Lord Wraybourne's Betrothed (19 page)

“If you don’t watch it, that’ll be your marriage bed. Don’t look for a repairing lease there,” chortled his friend.

Lord Wraybourne threw up his hands in despair and headed for his home.

T
HE NEXT MORNING found the house in Marlborough Square in ferment. Jane refused to discuss her midnight visit with Sophie and oscillated between ill humor and dreaminess. Lady Harroving kept to her bed, but her husband was so unwise as to visit her to consult about their coming masquerade ball. He beat a hasty retreat, a breath ahead of a hurled cup of chocolate.

Maria Harroving could not stand to be crossed. She no longer cared whether her friend should marry her cousin or not, she was merely determined to destroy. The truth was that, having made a brilliant match to a man she disliked and despised, she was made wretched by the sight of others more fortunate. She could, perhaps, have come to tolerate Jane if she had been subservient, but Jane had been raised in a hard school. She did not openly oppose Lady Harroving’s will, but somehow she never bowed to it. Her habit of studying a person with those solemn tawny eyes was enough to drive one mad.

For Jane Sandiford to be elevated to a countess, outranking Lady Harroving herself; for Jane Sandiford to enjoy the riches of Stenby Castle and the Kyle fortune and to enjoy the pleasures of Lord Wraybourne in her bed—these were intolerable to Lady Harroving. She denied all callers until Mrs. Danvers was announced.

“Not up yet, Maria?” queried that lady coolly, herself a picture of fashionable elegance.

“I have a megrim.”

“Alas. Who has crossed you now?”

“You are unkind,” wailed Lady Harroving. “You at least should feel for me. David was making love to that horrible chit in the green saloon at two this morning.”

Mrs. Danvers seemed merely amused. “How precipitate. Forgive me, but is not that precisely the kind of behavior a chaperone is supposed to prevent?”

Lady Harroving raised a dainty handkerchief. The role of victim could be pleasant. “He ordered me out. Brutally. He used strong language!”

“Which you of course are quite unused to,” said her unsympathetic friend. As the older lady was speechless, Mrs. Danvers continued, “I am surprised David should be so unconventional, but there is no harm done. The marriage is in a matter of weeks.”

“Oh, I don’t suppose he got carried away,” Lady Harroving said, “but you saw how he was at the Faverstowes’. They probably went on billing and cooing, and now it will be all April and May.”

“I’m sure their friends must be delighted,” said Mrs. Danvers lightly, admiring a tiny jade vase on the table beside her.

“Are you mad?” shrieked her ladyship. “You of all people should share my feelings.”

Mrs. Danvers regarded her friend with cool cat’s eyes. “In truth, I gave up on David weeks ago. I am not even sure we would have suited. He is not really exciting enough for me. He will probably want to spend most of his time at Stenby, you know. I never could abide Shropshire.” After a moment, during which Lady Harroving regarded her dumbfounded, Mrs. Danvers went on, “I accepted an offer last night from the Marquis of Dromree.”

Lady Harroving regained her voice in a screech. “Dromree! He’s old and ugly and Irish to boot!”

“He’s not yet fifty, and he’s rich and amusing. He is also,” she said with a sensual smile, “a most inventive lover.”

Lady Harroving’s eyes grew wide.

“Tell me more.”

Mrs. Danvers obliged, and this pleasant interlude did much to calm Lady Harroving’s rage, but when she finally rose and dressed she was still resolved to be observant for some way in which she might undermine her cousin’s marriage—or at least sabotage the growing understanding between him and his betrothed.

 

Meanwhile, Sophie had abandoned her attempts to wheedle from Jane a description of the time spent in the green saloon. Sophie turned the topic to the coming masquerade ball.

“I have been looking forward to attending Maria’s masque for years,” she said. “It is supposed to be deliciously daring. It is to be hoped David does not suddenly recollect that and decide we should not attend.”

“He must surely know. The invitations are out.”

“Do you think he bothers to read the cards he receives? I doubt it. And he is grown monstrous stuffy.”

“But if it is a social fixture, he must know it is to take place and would have made his feelings clear,” Jane said with a frown. “And what of the whisperer? I have no wish to put myself in danger of another encounter with him.”

“There is no danger of that. It will still be a public place. As for David, perhaps he thinks Maria will abstain this year. Men can be so stupid. David was all set last night to read me a lecture on decorum, but I distracted him with talk of the love of my life.”

Before Jane could follow this tantalizing lead, Sophie turned mischievous eyes to her companion. “Maria hopes to ruin you at the masque, you know.”

“I do not understand.”

“Do you not realize she has been urging you towards the precipice ever since you came to Town?” Sophie asked with genuine interest. “I was not sure whether you were thwarting her with incredible subtlety or through innocence.”

Jane leaned forward, eyes keen. “Do you mean that all those things she wanted me to do were malicious rather than stupid?”

Sophie laughed. “Poor Maria. You thought her stupid? She is not exactly needle-witted, but not so gawkish as that. She has taken one of her dislikes to you. Fortunately, she underestimated your natural good sense. For a while it seemed I would have the unlikely task of teaching you good behavior.”

“But why should she dislike me?” asked Jane in bewilderment.

Sophie shrugged. “Maria does not need a reason. She was cross as a crook when you said you wouldn’t go to the masque as a nymph.”

“How could she think I would?” asked Jane in amazement. “I thought her funning. To appear in public in a short tunic of transparent gauze, I would need be mad.”

“And what of her suggestion that you rouge your nipples under your spangled sarcenet?”

“I thought she had merely forgotten my position. After all, she does rouge her own. I paid no attention. Anyway, that dress is far too flimsy so I always wear two shifts beneath it.”

Sophie laughed and hugged her friend. “I do love you, Jane. No one else could have rolled up Maria so completely and with never a cross word.”

Jane returned the hug warmly. “Do you think we ought not to attend the masque, Sophie?”

“Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away!” cried the girl, executing a gay
pirouette. “
It will be tremendous fun. Your costume can cause no outrage. Nothing could be more decent than medieval garb. It is positively nunlike.”

“And what of yours?” responded Jane with raised brows. “A page in knee breeches?”

“Deliciously wicked,” admitted Sophie.

“Why is it,” asked Jane, trying on Sophie’s page’s hat with the long, curling plume, “that I must be careful not to overstep the line while you run riot?”

Sophie grabbed back the hat. “It is like this hat. It simply does not become you, whereas it is devilish on me.” She considered her friend a moment. “I suppose it is partly because you are so new to the ton, and we are disposed to be critical. Secondly, you yourself are not at ease being wicked. But thirdly, you appear so much more mature than I.” She gave her gamin smile. “If you were to overstep the bounds you would be wicked. I would merely be naughty.”

Jane ruefully acknowledged the accuracy of this assessment. She would, nonetheless, have protested the unfairness of it had they not been interrupted by Lady Harroving calling them to the drawing room for the receiving hour. It soon became obvious that they could expect even more callers than usual. Half the Town wished to find out more about the Wraybourne affair. Lord Randal arrived in the company of his two sisters and raised comical brows at the crowded room. After settling his sisters with Jane, he drifted to the corner where Sophie held court and managed to draw her apart.

“All the tabbies, I see. Tell me, Sophie, is a large black hat for afternoon receptions all the rage?”

Sophie raised a finger to flick the plume. “I am trying to get the feel of it for the masquerade. Do you think the plume should come forwards or go backwards?”

“Neither one. I think you should wear something more suitable. Besides, now everyone will recognize you.”

She glanced up mischievously. “Goodness, are you grown stuffy too? That is the point, my friend. Or else how would I shock them? And, if I keep shocking people, perhaps boring suitors like Trenholme will cease bothering me.”

He looked at her quite seriously for once. “The wilder you act, imp, the more determined David will be to shackle you to a stick-in-the-mud.”

As quickly as it had come, the sober mood left him. He appropriated the hat, set it upon his golden locks, and considered his reflection in a large gilt mirror. The brim cast an unusually sinister shadow over his sensual eyes.

“I should have been a Cavalier, with long golden curls and a deadly rapier,” he said.

She snatched the hat back. “You should be forced to wear sackcloth,” she declared. “Then perhaps so many poor females would not be making cakes of themselves over you.”

He glanced round in amazement, catching the eye of an innocent young miss who went immediately pink with confusion when he winked at her. His gaze returned to the table close by.

“Is that where all these cakes came from?” He picked up a pink confection. “My goodness. This must have been Miss Forbes. She always did look terrible in pink. And this meringue was Lady Stevenham. I recognize the shape—or lack of it.”

Giggling, Sophie picked up a long, thin sponge finger dusted with fine sugar. “Why Mrs. Danvers. Fancy meeting you here.” With relish, Sophie sank her teeth into the confection.

“Cat!”

“Well, she positively drooled over you at The Middlehouse. Did you see the announcement? She’s to marry Dromree. Beauty and the Beast.”

“They will suit very well,” he remarked with his secret smile.

Sophie turned startled, hurt eyes to him and was amazed to see a touch of color tinging his fine-grained skin.

“How do you always trap me into having such improper conversations?” he said sharply. “It is fortunate that virginity is a physical and not a mental state, or David would be after me with a pistol. Come and talk genteelly with my sisters.”

Jane had been watching Sophie with concern. She was determined to bring some decorum into their affairs. Now, on the very day when the Town was agog for gossip, Sophie had to behave so strangely, wearing that hat and standing apart for so long with Lord Randal. As the couple moved to rejoin a group, Jane couldn’t help remarking Sophie’s eyes, as they rested a moment on her companion.

In Jane’s own heightened state, she recognized the affliction immediately. Oh poor Sophie. No wonder Lord Trenholme, with all his attributes, was making no headway. How could he compete with the glittering brilliance of Lord Randal? Jane wondered again about his feelings. She knew by now how unsuitable Lord Randal was considered to be as a partner for a young innocent. What a coil this was likely to be.

She turned to Lady Caroline Ashby. “Your brother is a fascinating man, Caroline.”

“Randal? He has the Ashby charm. The only one in our generation to be so gifted. Coupled with our mother’s looks—she was a great beauty, you know—it is alarming. I feel so sorry for all the poor women who fall victim. He is careful, you know, only to entangle himself with a certain type of married lady. Still, the others hurtle after him like moths to a flame. At least you are safe, my dear Jane.”

“Yes. I am fortunate, for he is a pleasant friend.”

“And a wonderful brother. If only Father would let him join the hussars. Or rather, if only Chelmly would marry and get an heir.”

Jane was bewildered until the twins gave her a quick and quiet-voiced briefing on their family troubles.

“But why does your elder brother not marry?” she asked at last.

“He used to come to Town on occasion, many years ago. He fell in love. Then he found that she was only interested in him for the dukedom. So now he stays home and grows turnips. He is quite impossible. Our poor father’s wishes mean nothing to him.”

“How sad for you all,” said Jane, but she was thinking of Sophie.

If Lord Randal were permitted to go to the war, perhaps she would recover her wits. Jane wished Lord Wraybourne were here so she could lay the problem before him, but then she realized it would be impossible to betray her friend. Perhaps she could speak to Lord Randal? No. That she could not handle.

Jane wondered why she felt so disturbed. It was an unfortunate situation, but unrequited love was hardly novel. Sophie would eventually recover and fix her affections elsewhere. Despite that rationalization, Jane felt a tremor of alarm and impending disaster. Sophie could never be depended on to do the predictable.

For the moment, however, Jane was forced to put the matter out of her mind and return to the business of convincing Society she was really a perfectly behaved young lady, soon to be married to an excellent young man. She could congratulate herself that most of the callers left convinced their recent speculation about the match had been unfounded. She had managed to drop into conversation mention of his many gifts to her and of the occasions upon which he had escorted her, so that many even began to doubt he had, in fact, been so much absent from Town. When all the callers were gone, Sophie picked up her feathered hat and placed it on her head. She tipped it to Jane in salute.

“Excellently done, my friend,” she said. “Maintain your saintly rectitude for a few more days, and you will have the ton believing they have been subject to a fit of spring madness.”

“What can you mean, Sophie?” asked Lady Harroving, who had, as usual, paid no attention to anything except herself.