Simply Unforgettable (13 page)

“My lord,” she said.

“Miss Allard.” He bowed to her.

Her eyes moved on to Amy. “Miss Marshall?”

“You brought tears to my eyes, Miss Allard,” Amy said. “I wish
I
could sing like that.”

Lucius felt as if someone had dealt him a blow to the lower abdomen.

But one thing was perfectly clear. Whatever her feelings toward him might be, she certainly had not forgotten him.

“Miss Martin's may be a superior school,” his grandfather was saying, “but what on earth are you doing teaching there, Miss Allard, when you should be enthralling the world with your singing voice?”

The color deepened in her cheeks as she turned back to him.

“It is very kind of you to say so, my lord,” she said, “but teaching is my chosen profession. It gives me great satisfaction.”

“It would give
me
great satisfaction,” the earl said, smiling kindly at her, “if you would take supper with Amy and Sinclair and me, Miss Allard.”

She hesitated for just a moment.

“Thank you,” she said. “That is very obliging of you, but I have already agreed to sit with Mr. Blake and a few of his acquaintances.”

“But, Miss Allard,” Mrs. Reynolds protested, sounding horrified, “I am quite sure Mr. Blake would be more than willing to relinquish your company to the Earl of Edgecombe for half an hour. Would you not, sir?”

The gentleman she addressed frowned but inclined his head to his hostess in an obvious preliminary to agreeing with her demand. However, Frances spoke first.

“But
I
am unwilling to relinquish
his,
” she said.

“And quite right too, my dear,” the earl said with a low chuckle. “It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Perhaps you would do me the honor of taking tea with me tomorrow in Brock Street. My grandson will be delighted to come and fetch you in the carriage, will you not, Lucius?”

Lucius, who had been standing there staring like a dumb block or a moonstruck halfling, inclined his head. It was, he realized, far too late for either him or Frances to do the sensible thing and admit to a previous acquaintance.

Deuce take it, but why could he not be simply surprised to see her or pleased to see her or
dis
pleased to see her? Why the devil had he been knocked so off balance that he still felt as if he were staggering around like a man who had no control over his own world or his own impulses?

But, Lord—
that voice
!

She drew breath as if to say something but apparently changed her mind.

“Thank you.” She smiled without looking at Lucius. “I would like that, my lord.”

The devil! Lucius frowned ferociously, but no one was paying him any attention.

“Oh, and I shall look forward to it of all things,” Amy cried warmly, clapping her hands. “I shall be able to be hostess since only Grandpapa and Luce live there on Brock Street with me.”

And then other people claimed Frances Allard's attention, and there was nothing left for Lucius to do but remark upon his grandfather's obvious tiredness, ignore Amy's look of disappointment, and have the carriage brought around without further delay.

It seemed an age before it came.

“I want to be able to listen to that voice again in my memory,” the earl said as he settled in his carriage seat for the short drive to Brock Street. He set his head back against the cushions, sighed deeply, and made no further attempt at conversation.

Amy was either doing the same thing or else she was reliving the whole party, which she had obviously enjoyed enormously even though she had been deprived of the pleasure of partaking of supper before leaving. She sat in silence, looking out into the darkness, a dreamy smile on her lips.

Lucius sat in his corner, quietly seething. It was bad enough that he had sighed over the memory of her like a damned lovelorn poet for at least a month after Christmas. It was worse that after seeing her on the Crescent yesterday he had suffered through a largely sleepless night, though he must have nodded off occasionally or he would not have had such vivid dreams about her. It was worst of all to have discovered her at a party he was attending tonight—and in such a manner.

That voice!

Deuce take it, what a voice it was. It added a whole new dimension to his knowledge of her character, of the talent and beauty of soul that lived within her beautiful body. It made him realize how much more of her there must be that was still unknown to him. It filled him with a yearning to know more.

He had a bad case of resurrected infatuation—there was no denying it. And he did not appreciate it one little bit. It had taken him long enough to forget her in the first place.

And to cap it all, she had looked even more beautiful tonight than he remembered her. Her naturally olive-hued complexion had looked darker, as if from exposure to the sun. Her eyes had looked a richer brown in contrast, and her teeth whiter. She still wore her hair the same way, but the style that had seemed merely severe after Christmas had looked elegant and richly shining tonight. She was as slender as he remembered her, but the simply styled ivory silk gown she had worn tonight and her almost regal bearing had made her look quite exquisitely feminine.

Was that fellow who had been with her a suitor? A fiancé? He was half bald, for the love of God. And he had been prepared to relinquish her company at supper, albeit reluctantly. If she had promised to sit with
him,
Lucius thought, and someone had tried to usurp his place, he would have offered fisticuffs or pistols at dawn, not meek compliance, by Jove.

“I have been royally entertained this evening, I must say,” his grandfather said as the carriage rocked to a halt, “and should sleep soundly tonight. I can only wish that I had been sitting in the drawing room as you were, Amy, to watch the whole of that last performance. Miss Allard has a rare talent. And she is a beautiful woman too.”

“Mmm,” Lucius mumbled.

“What a wonderful evening it has been,” Amy said with a sigh of contentment as Lucius handed her down onto the pavement. “And tomorrow I will be Grandpapa's hostess for tea. Are you not looking forward to Miss Allard's visit of all things, Luce?”

“Of all things,” he said curtly.

He could not blame her for being there at the Reynolds soiree tonight, of course, though he had been inclined at first to do just that—schoolteachers ought to remain inside the walls of their schools so that castoff lovers did not have to run the risk of running headlong into them when they least expected it.

But he
could
blame her for accepting the invitation to tea. She had had a clear choice. She could have said yes or she could have said no.

She had said yes, damn her eyes.

He was feeling almost dangerously out of sorts. Yet he could not even retreat to White's or some other gentlemen's haunt in London to drown out his sulks in noise and action and alcohol.

10

“You are home safe and sound, then, miss,” Keeble observed
with almost paternal solicitude when he let Frances into the school so soon after her knock that she suspected he must have been standing in the hallway waiting for her. “I worry when any of you ladies are out after dark. Miss Martin has invited you to join her in her sitting room.”

“Thank you,” Frances said, following him up the stairs so that he could open the door for her and even announce her as if she were visiting royalty.

She had suspected that her friends would be awaiting her return, but even so her heart sank. She so wanted to creep off to her room to lick her wounds in private. Was it only last night she had made the bold and liberating decision never to spare another thought for Lucius Marshall, Viscount Sinclair? But how could she have known that by some bizarre twist of fate she would meet him again tonight? She
never
attended parties in Bath. She had not sung in public outside the school since coming here.

It was not just bizarre. It was
cruel
. When her eyes had alighted on him, she . . .

“Well?” Susanna jumped to her feet as soon as Frances stepped into the sitting room, and regarded her with eager face and sparkling eyes. “Need we ask if you were a resounding success? How could you not have been?”

“Were you as well received as you deserve to be?” Anne asked, smiling warmly at her. “Did everyone make much of you?”

“Come and tell us all about your performance,” Miss Martin said. “And pour yourself a cup of tea before you sit down.”

“I'll do that for her,” Susanna said. “Sit, Frances, sit, and allow me to wait on Bath's newest celebrity. After tonight I daresay you will be a star and invited everywhere.”

“And neglect my duties here?” Frances said, sinking into the nearest chair and taking a cup of tea from Susanna's hand. “I think not. Tonight was wonderful, but I am very happy being a schoolteacher. I was a little worried about my choice of song, but it was well received. I believe everyone was pleased. Mrs. Reynolds did not appear to be disappointed in me.”

“Disappointed?” Anne laughed. “I should hope not. I expect she is congratulating herself upon having discovered you before anyone else did. I should love to have heard you, Frances. We should all have loved it. We have been thinking about you all evening.”

“And Mr. Blake was the perfect escort, I hope?” Miss Martin asked.

“Absolutely,” Frances said. “He did not leave my side all evening and was very obliging. He waited outside his carriage just now until Mr. Keeble had let me in at the door.”

“He looked very dashing this evening, I must say,” Susanna said, her eyes twinkling. “Anne and I peeped out from her window as you were leaving—just like a couple of schoolgirls.”

“And how was the rest of the soiree?” Anne asked. “Do tell us about it, Frances.”

“Betsy Reynolds played well,” Frances told them. “She was first on the program and was very nervous, poor girl, but she did not play any wrong notes or slow down noticeably as she went along as she usually does. It was a good concert, and there was supper afterward. Everyone was most amiable.”

“Were there many guests?” Susanna asked. She stole a mischievous look at Claudia Martin and winked at the others. “Were there any dukes there? I shall expire of envy if there were.”

“No dukes.” Frances hesitated. “Only an earl. He was very kind. He has invited me to take tea with him tomorrow.”

“Has he?” Claudia Martin said sharply. “In a public place, I hope, Frances?”

“An earl.” Susanna laughed. “I hope he is ravishingly handsome.”

“How splendid for you,” Anne said. “But you do deserve the attention, Frances.”

“On Brock Street,” Frances said to Claudia, “with his
grandson
and
granddaughter
in attendance, Susanna.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” Claudia said, “provided the grandchildren are not infants.”

“Well.” Susanna pulled a face. “There goes my notion of high romance, though even grandfathers can be handsome—and amorous, I suppose.”

“They are not infants,” Frances said. “Miss Marshall is a pretty young lady, not much older than some of our senior girls—or perhaps not any older at all. The viscount is to bring a carriage to take me to Brock Street.”

The very thought was enough to set her hand to trembling, and some of her tea sloshed over into the saucer.

“I suppose with a title like that Viscount Sinclair must be his grandfather's heir,” Susanna said. “Perhaps my dream may be resurrected after all. Is
he
ravishingly handsome, Frances?”

“Gracious,” Frances said, forcing the corners of her mouth up into a smile, “I did not notice.”

“Did not
notice
?” Susanna rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “Where did you leave your eyes when you went out tonight? But I daresay he is. And I daresay he will conceive a grand passion for you, Frances, unless he has already done so, and will sweep you off your feet, and you will end up one day as the countess of . . . where?”

“I have no idea.” Frances surged to her feet and set her cup and wet saucer down on the table beside her. “I cannot remember. I am sorry. It has been a busy evening, and now I am so tired I cannot think straight. And I cannot afford the time to go out to tea tomorrow. I have a whole set of essays coming in during the morning, and I am on homework supervision duty tomorrow evening. I have a French examination to set for the senior class. And there is choir practice. Perhaps I will send a refusal, excusing myself.”

“But you agreed to go?” Anne asked.

Frances looked helplessly at her.

“I did,” she said. “But it would not be too rude to send an excuse if it is genuine, would it? I do not know which house on Brock Street to send it to, though.”

That realization sent panic waves galloping and somersaulting through her, and she sat down abruptly again and spread her hands over her face. She fought hysteria.

“Frances,” Susanna said, aghast, “I did not mean to offend. I was merely teasing. Do forgive me.”

“I am sorry,” Frances said, lowering her hands. “I am not annoyed with you, Susanna. I am just tired.”

“You can mark essays and set the exam while you are on homework supervision,” Anne said. “Better yet, I will take the homework duty for you, since Mr. Upton has promised to come in tomorrow just to give David an art lesson. Then you will have time to go for tea
and
keep up with your work. I am sure Claudia will not object to your missing one choir practice.”

“I will not,” Claudia said. “But there is more to this than weariness and a potentially busy day ahead. You find the invitation overwhelming, Frances? Is there any particular reason?” She leaned across the space between their chairs and laid a sympathetic hand on Frances's arm.

It was that touch that did it. A whole flood of emotion spilled forth from Frances, translating itself into words as it came.

“I have met Viscount Sinclair before,” she said in a rush, “and would far rather not have met him again.” The rawness of the distress she had been forced to hold deep within herself for the past hour and a half lodged itself in her throat and chest.

“Oh, poor Frances,” Anne said. “He is someone from your past? How unfortunate that he should come to Bath. I suppose he did not know you were here.”

“It was not very long ago,” Frances said. “Do you remember the snowfall after Christmas that delayed my return to school? I did not remain with my great-aunts as I let you all believe at the time. I had already started back here when the snow began. My carriage ended up buried in a snowbank when Viscount Sinclair overtook it and then stopped suddenly because there was a snowdrift ahead of him. He took me on to the closest inn, and we spent the following day in company with each other. He brought me back here as soon as the road was clear. He knew that I lived in Bath, you see.”

But he had come back here anyway. He had not called on her here, though—
of course
he had not. This evening's meeting had been quite by chance. His manner, both when she first saw him standing in the drawing room doorway—ghastly moment!—and when he had approached her with the earl, had been stiff and unsmiling. He had been quite displeased, in fact.

He had no
business
being displeased. He knew she lived in Bath.

“I am sorry,” she said again. “Both for not telling you all then and for telling you now. It was a slight incident at the time, so slight that it did not seem worthy of mention. I was just a little shaken to see him again tonight so unexpectedly, that is all. I
am
sorry. Did you all have a pleasant evening?”

But they were all looking at her quite solemnly, and she knew that she had not deceived them for a moment. What a foolish thing to say, after all, that about the incident's having been so slight that she had not even thought it worth mentioning.

“It would have been very quiet,” Anne said, “except that Miriam Fitch and Annabelle Hancock got into a fight again just before bedtime and Matron was obliged to send for Claudia.”

“But no blood was shed,” Miss Martin added, patting Frances briskly on the arm and removing her hand. “So we must not complain. Now, Frances, do you need me to find some task for you that simply must be performed after school tomorrow? Do you wish me to absolutely refuse to reprieve you in order that you might take tea with the earl and his grandchildren? I can be a marvelous tyrant when I wish to be, as you very well know.”

“No.” Frances sighed. “I said I would go, and it would be unfair of me now to expect you to get me out of it, Claudia. I will go. It is really no big thing at all.”

She got to her feet again and bade them all good night. She really did feel mortally tired, though she doubted she would be able to sleep. And now she felt bad at having unburdened herself—or half unburdened herself anyway—to her friends, who must think her a complete ninnyhammer.

An added irritant to her already troubled mind was the fact that Mr. Blake had misinterpreted her insistence upon sitting with him at supper—as well he might. He had caught hold of her hand in the carriage on the way back to the school and raised it to his lips. He had told her that he was proud and gratified to have been her chosen escort for the evening. Fortunately he had not said—or done!—anything more ardent than that, but even that much had seriously discomposed her.

She had never been a tease, but this evening she had come close to being just that, albeit unwittingly.

Anne caught up to her on the stairs and took her arm and squeezed it.

“Poor Frances,” she said. “I can see that you have had a nasty shock this evening. And of course the very fact that you suppressed the truth after Christmas suggests that Viscount Sinclair meant more to you than you care to admit. You do not have to admit it now either. We are your friends to share your secrets when you need to divulge them, and to leave you in peace with those you would prefer to guard. We all have and need secrets. But perhaps tomorrow will help you put some ghosts to rest.”

“Perhaps,” Frances agreed. “Thank you, Anne. One would think I would have learned my lesson more than three years ago—I have not even told you the full story of what happened before I came here, have I? But it seems I did not learn. Why do women tumble so foolishly into love?”

“Because we have so much love to give,” Anne said. “Because it is our nature to love. How could we nurture children if we were not so prone to tumbling headlong into love with even the scrawniest mites to whom we might give birth? Falling in love with men is only a symptom of our general condition, you know. We are sorry creatures, but I do not believe I would be different even if I could. Would you?”

Had Anne loved David's father? Frances wondered briefly. Was there some terrible tragedy in Anne's past that she knew nothing about? She supposed there must be.

“Oh, I don't know,” she said, laughing in spite of herself. “I have never had a son on whom to lavish my affections as you have, Anne. Sometimes life seems—empty. And how ungrateful that sounds when I have this home and this profession and you and Susanna and Claudia.”

“And Mr. Blake,” Anne said.

“And Mr. Blake.”

They both laughed softly and took their leave of each other for the night.

Frances leaned her head back against the closed door when she was finally inside her room. She closed her eyes, but she could not stop a few hot tears from escaping and rolling down her cheeks.

She had actually been feeling happy—not just contented or gratified or pleased, but
happy
. Mr. Blake had been attentive but not cloyingly so all evening. He had been an amiable, interesting companion. She had considered him quite seriously as a possible beau and had decided that she really would be foolish to discourage him. It felt good to be in company with a man again and to feel herself liked and even admired. Her decision had pleased her. It meant that she had finally put behind her that slight incident after Christmas as well as everything from years ago. It meant that she was looking to a brighter future.