The Bewitching Hour (19 page)

Philip had been watching Stratton from the back seat of a hired hack from the time he had left Miss Hawthorn’s residence. The black expression on the viscount’s face was enough to tell him that events had proceeded as he intended.
    After dropping Mr. Danfield off at his mistresses home, Stratton flicked the ribbons and took off at a swift gait. The sporty carriage would have sent the viscount back more than enough to pay off Philip’s gambling debts. He was sick to death of being dunned by his creditors and having to beg his tightfisted cousin Percy for enough blunt to pay his tailor. Sick of hired hacks and second rate lodgings. But more than that, he was growing nervous. If he didn’t get a hold of some serious blunt his life wouldn’t be worth a tinker’s damn.
    He wasn’t confident that Stratton was the answer, but Miss Hawthorn might very well be. It didn't set well with him but he would do what he must. He rapped on the roof with his cane and they continued on, half a block behind the Phaeton. The trip ended a short while later on Bond Street where they became ensnared in a quagmire of carriages. When it became obvious that Stratton and the Phaeton were lost, Philip mentally cursed the jarvey and gave the man Melissa’s address.
    By the time he reached her townhouse, she was in a frenzy.
    “So he dropped Mr. Danfield off to see his mistress,” she said to Philip. “What earthly good will that bit of information do me? Have you even delivered the note yet? You’ve had all morning to see to it.” She paced across the sitting room, her red and gold embroidered dressing gown fluttering behind her as she walked. “You’re supposed to help me lure Lord Stratton into marriage, not report on Mr. Danfield’s sexual activities.
    As she continued to pace, he decided to delay his news. Instead, he draped himself over the closest chair, prepared to enjoy the show. Melissa rarely lost control but when she did it was well worth watching. Her breasts heaved tightly against the thin silken gown as she swept by him, her face was flushed and her eyes flashed with anger.
    “I don’t understand him.” She stopped and threw her hands up in the air. “What could he possibly see in her?”
    “She’s lovely.”
    “She’s passable, Philip,” she muttered. “No more than that. She’s passable. She’s been on the shelf too long.”
    He shrugged. There was little point in arguing with her.
    “And his aunt! You should have heard her on our ride home the other night. She wouldn’t shut up! And everything she uttered was complete drivel. I wanted to scream!" She turned on her heel and paced back across the room. "And he did nothing about it until we were practically at my door. He’s far too accommodating with her. I’m beginning to think he’s henpecked. If he weren’t so plump in the pockets I wouldn’t give him a second look.”
    Her expression was taut as she glared at him. He couldn’t help laughing. She had known how to flirt from the time she first put her hair up. She excelled at it. She did not want to admit failure. “Could it be that you’re losing your touch?”
    “I am not losing my touch!” She whirled around, her fingers curled and she rushed toward him.
    Realizing his comment had pushed her too far, he rose from his chair and snatched her wrists. “You little devil,” he said. “Take hold of yourself!” She struggled for a moment, and then went perfectly still. “That’s better, my dear. May I assume you will behave yourself now?” Her eyes were smoldering with anger but she nodded. He released her, carefully adjusted the cuffs to his sleeves and returned to his chair.
    Several moments passed before she sank into the chair across from Philip and said, “Lady Fitzberry invited me to tea. I suppose I can bear it. Perhaps she’ll choke to death on a biscuit. That would keep her quiet.”
    His mouth twisted into a cynical smile. “As well as put the household in mourning, completely ruining our plans.”
    She shrugged. “It would almost be worth it.”
    He gazed at her a moment. “I feel compelled to mention that both Lord Devlin and Lord Baker will arrive next week. Lord Baker has just come into his title as viscount as well as a considerable sum of money.”
    She sniffed disdainfully. “Lord Baker is wall eyed and half his teeth are missing.”
    “And Lord Devlin?”
    “He stutters.”
    Philip threw up his hands in exasperation. “Maybe so, but he isn’t bad looking, his coffers are full and he would overlook a paltry dowry to have you in his bed. A stutter seems a small enough thing to overlook.”
    “I don’t have the inclination to do so.”
    “Melissa, you are behaving like a spoiled child. Lord Baker I can understand as he is a somewhat revolting character, but Devlin? Is a slight stutter such a hindrance?”
    “It’s appallingly annoying. I couldn’t carry on a conversation without wanting to strangle him.”
    “You have to consider others in addition to Lord Stratton. One never knows what will happen. What about Tristan Simpson? Granted he’s only a baron, but he’s also very well-heeled and I hear he’s looking.”
    “Don’t be absurd. He’s also without an arm.”
    “Good God, Melissa! Can’t you overlook it? He’s a war hero. As jaded as I am, even I can appreciate that.”
    Her mouth hardened. “If I marry a man young enough to bed I want one with a strong healthy body, a pleasing face and the ability to speak clearly,” she said through clenched teeth. “Can you not understand that?”
    He sighed. “Forgive me for my shortsightedness. What you must understand, is that despite all your charm and beauty as well as the fact that Miss Hawthorn sent him away this afternoon, things may not go as you wish.”
    “He went to see her?” She straightened in her chair and leaned forward.
    “He did. Left in quite a temper, too. I believe the little note I sent her did the trick. Practically ran Mr. Danfield over with his Phaeton, and that isn’t like him at all.”
    “Damn you, Philip. You might have mentioned this before now. I’ve been in turmoil the entire day.” She frowned at him as she thought. “I can’t imagine why you’ve taken on such a disagreeable manner regarding our little scheme. It’s likely things will work out, after all. You’re certain she doesn’t know the missive came from you?”
    “Don’t be insulting. I’ve been at this kind of thing more than half my life and I know what I’m doing. She hasn’t the means to find out and she’s certainly not going to ask anyone else to look into it. Miss Hawthorn is far too circumspect for that.” He crossed one leg over the other. “But don’t count your chickens, just yet. It’s always possible she will tell him the truth of it if he persists. He isn’t a man who gives up easily.” He took in her darkening expression and added quickly, “Don’t go into another rage. As enjoyable as it was to watch for a while, one is quite enough.” His fingertips rapped against the arm of his chair. “The bastard who bought my vowels is behaving in a most unpleasant manner.”
    “Imbecile. I don’t know why you even go near the tables. One of these days, you’re going to get your throat slit and it will be your own doing.”
    “Would you miss me?”
    Her only response was to roll her eyes skyward.
    He chuckled. “I’m crushed. You do realize, don’t you, that as long as I’m helping you, my longevity is in your best interest?”
    She shrugged. “Perhaps. So what do you intend to do?”
    “No need to concern yourself. It has naught to do with you.”
    She looked away. “I wasn’t concerned. I could care less.”
    “The insults never stop, do they? You’re growing tedious.”
    Her expression tightened and she stared at him for a long moment. “What do you suggest I do next?”
    “I suggest that you gird you loins and put in an appearance at Lady Fitzberry’s tea. I realize female friendships hold little appeal for you but you must be popular with the ladies as well as the gentlemen. Did Lady Fitzberry seem to like you?”
    “I suppose." The corners of her lips turned down and she heaved a sigh. "If I must, I’ll befriend her for the time being. However, once I’ve achieved my objective, I’ll make certain she’s shipped back to wherever it is she came from.”
    “That’s most generous of you, Melissa.” Philip’s voice was laced with sarcasm. “Will she be allowed to attend the wedding or does she need to leave once the engagement is announced?”
    “I don’t know. It depends on how long she remains useful.”
    Brows raised, he burst into laughter. “You are truly a piece of work, my dear. If it weren’t for one small matter, we could have used you against Bonaparte.”
    Eyes flickering, she glared. “And what would that one small matter be?”
    “Your loyalty. You have none.”
    She opened her mouth to argue then realized she couldn’t.

“I’m having the best time,” Cecelia told Priscilla as she reached for her third ginger biscuit. “Thank you so much for coming with me. I’m afraid most of my shopping trips lately have been perfectly ghastly.”
    Priscilla forced her lips into a smile. Cecelia did appear to be enjoying herself and the last thing she wanted was to ruin her fun. They were having tea at Madame Claudette’s while Madame and her assistant were gathering bolts of silks, satins and muslins to be considered for Cecelia’s wardrobe. It was impossible to look at Cecelia without thinking of Stratton. Priscilla had wanted to cry off the invitation to go shopping, but she had promised and difficult as it might be, she would keep her word.
    “Good heavens,” Priscilla told her. “There’s no need to keep thanking me.” She poured milk into her tea. “One can only spend so much time shopping for oneself. It’s become more of a chore than a pleasure. But you’re tall and willowy and your coloring is vastly different from mine. I quite enjoy the change.”
    Cecelia pushed back a copper ringlet that had escaped its clip. “Tall and willowy,” she repeated. “It sounds rather nice when you say it. I suppose I’ve grown used to being tall, but I can’t say I always like it. Especially when I’m dancing with someone who’s much shorter than me.”
    Priscilla sipped her tea. “Who in particular?”
    Cecelia thought a minute. “The Mercer brothers are both shorter than I am. As is Thomas Kent.”
    Happy to be talking, rather than dwelling on her own misery, Priscilla said, “The Mercer brothers are shorter than almost anyone, including me, and they’re both considered quite a catch. Thomas Kent is betrothed to a young lady several inches taller than he is and she doesn’t seem to mind. If their short stature doesn’t bother them why should being tall bother you?”
    A flush tinted Cecelia’s cheeks as she considered this. “You have me there,” she conceded. “But my hair color isn’t at all fashionable.”
    Priscilla smiled. “I’ve seen the men crowded around you. They don’t seem to find anything unfashionable about your height or your hair color.”
    “Or my dowry,” Cecelia finished.
    “Ophelia Corsairs has a sizable dowry as does Katrina Howell and potential suitors seem to avoid those two like the plague,” Priscilla said. Then she brought her hand to her mouth. “Oh my, that just slipped out. That was terribly rude of me wasn’t it?”
    Cecelia grinned. “But terribly true.”
    Priscilla couldn’t imagine why Cecelia was unhappy about her appearance. Her vibrant coloring matched her personality and she wore her clothing with far more style and grace than any debutant had a right to. “At your age I still looked as if I belonged in the schoolroom,” she said. “If I hadn’t been affianced at the time I would have been devastated by the lack of male attention I received.”
    Cecelia narrowed her eyes and regarded her suspiciously. “You’re not making that up are you?”
    “No.” She shook her head. “I’m not. It was embarrassing.”
    “Did you know Eugene back then?”
    Priscilla had known his name would come up at some point and there was nothing for it other than to muddle through as best she could. “We were briefly introduced, but we didn’t really know one another.”
    Cecelia looked at her curiously. “Are you alright?”
    She swallowed and forced another smile. “I’m fine. Why would you ask that?”
    "You just seem a little... different today." Her brow wrinkled. "Has he asked you to marry him yet?”
    For a moment, Priscilla was struck speechless. “Has he what?”
    Cecelia’s green eyes lit up. “Has he asked you to marry him?” she repeated impishly. “The night we met, I asked him if Rand had set his cap for you and he almost bit my head off.” She grinned. “At the time his reaction didn’t make sense. He’s spent most of the past three years running away from women who wanted to marry him. But I’ve seen the way he looks at you. This is something entirely different.”
    Priscilla set her teacup down and blotted her lips, hoping those few extra moments would be enough to regain her composure. “We made the decision that we would not suit.”
    Cecelia stared at her. “Why ever not?”
    That Cecelia would ask such a bold question hadn’t occurred to her and she hadn’t any kind of an answer planned. A moment of despair rocked through her. What a miserable state this was. Priscilla latched onto the first thing that came to mind. “I would be unhappy living in the country. He would be unhappy living in London. It wouldn’t be fair to either one of us.”
    Cecelia’s forehead creased as she gave her a dubious look. “I think you’re both being perfectly silly. You could spend six months here and six months in Surrey. That would be quite fair.”
    Once again, Priscilla had no response and she breathed a sigh of relief when Madame Claudette burst in followed by a shop girl laden with yards of satins, and muslins.
    “You will be pleased with these, Lady Cecelia.” The French modiste spoke with a heavy accent. “Soft pretty colors. Simple lines. Very nice for a beautiful debutante.”
    The girl set the bolts of fabric down on an ornate table and Cecelia left her chair to inspect them. She trailed her fingertips over an ivory silk and sighed with pleasure. “It’s so nice to be able to look at these without arguing with Aunt. Or worrying about hurting her feelings.” She looked at Priscilla. “Madame Claudette and I spend most of our time trying to talk Aunt out of some horrid gown she thinks I would look marvelous in. If Eugene hadn’t told her that he must approve my gowns before he pays for them,” she flung her arms out dramatically, “I don’t know what I would be forced to wear.”
    The petite modiste nodded vigorously in agreement, her silver curls bouncing around her forehead and the nape of her neck. “Lady Fitzberry has unusual taste, shall we say?” She paused, seeming to carefully consider her words. “Unusual for a young girl in her first season, that is,” she murmured with an air of diplomacy. Ah, yes.” She pulled out a bolt of muslin. “This is the one. Isn’t it exquisite?”
    "Oh, that’s lovely,” Cecelia exclaimed as Madame Claudette unwrapped the ivory muslin embroidered with a green and deep rose floral design. Cecelia stood and the modiste draped the fabric across her shoulders and turned her to face the mirror.
    “For your ball gown, yes? With a green velvet sash and green ribbons and maybe a cluster of tiny roses in your hair. See how pretty it is on you? No, no, much better than pretty, you will be a vision. The young men will not be able to take their eyes from you.”
    Cecelia flushed at the modiste’s praise. She turned to Priscilla. “What do you think?”
    Priscilla nodded approvingly. “Madame is right. It’s perfect. The green brings out your coloring beautifully.”
    A male voice interrupted the discussion. “It does, doesn’t it?”
    Shocked, Priscilla looked up to see Stratton leaning against the doorway of the back entrance with a lazy smile on his face. He wore a dark green jacket of superfine, brown waistcoat, buckskins and boots. Intensely masculine, he should have looked out of place amidst the dainty gold and white furnishings and feminine dress forms, but he seemed perfectly at ease as he strolled toward them. Two very diverse reactions warred within her. Just looking at him made her want to throw her arms around him, yet if it had been possible, she would have gladly allowed the thick carpeted floor to swallow her up.
    He made his formal bow. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
    For a moment Priscilla couldn’t speak. Then years of training set in and she rose to her feet curtsied demurely. “My lord.” He didn’t appear to still be distressed by her refusal to marry him. She should have been glad for it, but instead, found it upsetting. Her back stiffened, her chin inched up and she decided that she would not speak to him further unless he addressed her directly.
    Madame Claudette curtsied and said, “Welcome, my lord. Please, sit and have some refreshment.” She turned back to Cecelia and continued to fuss with the muslin draped over her shoulders. “Does she not look beautiful in this?”
    Stratton sat down on the chair next to Priscilla. He appeared to be thinking as he rested his chin on his hand. “You wouldn’t prefer red taffeta, Cecelia? Or chartreuse with feathers along the hem?”
    She made a face at him. “Don’t tease, Eugene. Do you like it?”
    He offered a slow nod and a smile. “I do. Very much. It will make a lovely gown providing, of course, that the style is sufficiently modest.”
    Cecelia sighed. “I know the rules. You don’t need to keep reminding me.”
    “Good.” He glanced around the shop. “As we seem to be sans Aunt Mirabella. I take it our little ploy was successful?”
    Cecelia grinned. “Brilliantly so. Aunt was searching the house from top to bottom, insisting she couldn’t leave until her poor little dear was found. I did feel a bit sorry for her. She was very upset.”
    “Don’t let it perturb you. I told Reeds to fetch Ulysses from the wine cellar about one. Beast and owner should be happily reunited by now.”
    As much as she wanted to remain angry with him, an unwanted bubble of laughter escaped Priscilla’s chest.
    He smiled at her. “It wasn’t a difficult ruse. The beasts are in trouble one way or another on a daily basis and, as you well know, Ulysses has a penchant for running off.”
    Of course, she knew. If she hadn’t rescued the silly thing to begin with, she wouldn’t be in this awful fix.
    “Eugene, whatever are you doing here?” Cecelia asked suddenly. “You didn’t tell me you were planning to visit Madame’s.”
    He looked up at her and replied mildly, “I would think it’s fairly obvious. I’ve come to approve your gowns.”
    Priscilla found that difficult to believe and it appeared that Cecelia did as well, because she tilted her head, narrowed her eyes and said, “You told me anything Miss Hawthorn approved of was fine.”
    “You ask too many questions,” he chided. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere getting fitted for this lovely gown?”
    She broke into a wide grin. “You’re right. I should.” She motioned for the modiste to come with her. “We must take measurements.”
    Madame Claudette wrinkled her brows in confusion. “But Lady Cecelia, we have just taken measurements.”
    “We should take them again. I believe I have grown.”
    “In one half hour?” Madame Claudette asked.
    “I’ve eaten a number of ginger biscuits during that time. I could well burst my seams. Come to the back room, Madame.”
    Priscilla watched in dismay as Madame allowed herself to be taken by the arm and dragged off.
    Stratton turned a smile on Priscilla and said quietly, “That wasn’t particularly subtle, was it?”
    She didn’t return his smile. Instead, she swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump that had formed in her throat. “I thought we had an understanding. You shouldn’t have come here. And don’t say you had to approve Cecelia’s gowns.”
    “You are very much mistaken." He leaned toward her and said in a low voice, "We
do not
have an understanding. Far from it. But even if we did, we can’t completely avoid one another. London is not that large and the season’s entertainments are upon us.” He caught her chin, tilted her face up and looked her directly in the eyes. “I mean to wear you down. Don’t doubt it for a minute.”
    His touch brought about an awareness that flooded her senses and to not be able to respond was pure torture. She pulled away and slowly shook her head.
    He dropped his hand suddenly and reached for a biscuit.
    She glanced at the back door. “Did anyone see you come in?”
    His hand stilled. He looked at her closely. “Are you afraid of someone?”
    Annoyed with herself for making such an obvious blunder, she said, “Don’t be absurd. Who would I possibly be afraid of?”
    His expression darkened and he stared at her with such an intensity that she had to look away. “I don’t know," he said. "You tell me.”
    It was tempting. It would be such a relief to tell him everything; such a relief to not have to bear this alone and if she had only Patrick's memory to consider, she would. But she would not hurt his family. So she stared at her hands until the sound of a well orchestrated coughing fit came from the fitting room.
    “Eugene!” Cecelia strode into the sitting area with the modiste and shop girl following close behind, her arms laden with even more bolts of fabric. “I’ve found some of the loveliest silks. And given the number of invitations we’ve accepted, I could use more gowns than what we’ve discussed.” She offered him a dazzling smile. “Please?”
    He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “And exactly how many additional gowns would we be talking about?”
    “Five?”
    Stratton frowned at her. “Five seems excessive.” He thought a moment and countered, “Two.”
    “Four?”
    “No.”
    “Three?”
    “Three,” he relented.
    “Thank you, Eugene.” She beamed happily at her brother while Madame Claudette looked on, not at all disconcerted with the additional business.
    “Now that I have been thoroughly managed, I believe I will take my leave.” After retrieving his hat from the chair beside him, he offered an elegant bow. “I bid you farewell.” He walked a few feet toward the back door then stopped and turned. “Miss Hawthorn?”
    She slowly raised her head to look at him. “Yes, my lord?”
    “I should very much like to continue our discussion. Perhaps we could meet again sometime this week.”
    Knowing she couldn’t very well refuse him with Cecelia and Madame Claudette watching, she responded in a noncommittal tone, “Perhaps.”