Springtime Pleasures (16 page)

“Shh!” Isabella put her hand on Charlie’s arm and glanced around. “You do not mention the names of such persons in polite society!” she then whispered.

“Why ever not?” Charlie asked, at a loss.

With a resigned sigh, Isabella leaned closer towards her. “A courtesan is a… is a woman of ill repute.”

“Ah!” Charlie said, then frowned. “Huh?” At Ardochlan one earned a bad reputation if one put water into the milk one sold or if one’s flour was of inferior quality. However, she would not have taken the woman in the curricle for somebody selling either milk or flour, so obviously inferior food-stuff couldn’t possibly account for becoming a woman of ill repute.

Isabella stared at her. Shaking her head, she finally leaned even nearer and lowered her voice even more. “Gentlemen pay for—” A deep red colour rose in her cheeks. “Well, they pay her for
undressing
.”

“For seeing her in the nude?” Charlie felt her eyes go round. “You’re funning me!”

Somewhat exasperated, Isabella explained, her head positively glowing. “Well, no, they also
do
things.” She gave Charlie a meaningful look.

“
Do
things? Why, whatever—oh.” Charlie supposed she must be a proper slowtop for not having made the connection earlier. Still, this
was
shocking, indeed! “But I thought this was only done for purposes of procreating,” she whispered agitatedly.

“Not in London.”

Which only proved, Charlie thought, that London was strange in
every
respect.

The next moment a faint shiver raced down her spin, as a familiar voice said right next to them, “I must say, you look most cosy sitting together like this.”

Her head whipped around, and she perceived Viscount Chanderley standing next to them. In a trice, her face was aflame with her awareness of the man. His… his
manliness
. This was the closest he had come to her since their drive. Or perhaps, her blush could be attributed to the guilty knowledge that he would consider their topic of conversation most unsuitable for his sister’s ears.

She stole a look at Isabella and saw that her face was awash with colour, too.

“Izzie? Miss Stanton?” Not surprisingly, a note of suspicion had crept into Lord Chanderley’s voice. While he glanced frowningly from one to the other, the stern lines around his mouth seemed to deepen. “What
have
you been talking about? Miss Stanton, I hope you have not unduly shocked my sister with one of your stories about boars and such things.”

To Charlie’s surprise, his sister cut him short. “Boars? What fiddle-faddle you talk, George! If you
must
know, I have been telling Miss Stanton what a sore affliction a surfeit of male cousins and siblings is.” Her eyes sparkling, she turned to Charlie. “Would you believe that when I once followed my brothers and cousins into the wood as a small girl, I caught them relieving themselves against the trunk of a hapless tree?”

Charlie shot of a look of incredulity.

“This is a most
unfitting
topic for a ballroom conversation,” Chanderley grumbled somewhere above them.

His sister slanted a glance at him. “I
know
, George. But truly, you sound like a stiff bore.” She turned her attention back to Charlie, her eyes twinkling. “Granted, when I caught them doing you-know-what, they were
very
young. I believe they were trying to find out who could produce the highest arch.” Her lips twitched.

“You must be funning me.” As Charlie tried to envision small boys doing
that
against a tree, hilarity bubbled up inside her. “Oh… oh my,” she said in faint tones, valiantly suppressing her mirth.

But then she happened to look into Isabella’s face, and the two of them burst into shouts of laughter.

“I was in stitches for weeks,” Isabella finally managed, wiping her eyes. “It was the most ridiculous thing I have ever beheld.”

“I am glad to be the source of so much amusement,” her brother drawled.

Isabella patted his arm. “Don’t look so glum, George. I suppose you couldn’t help yourselves, being of the male persuasion and all that.” She gave him a sweet, mischievous smile of the kind Charlie had never seen her use before.

For a moment Chanderley stared at his sister, his expression frozen. Then his features softened and he reached out to tweak one of her curls. “Brat,” he said, his voice sounding curiously scratchy all of a sudden.

Something passed between brother and sister.

Isabella’s smile deepened as she took his hand. “Dear George,” she said. Then, as if suddenly remembering Charlie’s presence, she glanced at her and added, “Have you come to ask Miss Stanton for the next dance?”

Charlie felt her face fill with embarrassed colour once again when Chanderley looked at her—only this time, his brows did not mesh in a frown. Instead, his brown eyes glowed with warmth. “I will most gladly ask Miss Stanton for the next dance if she is not bespoken yet.”

“Oh, I’m not!” Charlie blurted out—and could have bitten off her tongue. Or at the very least crawl into the nearest available mouse hole. Not that she suspected mice to live in the Frimseys’ very elegant town house. She took a deep breath, called herself a silly pea-goose for changing colour every which way, and continued, “It is very kind of you to phrase your invitation as if I might have been.”

Clearly perplexed, he stared at her.

“Bespoken, that is,” she added helpfully for his clarification. “Truly, I never knew that
height
was considered such an affliction!—Not for
gentlemen
, of course,” she hastened to amend. “But—ah, I suppose this is one of those London peculiarities.”

His face very serious, he said, “Probably it is. But I daresay it cannot be much worse than being afflicted with a surfeit of male siblings and cousins.”

And then he
winked
at her.

Chapter 9

in which our hero & heroine end up

not where they ought to be

Brain fever
, Griff thought as he found himself bewitched—again!—by a pair of very green eyes. By God, he had tried to resist her, had stayed away from her whenever they attended the same social events. But how could he resist her tonight of all nights when she had given him back the sister he had deemed lost forever? At the moment he felt a rather desperate urge to kiss Miss Stanton’s face, which was so sweetly upturned to his. He should have taken his chance when they had been rattling along Brighton Road. He imagined it, as he had done then: feeling her mouth move under his, touching his tongue to hers…

What a laugh it was, for a man of distinction like him to find himself ensnared by an utterly unsophisticated girl, who, one must own, was for the most part a walking and talking social disaster. Purity of motive, a warmth of feeling and an excess of pluck and determination counted for very little these days—not when one was a debutante afflicted with the most hideous spectacles, a surfeit of unmodish and most unflattering dresses, and, last but not least, the epithet “giantess” attached to one’s person.

Not to forget a somewhat dubious parentage.

For hadn’t there been a scandal surrounding her parents? An old scandal, true, but as he knew, the gossipmongers of the
bon ton
loved nothing more than dragging up salacious ancient scandals whenever it suited them. An elopement of a girl of good family with an impoverished artist most certainly fell into this category, alas. It was a small miracle that this hadn’t been bandied around yet. But then, the “giantess” was not the sort of girl the fops and talkative tabbies took any notice of. Wallflowers typically never were—thank God! If they had the smallest inkling… It did not bear thinking of!

No, in all truthfulness, Miss Stanton did not meet high standards of respectability. But still, he found her utterly enchanting.

Griff was still pondering this conundrum when he led her to their dance.

She moved easily and gracefully, as he well knew by now, and her green eyes sparkled at him whenever they met on their course down the ballroom. Her gloved hands, which had so confidently handled the ribbons during their drive, felt deliciously narrow and delicate in his. The latter was but an illusion, of course, for though her figure was trim and her limbs slender, Miss Stanton was anything but a wilting daisy—as countless wild boars and highwaymen must know to their cost. Still, the illusion of delicate femininity was nice.

More than nice, really.

“What shall we talk about during our dance tonight?” he asked her with a smile.

Her eyes twinkling with what he suspected was suppressed laughter, she lifted her shoulder a little. “You do know my shocking propensity for committing the most atrocious blunders. It will be much safer if I leave the picking of a topic to you.”

They parted. When they met again, he suggested, “Shooting bears? I know about the partridges and the highwaymen, of course.”

As he had hoped, this earned him a peal of laughter. His heart was galloping in the most idiotish fashion, and he felt positively lightheaded with a range of disturbing emotions. Yet despite these alarming symptoms, he couldn’t help grinning with satisfaction.

“Oh, I didn’t actually
shoot
the highwaymen,” she informed him when she could. “That remains a task for the future.” Mischievous humour lurked in the corners of her mouth and made her sweet face glow.

Griff wished he could dare to dance a second set with her without setting the tongues wagging. But until he informed the earl and the countess of his intentions, it would not do to show a special preference for
any
young lady.

Yet how to relinquish this one, this special, sweet, funny girl, after a mere half hour? After he had witnessed the miraculous effect she had had on his sister, he simply couldn’t. Not this evening, when his heart was brimming with gratitude and warmth and so much more.

And this evening, he didn’t. In one fell swoop, he consigned conventions and the call of duty to the devil. He
could
make it work, he was sure. With guidance and the right instructions she would be able to act the proper young society miss, wouldn’t she?

Yes, she would, he decided. She
must
.

His heart hammered in his chest. He was acutely conscious of each look, each touch that passed between them. Each sweep of her lashes, each time her lips curved with mischief and merriment and sheer
life
.

No, tonight he would not let her go.

When the last notes of the dance had died down and the sounds of polite clapping had subsided, he took her hand and planted it securely in the crook of his arm. “Would you care for some refreshment?”

She opened her mouth, but he didn’t even wait for her answer. “Excellent,” he said, and dragged her to the small salon where refreshments were served. Fortunately, the room was so crowded, it proved to be the easiest thing in the world to sweep her out of the room unnoticed.

“What—”

Brain fever. Definitely brain fever.
Smiling, he put his finger over her lips. “I think you had to visit the ladies’ retiring room and then you lost your way.” This said, he led her swiftly down the corridor before any servant or straggling guest caught sight of them.

“How curious. My sense of direction is generally excellent.”

“Most curious,” he agreed, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure that nobody had noticed their flight. He vaguely knew the general plan of the house, having been invited to parties and dinners a few times. Wasn’t there a second staircase at the back of the house leading to the conservatory on the ground floor?

Miss Stanton chuckled, but she came with him willingly, he was glad to note. “You are very daring tonight.”

He felt daring. No, he felt as if he could take on the whole world! Positively bacon-brained. “It is not very difficult to be daring tonight,” he answered lightly. “After all, you haven’t brought your special reticule.”

“Oh, pffft.” She waved this argument aside as if it were an annoying fly. “I can still do you bodily harm if you insist.”

Yes, there was the staircase. Not as grand as the front staircase and insufficiently lit right now. Brilliant!

He stopped and turned, letting her palm slide off his arm so he could catch her hand in his. “And will you?” he asked, looking deeply into her eyes, which were almost black in the dim light.

She searched his face, then her lips curved in that way of hers that made his brain turn to mush. “I think I will reserve judgement for now.”

He pressed her hand. “Good.” He managed to make his voice sound light even though his heartbeat pounded in his ears like a drum.

Two drums.

A whole battalion of drums.

Still regarding him, she cocked her head to the side. “We are doing a very naughty thing, aren’t we?”

“Shockingly naughty.” He wondered whether it had occurred to her that she would be as good as ruined if they were found alone. But he must—
must
have her for his own for at least a little while. He knew how such things were played, and he would take care that they would remain undiscovered.

“
Shockingly
naughty, even?” One black brow rose. “How very exciting! Then pray lead on, sir.”

He sketched her a mock-serious bow and, her hand still resting in his, led her down the stairs and into the dark conservatory. Only in the middle of the Season, rooms in Mayfair were never really dark, thanks to the many lights which lit up Town.

“How pretty!” Miss Stanton exclaimed as he carefully closed the door behind them.

“Yes, isn’t it? Lord Frimsey is rather fond of palms and ferns and other kinds of exotic plants. He had this conservatory added when he inherited the title. There should be a bench somewhere.”

They ventured deeper into the slightly humid semi-darkness from which the greyish forms of plants rose like washed-out spectres of their daylight selves. “The trellising is done in semi-Chinoiserie style,” he informed her somewhat inanely.

Glancing around with apparent interest, Miss Stanton sank down onto the bench. “Is it called
semi
-Chinoiserie on account of the missing red lacquer?” When she turned towards him, he saw she was grinning slyly. In the dim light, her eyes were too dark pools a man could easily drown in.