help,” since that was all the earl truly cared about in people—how he could use them to his advantage. How they were placed on the social scale. “I understand, Father, that the Duke and Duchess of Wayland are sending their own daughter there in few years.”

“Wayland, eh?” The earl’s dark eyes narrowed shrewdly as he absorbed this. The Waylands were assuredly at the pinnacle of Society. “Well, that at least is something. Though I do not know what they are thinking to send their daughter there so early. There is no telling what odd notions the gel might absorb there. But then, the Waylands are odd people. The duchess is an
artist.”
His lips curled with disdain on the word
artist
—it might as well have been
courtesan.

As their father went on, dissecting the peccadilloes of the Waylands and their “disgraceful” set, Michael sat down in the chair next to Violet’s. He leaned back, trying to get comfortable in the heavily carved piece of furniture, stretching his legs out before him. Violet was rubbing her fingertip over her silver locket, staring at the floor. She was the very picture of a dutiful daughter, but Michael recognized the misty look in her eyes as one of faraway thought. She was lost in some daydream, so Michael tried to follow her example and think of something else.

Their father’s conversation seldom required more of a response than a nod, or an “Oh, yes?” or a “You are quite right, sir.” So distraction was fairly easy. His gaze moved over the half-hidden footman standing in a shadowed corner to await the earl’s command, to the large stone coat of arms over the fireplace. It had the Bronston insignia of a hand holding a sword and a lion, with the motto
Semper Officiosus.

Duty Always.
Perhaps, Michael thought, it should have been
Dullness Always.
He almost wished he could trade places with that footman.

His musings were interrupted when he heard his name.

“Michael,” the earl barked, “is that a
pink
cravat you are wearing?”

Michael grinned. “Indeed. Though the correct name is ‘maiden’s blush.’ Quite evocative, wouldn’t you say? It is all the crack.”

Violet made a suspicious choking sound, and bent her head down until her expression was entirely concealed by the brim of her bonnet.

The earl turned a deep red color, one that would never earn a moniker like “maiden’s blush.” “Miser’s apoplexy,” perhaps.

“Insolent!” the earl shouted, and banged the stick against the floor again. “I have put up with your deplorable behavior thus far, your ‘poetry,’ your ‘club,’ the tittle-tattle I hear from every quarter. Even your ridiculous notions about fashion! But I will not stand your disgraceful behavior any longer. You are a viscount, and one day you will be the earl . . .” He broke off, gasping for air. The footman hurried forward to pour out a glass of some clear liquid, which the earl gulped down.

“Father!” Violet cried, and started to rise from her chair.

“Sit back down, gel!” her father choked. “I am not finished with what I have to say.”

“But you are ill,” Violet dared to say.

“A mere shortness of breath. I am not dying, which is a very good thing, considering the disgraceful state of the next generation. The family will be ruined before I am cold in the ground.”

Violet’s face crumpled with hurt at those words. She sank back into her chair.

Michael’s hands tightened onto the arms of his own chair until his knuckles whitened. His father had always been cold, hateful, haughty to those not of his own station—and even to his own children. Ever since his wife died bringing Violet into the world, he had revealed no hint of human feeling. But age had brought a new venom to him, a deep anger.

Michael had never met a man more in need of a good thrashing. But his father was indeed an old man—it would not be at all honorable for Michael, with all the strength of his twenty-eight years, to beat him.

Really, he thought, all he would have to do now was steal the earl’s walking stick. Even
that
could not be done, but one day Michael would tell him every last truth he had coming to him. Every last hateful thought that Michael harbored in his own heart.

Not now, though, with his sweet Violet looking on. Michael would never do anything that could possibly hurt his tenderhearted sister.

Before the earl could launch into another diatribe, Michael stood up and said, “I am sorry to cut short this cozy family moment, but I fear I have errands I must perform. I told Violet I would take her to Aunt Minnie’s house for supper, so you need not share your dried-out lamb cutlets and overcooked peas with us. Good day, sir.”

“I will just see you out, Michael,” Violet said hurriedly. Together they left the room as quickly as dignity would allow, their father’s sputterings chasing them out the door.

“How absolutely horrid,” said Violet, shuddering, once they stood safely on the front steps. “He becomes worse every time I see him!”

Michael kissed her cheek, and she curled her hands into the folds of his coat, holding onto him in defiance of her precious rules.

“It will be all right, Vi,” he said reassuringly. “Do not go back to the drawing room. Go up to your chamber, and send your maid for some tea. Father will settle down now that my infuriating presence has been removed. I will be back in only a couple of hours, and we will have a lovely supper with Aunt Minnie and her friends. Does that sound nice?”

“Very nice.” Violet nodded, and stepped back to give him a brave little smile.

“Now go inside. It is becoming chilly out here.” Michael tapped Violet on the tip of her nose, and climbed up into his phaeton.

At the corner of the street, he glanced back to be sure she had gone inside. She had not. She still stood there on the steps, her arms wrapped around herself.

She gave him a wave, and another smile—and Michael’s heart ached. He wanted so very much to go back to her, to sweep her up and carry her away from that gloomy house.

Carry her all the way back to the serenity of Mrs. Chase’s drawing room. Mrs. Chase would be able to comfort Violet. And what was even odder, he wished he could be there, as well. That he could sit in that small office again, and tell Mrs. Chase all the things that ached in his soul. Not the stern, stiff schoolmistress Mrs. Chase, but the one he had glimpsed so briefly. The one with rich depths to her sky-eyes, and soft hands and sunset hair. That Mrs. Chase had hints of gentleness and understanding in her.

Instead, all he could do was keep driving into the gathering London night.

 

The townhouse of Lady Minerva Fielding, better known as Aunt Minnie, was as different from Bronston House as day was from midnight. She was their father’s sister, but she had lived a very different life from his, as evidenced in the spacious, pastel airiness of her rooms, the fine paintings on her walls, the constant merry sparkle in her green eyes.

She was one of the last people Michael would ever have expected to follow
A Lady’s Rules,
but there the volume was, in a place of honor on the round table in the middle of her foyer.

As Violet hurried off to greet some of Aunt Minnie’s other guests, Michael picked up the book, riffling through its gilt-edged pages. Their aunt had marked certain “rules” with ticks of dark green ink.

“ ‘A gentleman must never seat himself on the settee beside his hostess . . . unless invited,’ ” he muttered.

“Michael!” Aunt Minnie cried. He looked up to find her sailing out of the drawing room doors toward him, the tall feathers in her rose pink turban waving jauntily. She went up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “My most handsome nephew.”

Michael laughed, and kissed her in return. “I am your only nephew.”

She waved this away with an airy gesture of her gloved hand. “If I had a hundred nephews, you would still be the most handsome. You are becoming quite the heartbreaker, so I hear.”

“Exaggerations, I assure you, aunt.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, clearly unconvinced. “Exaggerations, perhaps. But obviously it runs in the family, as Violet is also becoming a very pretty figure. It is obvious that Mrs. Chase’s Seminary agrees with her. She is blooming.”

Michael glanced over to where Violet was chatting with an elderly colonel and his wife. She was smiling, and as bright and pretty as her yellow muslin gown. It was reassuring that she had emerged unscathed from their meeting with their father—at least for now. “It was thanks to your persuasions that our father agreed to send her there.”

Aunt Minnie gave an inelegant snort. “Oh, my brother is terrible, and has been ever since we were children! But Violet seems to be weathering the storm, as do you, my dear.”

“Violet will
always
be fine, because she has inherited your beauty and good heart. As well as your literary taste, I believe?” He held up the copy of A
Lady’s Rules.

She laughed, and snatched the volume out of his hand. “It is all anyone is reading of late! I haven’t seen a craze to equal it in years, not since I was a girl and everyone had to wear heart-shaped patches. To be au courant now one must be
polite
. Such a bore, not at all like the great fun we had in my youth. Wigs a foot tall, high heels, card games that lasted a week, not to mention those patches. But the
Rules
are really quite amusing to peruse. I can loan you my copy.”

“No need, Aunt Minnie. I was recently given a copy of my very own.” Michael remembered the expression on Mrs. Chase’s face as she held the book out to him.
“You in particular are most in need of it, Lord Morley. ”

Aunt Minnie gave him an arch glance. “Oh, yes? And may I venture a guess that it was a gift from a lady?”

Michael gave her a
look
of his own. “You may venture as many guesses as you like, Aunt Minnie. A gentleman never tells. Is that one of the rules?”