The Savage Miss Saxon (42 page)

Georgette swooned, her suddenly numb fingers unable to uncork the vinaigrette.
For once in my life I truly need the dratted stuff
, she thought randomly as darkness closed in all around her,
and I can’t use it. What a pity
.

Myrtle, struck speechless for the first time in her life, plunked herself down on the floor directly where she stood, only to rise just as quickly, for she had sat herself down on a pin. “
Married!
” she yelped, rubbing at her sore posterior. “Who the devil
to?
God’s hatstand—not Bad Bertie?”

Lettice shook her head. “Not Bad Bertie,” she told them, smiling at Georgette, who had roused from her swoon and was now sitting very still, taking her pulse (from habit only, for she knew she was fine as ninepence, really). “I only told all of you it was Bert, to put you off the scent. As if I’d have the man. He’s even worse than you say—although he did so pay me attention. He pays everything in skirts attention.”

“Then who?” Virginia asked, cudgeling her brain for some memory of seeing Lettice Ann with anyone other than Bert. Lettice Ann had said she’d married six months ago, which would have placed her at home, before the start of the season. “And why have you kept it such a secret?”

“Papa hates him,” Lettice Ann told them, her smile beginning to waver.

The three unmarried sisters looked to each other in shock, their eyes wide and incredulous, and cried as one, “
Sean Conway!
”

Lettice Ann stood, her hands drawn up into tight fists, her chin at a determined angle. “Yes. Sean Conway. Do any of you have any objections?”

Sean Conway, an Irish widower of at least forty who had settled near the Noddenly estate and was rapidly in the process of building a fortune breeding horses, had gained Sir Roderick’s dislike with his outspoken disdain (rightly so) for the Noddenly horseflesh (save Myrtle’s mares, which he deemed “passable”).

But Mister Conway had not stopped there. He had imported all Irish workers from his birthplace in County Clare rather than hiring from the locals, and had thrown a large party last Christmas
without
inviting the man who had publicly stated that the Irishman was “a paddy-whacking clodpole who’s no better than he should be.”

But, at the moment, none of this seemed particularly germane to the question. Did the three remaining Noddenly spinsters, who knew they had to wait until Lettice Ann was popped off in order to marry the loves of their own lives, have any objections to the match? They again looked to each other, consideringly.

“I think it’s wonderful,” Virginia said, not sure if she liked Sean Conway, but knowing she much preferred him to Bad Bertie. “Myrtle? Do you object?”

“Nope,” Myrtle said, shrugging, “Not me. Maybe Mister Conway will allow his prize stallion to service my mares, now that we’re related.”

“Oh, leave it to you to see some advantage for yourself,” Georgette complained, then smiled. “But I don’t object, not that it would mean anything if I did. It won’t mean anything if Papa objects either. Myrtle—it looks as if you’re clear to wed Sir Wiley. Straighten your bodice, for goodness sakes. How do you propose to entice a man with your gown falling half off your shoulders?”

“I’d say it’s precisely the way to entice a sad rotter like Wiley,” Myrtle said reasonably, remembering the man’s reputation as a rake—a reputation that was sadly lost on her, whom he persisted in treating as if she was his flat mate from Cambridge.

Virginia, caught between wanting to rush off to find Jonathan and tell him her good news and the sneaking suspicion that, now that she had begun her confession, Lettice Ann was not quite finished with her revelations, said, “When are you and Mister Conway going to tell Papa the truth, Letty?”

“Soon, I suppose,” she said, sighing. “That’s why I was trying so hard to get back home. I wanted Sean to know before I told anyone else. I couldn’t be sure last month—not positively sure—but now that it has been two months, ever since we came to London, as a matter of fact, I am quite convinced.”

“So am I,” Myrtle said, bending to pull the last remaining pins from her hem. “I’m convinced you’re to let in your attic. For goodness sakes, Letty, try to say something that makes sense.”

“I’m increasing!” Lettice Ann exclaimed, pressing her hands against her still flat stomach. “Clara knows, of course, but now you three do, too. Isn’t it marvelous?”

“Marvelous?” Myrtle cried over Virginia’s objections. “You’re
pregnant
, and you haven’t even told Papa that you’re
married
—to a man he detests? Oh, yes. Yes, indeed, Letty, that’s marvelous. Bloody marvelous. Papa will be in alt, won’t he, girls? Georgie—lend me that vinaigrette, will you? I never had ’em before, but I think I feel a fit of the vapors coming on.”

Virginia quietly slipped from her bedchamber as Myrtle, Lettice Ann, and Georgette applied the finishing touches to their toilettes, intent on seeking out Jonathan to tell him that they’d already had one matrimonial success—without even knowing it.

She sought him out in the usual spot—the Conservatory behind the music room, a glassed-in area devoted to greenery and the odd orange tree—and was delighted to see that he had arrived before her and was waiting, a small bouquet in hand, to meet with her.

“I have news,” she told him, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Virginia was beginning to consider herself one half of an old married couple, riding herd on the younger generation and doing her best to find time alone with her similarly beleaguered spouse.

There was barely time for passion anymore, especially since the defection of Knox Bromley and the ouster of Lord Pitney Fox. Every moment had been dedicated to the marrying-off of her three sisters, to the detriment of her relationship with Jonathan, the love of her life.

But that did not, it appeared, mean that Jonathan had resigned himself to prudish pecks on the cheek—not when he and the beautiful Virginia were alone in the Conservatory. “Your news can wait, my love,” he told her, gathering her close. “I, on the other hand, have waited all day to see you and refuse to be fobbed off with that one miserly kiss.”

“Mm,” Virginia sighed once he had released her from a most satisfying embrace, “I do so adore it when you’re masterful. Thank goodness my sisters are such lackadaisical chaperons. But I must tell you what I’ve learned. Brace yourself, Jonathan—Lettice Ann is already married. And soon to make me an aunt for the twelfth—or is it the thirteenth time?”

“Already married?” Jonathan shook his head, unable to believe what he’d just heard. “And you’re to be an aunt?” He closed his eyes a moment and did some mental arithmetic. “That leaves out Knox, thank the good Lord. Or is it worse? Has she eloped with Bad Bertie?”

“Neither,” Virginia told him, taking his hand and leading him to a nearby bench, the scene of several mutually pleasurable exchanges these past days. And then, in between kisses, she told him the tale of Sean Conway, Irish horse breeder.

“Well, that’s two down,” Jonathan said when she had finished, nuzzling her neck above the soft silk collar of her gown. He sat back and told her, “You see, I have some good news for you too.”

“About Doctor Fitzhugh and Georgette?” Virginia asked hopefully.

“Yes, puss, although I would appreciate it if you were to allow me to pretend you hadn’t noticed, and then praise me as if I’d had some scant something to do with our second success.”

“Sorry, darling,” Virginia said, not the least repentant.

“Apology accepted, puss. Angus came to see me this afternoon, seeking my opinion on his chances of gaining your father’s approval for a marriage to Georgette. It seems he’s only in London for a year, learning some of our medical techniques. Then it’s back to Edinburgh for him. Back to his
castle
, as it turns out. He took one look at Georgette and tumbled top over tail in love. I told him I believed your father might just fall on his neck with happiness at the match. The thought seemed to cheer him mightily, although it’s difficult to tell with Angus. But I did catch a fleeting glimpse of very white teeth beneath that bushy mustache, so I assumed he was smiling.”

Virginia was so pleased she kissed Jonathan again, this time squarely on his lips, which effectively put a halt to any further discussion for some minutes, until the gong had rung the first time, calling them in to the drawing room in preparation for being summoned to their dinner.

“Oh dear,” Virginia cried, adjusting the bodice of her gown, just lately the scene of an expeditionary foray by her beloved. “We must go. I promised Myrtle I’d lend her emotional support as she makes her entrance.”

“Your attempts to soften her hard edges have met with so little success?” Jonathan asked, doing his best to undo the havoc Virginia’s roving fingers had done his neck cloth.

Virginia took hold of Jonathan’s hand and unceremoniously pulled him to his feet. “Don’t be so quick to fear the worst, darling,” she admonished him as they made their way back through the music room and along the corridor leading to the drawing room. “I believe Myrtle looks”—she cudgeled her brain for the correct words—“quite uniquely attractive.”

“Uh-huh,” Jonathan said, wondering if falling in love had turned him against his own sex. Otherwise, without his own marital future hanging in the balance, he most surely would have warned Sir Wiley of what was about to transpire in the drawing room. Warned him, and given him the option of high-tailing it back to London before the sight of Myrtle Noddenly rigged out in lace and bows drove him straight to the drinks table.

“I mean it, Jonathan,” Virginia protested, knowing that even three solid days of trying had only marginally succeeded in turning Myrtle into an unexceptional young lady of fashion. That sort of success would have taken a year of dawn to dusk labor, at the least. “And you promised to be supportive.”

“And I will be supportive,” he said with a straight face, entering the drawing room. “I will be supportive of poor Wiley as he tumbles into a dead faint at the sight of his good chum Myrt in hair bows.”

“Wretch,” Virginia whispered. “As if Myrtle would allow hair bows.”

They greeted the good doctor, who had arrived in the drawing room in advance of them, Virginia going up to the nervous looking young man at once to tell him how very well pleased she was to be the first Noddenly to welcome him to the family.

“Thank you, Miss Ginny,” Angus Fitzhugh said, bowing over her hand. “I love the woman dearly, you know. And she’s got wide hips. She’ll bear me many strong sons.”

Virginia considered this for a moment, then gave a slight nod of her head. “If that makes the two of you happy, Doctor—
Angus
.”

Sir Wiley Hambleton was next to enter the room, a glass in his hand and a certain glow to his cheeks that stated to even the uncurious that he had been imbibing steadily for most of the afternoon.

He was a sad sight, this normally active man made to cool his heels while his “Myrt” was hiding out above stairs, doing Heaven only knew what instead of bearing him company as he tore about the countryside, looking for mischief in the manner of a youth half his age. In point of fact, he might as well have been visiting with his Aunt Earlene, for all the sport he’d had.

“Evening all,” he said, heading straight for the drinks table. “Depressing evening, isn’t it? Sun still above the horizon, the air cool and crisp, and the lot of us stuck looking at each other yet again. I’ve a mind to bolt, Johnny, no matter what I promised you, and if Myrt ain’t going to show up tonight, I’ll do just that.”

Jonathan took Sir Wiley’s glass and replaced it with a smaller one he’d filled only partway with wine. “She’ll be down directly, Wiley,” he promised, looking hopefully toward the foyer, already rethinking what he’d done and wondering if it wouldn’t be best if Wiley were half-blind with drink when Myrtle showed up. “You know, for a man who has stated his intention to propose marriage to one woman, you’re acting deucedly like a fellow in love with another woman who is much closer to his heart.”

Sir Wiley screwed up his face in puzzlement. “You mean Myrt?” he asked, incredulous at the suggestion. “She ain’t the marrying sort. No more than me. Only I have to, and she don’t.”

“True enough, Sir Wiley,” Virginia agreed, approaching the two men with every hope of helping her beloved bring home his point. “But, much as Myrtle protests, she is a woman, and all women desire to someday fall in love. Once that joyful moment occurs, there is no end to the compromises she will make in her convictions in order to be with that one special man who has captured her heart.”

Sir Wiley peered owlishly at Virginia, then looked to Jonathan. “What’d she say, Johnny? Is she saying that Myrt might want to marry me?”

Jonathan glanced quickly to his beloved, who nodded her head a single time, giving him permission to speak what was, after all, the truth. “You’re a hellion, Wiley, and have justly gained the reputation of a ne’er do well, but you do, I suppose, have a certain appeal to a woman of Myrtle’s singular tastes,” he said, not wishing to jump straight into the water when it might be more prudent to test its temperature first with a single toe.