Two Corinthians (20 page)

The gentleman he addressed, tall and lean, smiled and shook his head.

“Not until you have presented me to her, and I have persuaded her to grant me a dance.”

His companion seconded his request, and soon both were inscribed upon Claire's card. It seemed that Mr Ferguson had boasted of his quadrille, praising her to the skies, and mentioning also that she was connected with Sutton's Stable. Many of the gentlemen had bought hunters from her father. Once they had seen her waltz with Lord Pomeroy her success was assured.

She was not so sought after as to be able to avoid Horace altogether, but she stood up with him for a country dance where they were apart more often than together. Lizzie and Bertram joined the same set. To Claire's relief, her sister remembered to address him as “my lord,” and managed not to provoke him. Among the other youthful dancers, most of whom seemed to be either timid or coy, Lizzie's unselfconscious sparkle made her stand out, thought Claire fondly.

She was very tired by the time they reached home in the early hours of the morning. Her last thought before she fell asleep was of Bertram's kindness in ensuring that she, as well as Lizzie, should enjoy the ball. But it was with George that she waltzed in her dreams.

The house on Portman Square was besieged next day, by both Lizzie's youthful admirers and Bertram's older Corinthian friends, come to pay duty calls. At times their little parlour was full to overflowing. Lady Caroline was there to lend Claire countenance, which she was particularly grateful for as Lizzie had dashed off to the Marchmonts' to discuss the ball with Nell. Even though few of the visitors stayed longer than the polite fifteen minutes, their coming and going lasted until mid-afternoon.

At last only Lady Caroline, Horace and Amelia remained.

“I must be off,” said her ladyship apologetically to Claire. “I have an appointment with my dressmaker, who is an absolute tyrant. Amelia, do you care to go with me?”

If she meant to deliver Claire from the Harrisons, her effort was doomed to failure. Amelia cast a timid glance at her brother and still more timidly rejected the invitation.

“M'sister is hoping for a comfortable cose with Miss Sutton,” explained Horace jovially. “Wants to chatter about the ball, I wager. Of course I shall stay to see her safe home.”

Lady Caroline shrugged and took her leave.

Claire's scepticism about the silent Amelia's desire to discuss the ball was borne out when she retreated to a corner. Horace promptly dropped to his knees at Claire's feet and seized her hand.

“Must know I hold you in the greatest esteem, Miss Sutton,” he announced. “Beg you will do me the honour to become my wife.”

“Oh dear, Mr Harrison,” Claire heard herself babbling as she strove to withdraw her hand, “this is very sudden.”

“Not at all. Been meaning to offer ever since Cousin Caroline mentioned your fort...ahem, that is, since she introduced us. Love at first sight, and all that nonsense.”

Claire succeeded in reclaiming her hand, stood up, and moved to the window. She tried to think of words that would, without trading insult for insult, make absolutely certain that he never repeated his proposal.

Bertram's curricle was outside, and a moment later Enid announced, “Lord Pomeroy, miss.”

“What the devil are you doing on the floor, Horace?” enquired his lordship languidly. “Lost something?  I daresay Miss Sutton will not mind if you continue to search while she goes to the park with me.”

Red-faced and spluttering, Horace scrambled to his feet.

“No, no, it's nothing to signify,” he muttered, trying in an irritated way to smooth the sagging knees of his mustard-yellow inexpressibles.

Suppressing a half hysterical giggle, Claire hoped that at least he would be deterred from making a second offer by the damage to his nether garments.

“I'll fetch my parasol,” she said gratefully.  “Pray excuse me, Miss Harrison, a long-standing engagement.”

As she hurried out of the room, Bertram winked at her. He was really quite human when one came to know him better, she thought.

She heard Horace's petulant voice behind her.  “Amelia and I will walk with you, though I really ought to go home to change.”

She continued upstairs to her chamber, secure in the knowledge that Bertram was more than capable of nipping his cousin's plans in the bud. Nor, with his exquisite courtesy, would he ever put her to the blush by referring to what had all too obviously been a proposal of marriage.

He had saved her from having to reply, but Horace would surely try again if he was after her fortune. She wished she could consult George on the best way to deter an unwanted suitor. She had not seen him for a whole week, and she missed him more than she cared to admit to herself.

She found her parasol, bonnet, shawl and gloves, then paused to study her face in the mirror. The most beautiful girls only attracted George's passing fancy, and she was too old and too plain to aspire even to that brief happiness.  She had dared to count him a friend but he had been gone for a week, without a word. Had the gazetted flirt moved on to greener pastures?

Chapter XV—George

“I am not yet in my dotage,” snapped Mrs Tilliot. “Really, George, I have no need of a footstool, let alone another cushion.”

“No, love, but you are cross as a bear with a sore head so I know you are tired from the journey. Sometimes I cannot help wishing my ancestors had chosen to settle a little nearer London.”

“Bah, four days on the road is nothing nowadays.  I remember the first time I went from here to Bellingham with your parents. A good week's travel it was, and none of these newfangled springs on the carriage. Now, I can see you are itching to be off. I mean to retire early so I shall see you at breakfast.”

“Yes, ma'am.” George saluted his elderly cousin with a warm kiss on her wrinkled cheek and went out, calling for his hat and gloves.

It was a balmy April evening and he was brimming with energy despite the journey to Northumberland and back. He decided to walk to Portman Square. He had been gone for nine days; another quarter hour was neither here nor there.

Besides, it would take longer to have his curricle brought round.

When he reached the Suttons' house he was disappointed to see that no light showed in the parlour window. Surely it was too early for them to have retired. But of course, they would be in the back parlour, in those comfortable chairs he had argued Pomeroy into joining with him to purchase. From one gentleman the gift must have appeared too particular. From two, it was odd but acceptable.

Strictly speaking, it was not proper for a single gentleman to call on single ladies in the evening. George had not done it before. To hell with propriety, he thought. He could not wait until tomorrow. He knocked.

No response. He knocked again.

The area door, down the steps to his right, opened and he heard Molly's soft country voice.

“There, I told you as it were our knocker. Go on, Enid, hurry up. She's just a-comin', sir.”

Moments later the front door opened on a flurried maid, still adjusting her cap.

“Beg pardon, sir. We wasn't expecting no one. Oh, 'tis your lordship!  The misses is out. Gone to a grand ball, they 'ave.  Second one this week!”

So Bertram had summoned Lady Caroline and she was already at work, successfully. It was the only explanation. Feeling deflated, he cursed the ancestor who had planted the family's roots at the northernmost end of the kingdom.

“Do you know where they went?” he asked Enid.

“France...Spain...lessee...ah, 'Olland, it were. Lady 'Olland's dress ball.”

“Kensington,” groaned George. On the far side of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, and he was on foot. “Thank you, Enid,” he said dispiritedly, and plodded off to find a hackney.

He had no idea whether he had been invited to the ball, but experience told him that whatever his reputation no gentleman so eligible was in the least likely to be refused admittance.

Such proved to be the case. The receiving line had already broken up but a footman ushered him into the ballroom. He looked around for his host or hostess, to announce his presence, and spotted the youthful heir to the barony. The Honorable Henry Fox, down from the university for his mother's ball, was hovering close to a familiar figure:  Lizzie, a vision in white crape embroidered with forget-me-nots.

He made his way to her side.

“Geo...Lord Winterborne!  What a pleasant surprise! Are you a Whig?  Mr Fox has been telling me about his mama's celebrated political salon. Do you know Miss Marchmont?” She turned to the dark young lady sitting beside her. “We are the greatest friends.”

“Chatterbox,” said George, smiling at her. He bowed to Miss Marchmont, who fluttered her eyelashes at him with an experimental air. “I hope you have reserved a dance for me, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Why no, for I did not know you would be here.  But Mr Fox has two. Perhaps he will give up one if you ask him nicely.”

Mr Fox stammered his willingness, overwhelmed at the attention from so notable a Corinthian. Then he stammered again as he tried to explain to Lizzie that he did not mean to suggest that he was happy to surrender the pleasure of dancing with her. George admired the way she extricated the lad from his involved explanation. He took her dance card.

“All your waltzes are free,” he pointed out.

“I have not yet been given permission to waltz,” she said sadly. “Claire does, though, so you must ask her. Here she comes. She was afraid you must be ill, when you were gone so long.”

As George turned, a flood of warmth swept from his middle to the tips of every finger and toe and up to the top of his head. Claire had worried about him, his heart sang. He had not meant to distress her, had not thought to warn her that he was going out of town. For too long no one had cared about his comings and goings.

She was on Pomeroy's arm. George drew in his breath when he saw her, noting the dawning joy in her grey eyes, the smile that curved those delicate lips, the gleam of candlelight in her hair. She had never looked lovelier. Belatedly he realised that she was also elegant, clad in flowing amethyst silk. He had always known that concealed beneath the shapeless brown wool was a delectably slender figure.

“I always knew that you were beautiful,” he murmured, pressing her fingers to his lips, wishing her glove and her companion to the devil.

Pomeroy glared at him as they exchanged polite greetings. George wondered what his face had revealed.

He waltzed with her and she was light as a feather in his arms. It passed in a dream, over before he had time to savour it. He watched her dance with other men, delighting in her poise and grace even as he longed to challenge them. Then he led Lizzie into a country dance and she brought him back to earth.

“Doesn't Claire look pretty tonight?” she asked.  “I don't know what you said to her about her clothes, but it worked. I believe Bertram will come up to scratch after all.”

She sounded wistful. George thought she must be wondering what she would do when her sister was married to a man she was forever at odds with. She must be wed by then, and if none of the young sprigs had the wit to see what a prize she was, then he would offer himself.  He would be able to watch over Claire then; he'd have some right to intervene if Pomeroy did not treat her well.

What made him clench his fists in helpless anger, to the alarm of the demure miss with whom he linked his arm at that moment, was that he did not believe Pomeroy appreciated Claire's worth. He wanted a pleasant, peaceable wife, and that was what he would get. Claire was capable of so much more.

George could not wish his brother's happiness undone, but he could wish that Amaryllis Hartwell was not its cause. It would be the act of a scoundrel to steal a second bride from the unfortunate Lord Pomeroy.

Not wanting to draw the tattlemongers' attention to the Misses Sutton, he stood up for a few dances with other young ladies before he set out to walk back to Bellingham House. Though tired by now, he was restless, his feelings confused. It was not as if he was in love with Claire, after all, or he would scarce consider marrying her sister. He was physically attracted to her, and he had wanted to shield her ever since he carried her into her home to be met by her scolding mother. He enjoyed her company, respected her competence in her chosen field, and admired her successful protection of Lizzie.  Anything else could be put down to the fact that she was the first available female he had met since changing his views on marriage. He clearly recalled his words to Amaryllis when she had asked why he was still a bachelor.

“With my brother's example before me,” he had said, “I could not screw my courage to the sticking point. Now if you were to provide a pattern-card of domestic felicity, I might change my mind and stick my head into parson's mousetrap after all.”

He had hinted the same to his father. He was ready to take a wife, and Claire fulfilled all the requirements. That was all there was to it. Doubtless once he started to look about him, he would find a dozen other suitable young ladies.

By the time he reached home he had persuaded himself that he was happy to have two charming friends in Claire and Lizzie.  He would do his best to smooth their lives until they married, and then he would find himself a bride and settle down to produce an heir.

Mrs Tilliot looked fit and spry as ever when he joined her at the breakfast table next morning.

“Did you see your Miss Suttons last night?” she asked as he kissed her cheek in his customary greeting.

“Yes, after walking over half London in search of them.” He loaded his plate with eggs, kidneys, ham and sausage and sat down beside her as a footman brought in fresh toast. “They are less in need of your assistance than I supposed.” He explained that Lady Caroline Carfax had already achieved their introduction to the Ton.

“Caroline Carfax?  Ah yes, Tatenhill's daughter. A ninnyhammer but a good-hearted girl.”

“You know her?”

“You must remember, George, that poor Tilliot and I lived in London, and afterwards I spent every Season here with your parents.  I knew Lady Tatenhill before her marriage, though her maiden name escapes me. Always shockingly high in the instep. So Caroline Pomeroy has done our work for us, eh?”