Simply Unforgettable (15 page)

“Thank you. You are very kind.” She smiled at him with something bordering on affection.

Miss Marshall actually hugged her.

“This has been such
fun,
” she said, revealing all her youthfulness in the exuberance of her farewell.

“It has indeed.” Frances smiled warmly at her. “And I have been treated royally by my hostess. Thank you for entertaining me so well.”

But the girl turned impulsively to her brother just as Frances would have stepped out of the room ahead of him.

“Luce,” she said, “you have been saying that if I am to be allowed to go with you and Grandpapa to the assembly in the Upper Rooms three evenings from tonight, we must find an older lady to accompany me. May we invite Miss Allard. Oh, please,
may
we?”

As Frances looked at her in dismay, the girl gazed at her brother, her eyes imploring, her hands clasped to her bosom.

How dreadfully gauche of the girl to ask in her hearing!

“Older?” Viscount Sinclair cocked one eyebrow.

“Well, she
is,
” the girl said. “I did not say
old,
Luce, only
older
. And she is a
teacher
.”

“It is a splendid suggestion, Amy,” the earl said. “I wish I had thought of it for myself. Miss Allard,
will
you so honor us? Though perhaps since you live in Bath, attending one of the assemblies will be no great treat for you.”

“Oh, but I have never attended one,” she said.

“What? Never? Then do please agree to attend this one as our special guest,” the earl said.

“Please, please do, Miss Allard,” Miss Marshall cried. “Caroline and Emily—my sisters—will expire of envy if I write and tell them I am to go after all.”

Frances was terribly aware of the silent figure of Viscount Sinclair standing beside her. She turned and glanced up at him, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. How could she refuse without hurting Miss Marshall, who obviously was desperate to be allowed to attend an assembly before she was officially out?

He did not help her. But how could he without appearing churlish in front of his relatives?

“I wish you would, Miss Allard,” he said curtly. “You would oblige all of us.”

The trouble was that she had always thought it would be wonderful to actually dance in the Upper Rooms, which she had seen, but only with a party of girls one day when she took them sightseeing. She had once attended balls in London and had always enjoyed them exceedingly.

But how could she go to this one?

How could she not, though? Now the invitation had been extended by all three of them.

“Thank you,” she said. “That would be delightful.”

Miss Marshall clapped her hands, the earl bowed, and Viscount Sinclair ushered her out of the room without another word, one of his hands firm against the small of her back and feeling as if it burned a hole there.

They rode side by side in the carriage back to the school without exchanging a word. It was most disconcerting. At one moment Frances almost asked him if he really minded her going to the assembly, but of course he minded—as did she. She thought of asking him if he wished her to send back a refusal with him after all. But why should she? She had been properly invited, even if it had been impulsive of Miss Marshall to speak out as she had without consulting her brother privately first.

Besides, if he minded or if he wished for her to change her mind, he had a tongue in his head just as she did. Let
him
be the first to speak.

And yet her heart, she realized, was in a very fragile condition, and she would certainly do it no good by seeing him again after today. Even now she would suffer some sleepless hours in the nights to come, she did not doubt. Good heavens, she had actually made love with this silent man beside her. She could recall every detail of that night of intimacy with great clarity.

And of their wretched parting the next day.

The carriage drew to a halt outside the school at precisely half past five. Peters opened the carriage door and set down the steps, and Viscount Sinclair descended and handed Frances down onto the pavement. He escorted her to the door of the school, which Keeble was already holding open.

“I shall come to escort you to the Upper Assembly Rooms three evenings from tonight, then,” Viscount Sinclair said.

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Perhaps,” he said, and it seemed to her that his eyes burned into hers, “we will get to dance together again, Miss Allard.”

“Yes.” She turned and hurried inside and up to her room, where she hoped to be able to gather her scattered thoughts sufficiently to get a few of her essays marked before dinner.

I shall come to escort you. . . .

Perhaps we will get to dance together again . . .

Life was so terribly unfair. Just last evening she had been feeling happy again. And now . . .

Now it seemed that everything about her—every part of her body, her head, her emotions—was in a seething turmoil.

She read attentively through one four-page essay before realizing that she had not absorbed a single word.

It would be well, she told herself severely, to remember that she was a teacher. It was her primary and only really important role in life.

She was a
teacher
.

She started to read from the beginning again.

12

Lucius frowned at his image in the looking glass a few
moments after he had dismissed his valet. He always took pains to look his best. It was, after all, part of being a gentleman always to look fashionable and well groomed, especially when one was known as something of a Corinthian. But why the devil had he made poor Jeffreys discard three perfectly respectably tied neckcloths before he had been satisfied with the fourth?

Was he turning into some sort of dandy?

He was going to an assembly in
Bath,
for the love of God, not to a ball at Carlton House! He would be fortunate if there were a dozen people below the age of fifty there. It was very probably going to be one long snore of an evening. And yet here he was, going to more than usual trouble over his appearance.

He could hardly believe that he, Lucius Marshall, Viscount Sinclair, was actually going to attend such an insipid gathering. He rarely attended balls or routs even in London, though he would have to do so this spring, of course. He could treat this evening as something in the nature of a rehearsal for things to come.

His frown became a grimace, and he turned away from the glass.

Amy was already dressed and pacing the sitting room floor, he found when he went downstairs, even though she and their grandfather were not scheduled to walk across to the Upper Rooms for half an hour yet. She had been in a fever of excitement all day, quite unable to settle to anything.

“Well, you look remarkably pretty this evening,” he said after she had caught up the sides of her skirt and pirouetted before him and he had looked her over critically from head to toe. He approved of her pale blue muslin dress—he had helped pick it out two days ago—and her carefully curled and coifed hair. Her maid had had the good sense not to try to make her look older than her years. Although she did not have either Caroline's height and elegance or Emily's dimples and natural curls, she might yet turn out to be the prettiest of the three, he thought. Margaret, of course, had been a beauty in her day and was still handsome now that she was in her thirties and the mother of three.

“Will I do, then?” Amy looked at him, flushed and bright-eyed.

“Very well indeed,” he said. “If you are mobbed by all the gentlemen tonight, I shall have to beat them off with my quizzing glass.”

“Oh, Luce.” She laughed in obvious delight. “I hope you will not look quite so fierce when you stand beside me or no one will muster the courage to ask me to dance at all. You do look splendid, though.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” He made her a mock bow. “You
will
walk slowly when you leave the house with Grandpapa, Amy? You will not gallop along in your excitement and force him to keep up with you?”

She sobered instantly. “Of course I will not,” she said. “I think the waters really must be doing him some good, do not you, Luce? He has looked quite well lately.”

“He has,” he agreed, though they both knew that he would never actually
be
well again.

“I just can't wait to go,” she said, clasping her hands to her bosom, “or to see Miss Allard again. She is exceedingly amiable and treats me like a grown-up. And she is lovely too, even though she does not dress in the first stare of fashion. I admire her lovely dark hair and eyes. Oh,
when
will Grandpapa be ready?”

“At exactly the time he said he would be,” Lucius told her, striding over to the window. “You know how punctual he always is. And if
I
am to be punctual, I must be on my way. I see Peters has the carriage outside.”

A couple of minutes later he was on his way to Miss Martin's school again.

There had been letters from his mother and Caroline this morning. Prominent in the news they had both been eager to impart was the fact that the Marquess of Godsworthy had arrived in town for the Season with Lord and Lady Balderston—and with Portia, of course. His mother had called upon the two ladies with Caroline and Emily. Miss Hunt was in good looks, they had reported. Lady Balderston had asked about him and said she looked forward to seeing him in the near future.

Portia Hunt was always in good looks, and so that was no news. He could not remember ever seeing her with the proverbial hair out of place—not even when she was a child.

The carriage drew to a halt outside the school doors, and Lucius descended to the pavement, feeling rather as if he were up to something clandestine—he was about to escort another woman to a ball.

A strange scene met his eyes when the porter answered the door to his knock. Frances Allard was standing in the middle of the hallway, wearing a dress of silver-shot gray muslin with a silver silk sash beneath her bosom and two rows of the same silk ribbon about the hem. Another lady was kneeling on the floor beside her, a needle and thread in her hand while she stitched up a part of the ribbon that must have pulled loose from the dress. A third lady was bending toward the second, a few pins cupped in the open palm of her hand. Miss Martin was draping a paisley shawl about Frances's shoulders and smoothing it into place.

The two seamstresses turned identically flushed and laughing faces his way as he stepped inside. Frances bit into her lower lip, looking faintly embarrassed, but then she laughed too.

“Oh, dear,” she said.

The vivid loveliness of her merry expression smote him like a fist to the abdomen and fairly robbed him of breath for a moment.

“
Another
gentleman who chooses to arrive five minutes before his appointed time,” Miss Martin said severely.

“I do beg your pardon.” Lucius raised his eyebrows. “Should I perhaps go back outside and wait on the pavement until the five minutes have expired?”

They all dissolved into laughter again—even Miss Martin smirked.

“No, no, I am ready,” Frances said as the thread was snapped free and the ribbon about her hem pulled into place. “You have met Miss Martin, Lord Sinclair. May I present my fellow teachers, Miss Jewell and Miss Osbourne?”

She indicated the two seamstresses, both of whom were young and pretty. They were both looking at him with frank interest.

“Miss Jewell?” He bowed to the fair-haired, blue-eyed teacher. “Miss Osbourne?” He bowed to the auburn-haired little beauty.

They both curtsied in return.

A night out for one of their number, he suddenly realized, must be a momentous occasion for all of them. He felt that he was being given an unwilling glimpse into another, alien world, in which life for women was not a constant and idle round of parties and balls and routs. Yet these teachers were all young and all personable. Even the stiff-mannered, dour Miss Martin was not an antidote.

But why the devil had Frances chosen to be one of them? She did not need to be.

The porter, silent and glowering, as if he resented the intrusion of any male except himself into this hallowed female domain, held the door open, and Lucius followed Frances out onto the pavement and handed her into the carriage.

“The weather has stayed fine for the occasion,” she said brightly as the carriage rocked into motion.

“Would you have canceled if it had rained, then?” he asked.

“No, of course not.” She clung with both hands to the ends of her shawl.

“You were, then,” he said, “merely making polite conversation?”

“I am sorry if I bore you,” she said, an edge of annoyance in her voice. “Perhaps I ought to have remained silent. I shall do so for the rest of the journey.”

“What do you usually do for entertainment?” he asked her after she had suited action—or rather inaction—to words for a minute or so. “You and those other teachers? You live in Bath yet you have never been to an assembly. Do you put the girls to bed each night and then sit together conversing over the clacking of your knitting needles?”

“If we do, Lord Sinclair,” she said, “you need not concern yourself about us. We are quite happy.”

“You said that once before,” he told her. “And then you changed the word to
contented
. Is contentment enough, then, Frances?”

He thought she was not going to answer him. He watched her in the faint light of dusk. She was not wearing a bonnet tonight. Her dark hair was sleek over her head and dressed in curls at the back of her neck. They were not elaborate curls, but they were certainly more becoming than the usual knot. She looked elegant and lovely. She was going to make every other woman in the Upper Rooms look overfussy.

“Yes, it is,” she said. “Happiness must always find its balance in unhappiness and excitement in depression. Contentment is more easily maintained and brings with it tranquillity of mind and peace of soul.”

“Good Lord!” he said. “Could anything be more of a complete bore? I think you are a coward, Frances.”

She turned wide, indignant eyes on him.

“A coward?” she said. “I suppose it was cowardly of me not to throw away my career, my security, my future, and my friends and go off to London with you.”

“
Very
cowardly,” he said.

“If cowardliness means being sane,” she said, “then, yes, by your definition I am a coward, Lord Sinclair, and make no apology for the fact.”

“You might have been happy,” he said. “You might have taken a chance on life. And I would soon enough have discovered your talent, you know. You might have sung for larger audiences than you will ever find here. You cannot tell me that with your voice you have never dreamed of fame.”

“And fortune,” she said sharply. “The two inevitably go together, I believe, Lord Sinclair. I suppose
you
would have made me happy. I suppose
you
would have sponsored my singing career and have made sure that I met all the right people.”

“Why not?” he asked. “I would not have chosen to keep your talent all to myself.”

“And so,” she said, her voice trembling with some emotion that he thought must be anger, “a woman is quite incapable of knowing her own mind and finding the contentment, even happiness, she wants of life without the aid and intervention of some
man
. Is that what you are saying, Lord Sinclair?”

“I was unaware,” he said, “that we were speaking of men and women in general. I was speaking of you. And I know you quite well enough to understand that you were not made for contentment. How absurd of you to believe that you were. You are fairly bursting at the seams with passion, Frances—not all of it sexual, I might add.”

“How dare you!” she cried. “You do not know me at all.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I certainly know you in the biblical sense—and one night was quite enough for me to draw certain conclusions about your capacity for sexual passion. I have spoken with you—and quarreled with you—on several occasions, this evening included. I have laughed and played with you. And, perhaps most significant of all, I have heard you sing. I know you quite well.”

“Singing has nothing to do with—”

“Ah, but it does,” he said. “Anyone who uses an extraordinary talent to the full, forgetting very self in the process, has no choice but to pour out himself or herself. There is no hiding on such occasions, whether the product is a painting or a poem or a song. When you sang at the Reynolds soiree, you revealed far more than just a lovely voice, Frances. You revealed yourself, and only a dolt would have failed to see you for the deeply passionate woman that you are.”

It was strange. He had not consciously thought these things before. But he knew that he spoke the truth.

“I am quite contented as I am,” she said stubbornly, setting her hands palm down on her lap and staring down at her spread fingers.

“Ah, yes,” he said, “very much the coward, Frances. You give up the discussion and fall back upon platitudes because your case is unarguable. And you lie through your teeth.”

“You become offensive,” she said. “I have given you no permission to speak so freely to me, Lord Sinclair.”

“Perhaps that is so,” he said. “You have given me only your body.”

She inhaled sharply. But she let the breath out slowly again and refrained from answering him.

He had not noticed the passing landmarks of the journey. He realized suddenly, though, that they were approaching the Upper Assembly Rooms. It was just as well. Good Lord, he had not intended to quarrel with her. He might not have done so if she had not irritated him by opening the conversation with her bright, inane comment on the weather.

As if they were no more than polite strangers.

The sooner he left Bath and got back to the serious business of getting himself married, the better it would be for everyone. And Portia Hunt was in London waiting for him. So were her mama and his and all their family members.

Bath, London. London, Bath . . . Devil take it, it was like the choice between the devil and the deep blue sea!

Where had the familiar life gone that had given him perfect contentment for the past ten years or so?