My Lord Wicked (Historical Regency Romance) (16 page)

Freddie was puzzled. She knew it was too late for spring cleaning.

"We're getting the abbey ready for a grand ball!" a nearby maid happily informed Freddie.

An older maid looked up from her floor scrubbing, a smile on her ruddy face. "It'll be just like in the old days," she said. "The abbey's coming to life again."

"Yes, indeed," the first maid said, "Marshbanks Abbey will be filled with grand ladies and gents dressed in their fancy clothes, and the front drive will be lined with fine carriages." The maid's eyes sparkled as brightly as the chandelier she was cleaning.

"How many you reckon can dance in this room?" one of the footman asked his partner.

"They said over three hundred have attended balls here in the past," the other footman answered.

Freddie raised a brow. A significant number, indeed. "Tell me," Freddie asked, "is this the room that will serve as the ballroom?"

"Indeed it is, miss," the second footman answered.

She sidestepped her way across the room, avoiding rolled carpets and piles of dusty velvet draperies. She did not wish to get in the way of the workers as she picked her way to the breakfast room. There she found her guardian perusing his newspaper.

"I trust you slept well, Miss Lambeth," he asked, not really removing his eyes from his paper.

"Yes, thank you." She sat beside him and poured herself a cup of steaming tea. "Your preparations for the ball have not escaped my notice. When is it to take place?"

He put down his paper. "Three weeks from tonight."

"Why--why so soon?" she asked, deeply disappointed. Was her guardian in so great a hurry to be rid of her? And why must he fill his life with varied social obligations that would rob her of his time?

Concern etched across his rugged face. "I had thought you would be pleased. After all, the abbey is rather a gloomy place to raise an eligible young lady. I want you to be surrounded by people who are of your own age." His face went soft, reminding her of a kindly uncle. But a kindly uncle was the last thing she wanted Lord Stacks to be. "It does you no good to spend so much time with me, Miss Lambeth."

Her back went ramrod straight. "I beg to differ," she responded firmly. "My happiest moments are when it is just you and I."

He gave her a strange look that she was unable to read. "You have, unfortunately, led an extremely dull life if that is the case."

She grabbed her cup and a scone and followed him to his library.

Indignation in her face and in her stance, she crossed the room and settled comfortably on the settee near his desk before taking up her notes. "Either you have been taking extra care with your handwriting or I have become most adept at deciphering, for there were only three words in the new chapter I was unable to read."

"Come now, Miss Lambeth," he said, an amused expression on his face, "only three?"

"Not counting your inability to correctly spell the plurals," she added, a giggle in her voice.

"Now that's more like it. I suppose you're referring to gladiolas. I never can remember the confounded spellings of those wretched plants. Why can't one just stick an "s" on every word to make a plural is beyond me."

"You must remember, my lord, that
you
do not make the rules."

"Have I told you that you remind me very much of my old governess, Miss Linscombe?"

She sighed and put down her papers. "Many times, my lord. You also told me you called her Dragon Lady. Fortunate I am that you have yet to add that moniker to me."

"I may yet," he grumbled. "Bring those notes here and let me tell you what they are."

She rose, notes in hand, and walked to him. Flipping through her papers, she came to her first question mark. Leaning over him, she pointed to it.

"That," he announced triumphantly, "is hog's fennel, you know, like sow's fennel."

She burst out giggling. "But you wrote hawgsfinal--one word. It's two words, my lord, neither of which you spelled correctly."

"That is why I have you, Dragon Lady," he grumbled. He took the other papers from her and ran his eyes over them until he found her question marks. The first was beside i-b-r-y-t. "That is eye bright," he told her.

A gleam in her eye, she nodded. "Two words."

He ignored her while searching for the last question mark beside
see holy
. "And this is sea holly," he proclaimed.

She burst out laughing. "I am convinced you truly do need me," she said as she went back to her seat and took up her pen and paper.

The two worked quietly, facing each other.

Stacks felt exceedingly sorry for the girl if she was so unused to people her own age that she found his company desirous. He had done her a great disservice by monopolizing her time. A girl her age should be entertaining morning callers daily. She should have young lady friends with whom to share confidences. And she should have soirees and fetes and balls galore to attend. Her head should be filled with ball gowns and beaus. Not with genuses and species and preparing elixirs for old men plagued by gout and foul-smelling wind.

Above all, he needed to find her a husband who would be worthy of the girl. He had already dismissed Edgekirth and John Rountree. What of Rountree's brother who was a curate? Surely he was a learned man. Stacks had already established that the Rountree family lineage was perfectly acceptable for his young ward.

He smiled to himself. Luke Rountree might just be the very man for Freddie. Would that he were not a second son.

Many preparations needed to be made between now and the night of the ball. Stacks lifted his quill to begin compiling a list of those who would be sent invitations. Lamentably, he would need to discuss the menu with Mrs. Greenwood. A pity Freddie had not the experience to take over that chore from him. A pity, too, that Mrs. Taylor was so utterly incapable.

He supposed he would have to trust the woman to help Freddie select a ball gown at Mrs. Baron's for he could no longer commence on a journey to York with his ward now that he had decided not to send her back down south. Remembering Freddie's unerring judgments during their first visit to York, Stacks did not really worry about Freddie selecting an unsuitable gown. The girl did possess extraordinary taste. Far better than that odious companion of hers. He supposed he would have to pay for a gown for Mrs. Taylor, too, he thought grimly. That meant she would be underfoot the night of the ball, no doubt babbling about her glorious season of indeterminate years ago.

He would also need to retain the services of an orchestra. All of a sudden, a frightening thought occurred to him. He leveled a gaze at Freddie across the broad desk from him. "Can you dance, Miss Lambeth?"

She put down her sketch pad and met his gaze with a challenging spark in her green eyes. "Not at all, my lord."

He a mumbled curse under his breath. "I shall have to teach you myself for there is no time to send for a dancing master." He rang for Eason.

When Eason responded to the call, Stacks told him to have the pianoforte moved into the library from the disheveled great hall.

Eason lifted a quizzing brow but only said, "Very well, my lord."

Within minutes, a half a dozen footmen carried the instrument into the library, and Stacks directed them to place it on the west wall. "While you men are here," he instructed, "I desire that you remove the rug from the center of this room in order that we can dance."

The servants removed the furniture, then rolled up the rug. "And," Stacks said, "please inform Mrs. Taylor that her presence is required in the library immediately."

Turning to Freddie, he said, "She will play while I teach you to dance."

Momentarily, Mrs. Taylor entered the library, once again with the widow's cap smashed on her head, and Stacks told her what he desired. He thumbed through a great stack of music and made several selections.

"We shall practice every day until the ball," he told Freddie, meeting her frightened gaze. "You will know the steps so very well that on the night of the ball, you will not have to give them a thought. They will be second nature to you."

"Pray, I hope you are right," Freddie said.

"Dancing is really rather simple. It's all in the counting," he said. "And one counts to the tempo of the music."

He turned to Mrs. Taylor, who had settled on the bench in front of the pianoforte. "Play the one on top, if you please."

The first tune was quite slow. He demonstrated the steps to Freddie, showing her the count. "Now, we will do it together, Miss Lambeth," he said, facing her.

She slid her feet to the steps and count.

"No, Miss Lambeth," he said patiently. "Your feet actually leave the floor."

They did the first sequence of steps again. This time her feet lifted from the floor but in too exaggerated a fashion.

"Remember, Miss Lambeth, one's head is not to bob about when one is dancing gracefully," he said. "Were I to place a board over your head, it should scarcely move as you dance if your movements are to convey the necessary grace."

After nearly two hours, Freddie had come close to mastering the country dances. Stacks vowed to reinforce what she had learned every single day until the ball.

Perhaps next week he would introduce her to the waltz, he thought, his heart racing as he recalled waltzing in the capitals of Europe with many a beautiful woman held close as they danced to heavenly music. Of course, that was before the wicked dance had been permitted at decent English assemblies.

Would he be able to hold Freddie in his arms and not want to ravish her? he wondered grimly.

***

Freddie could not fight the inevitable. So she might as well embrace the idea of the ball and use it to her advantage. Though her chances of engaging her guardian's amorous affections were no greater than the likelihood she would marry the Prince of Wales, Freddie allowed herself the luxury of dreaming. Dreaming that she would look so beautiful on the night of the ball, Lord Stacks would only have eyes for her. They would dance together every dance, and everyone would say what a lovely couple they made.

With that fantasy dream in mind, she searched through fashion magazines until she found a picture of a dress that was exactly what she wanted. She took it to Mrs. Baron on the day she and Mrs. Taylor rode into York. She and Mrs. Baron selected a pristine white satin covered with Alencon lace against the protestations of Mrs. Taylor, whose color choice was fuchsia.

"No, that will not quite do for a maiden," Mrs. Baron kindly rebuked Mrs. Taylor. "She must wear white to her first ball."

"Well, it isn't as if this were London," Mrs. Taylor had snippily replied before settling on the fuchsia for herself.

After returning to the abbey and on subsequent afternoons, Mrs. Taylor would play the pianoforte while Freddie and Lord Stacks danced. The only physical contact between the dancing partners occurred the few times their hands would touch for the briefest of seconds. Freddie realized the touch meant nothing to him, but to her it was magical. Ethereal.

She looked forward to learning the waltz.

***

He could put it off no longer, Stacks decided. He would have to demonstrate the waltz to Freddie. He threw a hesitant glance at Mrs. Taylor, whose girth took up a goodly portion of the pianoforte bench. "Play the number on top," he commanded.

Her fingers struck the keys and the up tempo tune filled the library with light, gay music.

Stacks came to stand in front of Freddie. "Unlike the dances you have learned previously, Miss Lambeth," he said stiffly, "the waltz is performed between a man and a woman who rather hold on to one another. Let me show you the steps first." He moved his feet. "One, two, three. One, two, three."

Without being asked to do so, Freddie followed his movement.

He nodded approval. "Very good, Miss Lambeth." His black eyes locked with hers. He stood facing her, less than a foot away. "Would you give me the pleasure of standing up with me?" He told Mrs. Taylor to begin the number again.

Freddie smiled and offered him a dainty hand. He felt his resolve melting with the glow of her smile. His pulse quickened as he placed an arm around her, his hand clasping hers warmly. To cover his feelings of awkwardness, he continued to count. "One, two, three." He could not allow himself to think of her. Of how very good she felt in his arms. Of the soft, gentle feel of her hand.

To his utter humiliation, he felt himself growing hard beneath his breeches and prayed that Freddie would not notice. Ordinarily, most maidens would be unaware of men's bodily actions, but he doubted Freddie's ignorance. After all, she had been at birthing beds and men's sick rooms all of her life. Doubtless, she knew much about the human body.

How could he extricate himself from this situation without her realizing his motive for so doing?

He held her at arm's length. "Well, Miss Lambeth," he said formally, "I think you get the idea. That's enough for today. I need to get with Simpson about the invitations."

He quickly turned on his heel and hastened to his chair behind the massive walnut desk before she could glimpse his crotch.

And he congratulated himself on not giving in to his body.

If only he'd had such resolve with Elizabeth. She might very well still be alive.

Chapter 14

Maggie was fastening a plumed band in Freddie's hair when a knock sounded at the door. Against all logic, Freddie hoped it might be Lord Stacks wanting to see her in private before the guests arrived. She threw a quick glance into the looking glass, her chest heaving with trepidation. It amazed her enormously what a fat purse could do to transform an extremely plain girl into a tolerable looking belle. And Mrs. Baron must be an absolute genius, for the gown she fashioned after Freddie's cut-out magazine picture would undoubtedly dazzle the Princess of Wales herself! The neckline dipped quite low, gathering just below the bosom, and the effect was to make Freddie's breasts appear much larger than they were. Even her bare shoulders looked graceful, sloping into the tiniest puffed sleeves that covered a scant portion of her upper arms.