Читать книгу The Governess's Convenient Marriage - Amanda McCabe, Amanda McCabe - Страница 11

Chapter Three

‘Alexandra! Aren’t you ready yet? We will be terribly late,’ Alex’s mother called from the dressing room doorway.

Alex studied her mother’s reflection in the mirror as her maid put the finishing touches on her hair. The Duchess was tugging on her gloves, straightening her hat, as impeccably dressed as usual in a green-and-white-striped gown, pearls and amethysts in her ears, blonde hair barely touched with silver. Tall, statuesque, exactly what a duchess should be. Alex knew her own tiny, delicate looks had always been something of a puzzle to her mother.

Just like now. The Duchess tilted her head as she studied Alex’s coiffure, her pale blue watered-silk dress. ‘Oh, that’s quite nice, Mary. You’ve done wonders with Lady Alexandra’s hair.’

‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ Mary said, stabbing another pearl-headed pin into Alex’s ruthlessly smoothed-down curls. Alex could still feel the sizzle from the hair tongs.

‘I know such things take time, but we mustn’t be late,’ the Duchess said.

‘I thought that was what you wanted, Mama,’ Alex said. ‘To be the last to arrive and make a grand entrance at the top of Lady Cannon’s garden terrace.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Alexandra, we would never be so rude.’ Her mother tsked. ‘But to be seen is never a bad thing, of course. I have heard that a French comte will be in attendance! A French title is never optimum, they’ve become so sadly republican, but they do always sound so lovely.’

Alex cringed inside. Her parents were showing ever more eagerness to marry her off and it was keeping her awake at night worrying. Her grand debut ball was still several days away, her Season young. It made her nervous to wonder why there was such hurry.

Mary carefully placed her hat, a pale blue tricorn trimmed with white bows, on her hair and pinned it tight. Diana had assured her it was the latest fashion and Alex had to admit it was pretty.

It made her remember her sadly crushed dark blue hat last month, dismissed by the most handsome, intriguing man she had ever seen. The man who had once been her Scottish Malcolm. Those fjord-icy eyes, that voice! Like something in a novel. Even though he had thought her a woman of loose character, she couldn’t quite stop thinking about him. What had happened to him to make him change so terribly?

She sighed to remember him, her Thor, suddenly feeling a little pang that her life would take her in a different direction.

She reached for her gloves and reticule, and felt the weight of the book she had hidden there, just in case. She knew she wouldn’t be able to hide away and read a few pages. Her mother would be watching her like a hawk.

She followed the Duchess out to the waiting carriage. At least it was a fine day for a garden party, she thought, as she arranged her skirts on the velvet-cushioned seat. The warm days had helped clear some of the miasma of coal smoke clinging to the rooftops and the sky was a lovely soft turquoise. She knew Lady Cannon’s famous garden would be looking its finest—if only she could be free to explore it.

As her mother listed who was to be in attendance at the party, who Alex should speak to at length and who to show mere politeness, Alex studied the streets outside the carriage window. The allure of the bookseller’s window, with its rows of new volumes, the glow of silk ribbons at the modiste, the lush purple violets and pure white carnations at a flower stall. When they passed the gates to the park, she thought of Thor again. The way he caught her before she fell, holding her so close, closer than she had ever been to a man, the warm, green summer scent of him. His smile, so unexpectedly sweet in his harsh, handsome face. Why couldn’t he still be the man she remembered? Why did she still want to be near him, despite everything?

What would it be like, she wondered, to be a truly wicked woman? To do as she liked without a thought to what people would think. She sometimes had daydreams about skipping right over marriage to independent widowhood. Her own house, time that was all her own. Was that the same as being wicked?

‘Alexandra, are you listening to me?’ her mother demanded.

‘Of course, Mama,’ Alex murmured. She wondered what her mother would think of Thor and his outrageous assumptions. It was fascinating to imagine. She turned to smile brightly at her mother, who frowned quizzically in return.

‘You are always so distracted, my dear,’ the Duchess said. ‘It is so important that you pay close attention at such soirées. Everyone will be watching you, you are a duke’s daughter, meant to lead society. Every time you speak to someone it means so much. It must be correct.’

‘I know, Mama,’ she said. Good heavens, but she knew! ‘I will not disappoint you.’ She hoped. Disappointment was all she seemed to bring her family sometimes.

Her mother sighed. ‘I know you will not. It’s just that your father and I want so much for your happiness. With the right marriage, you could do so much. Use your advantages.’

Alex wondered if her mother had somehow sensed her dreams of independent widowhood. ‘I want that, too.’

Her mother frowned. ‘I did wonder if sending you to school was the right thing. No Waverton daughter had ever been educated outside of home. But you were such a shy child, so dreamy. Your father was sure making friends your own age would do you good.’

‘And Miss Grantley’s was good for me!’ Alex hastened to assure her, as she always had when her mother expressed her doubts about the school.

The Duchess still looked uncertain, but the carriage had rolled to a stop in front of the Cannons’ house, and she couldn’t say more.

* * *

‘Mr Gordston! How perfectly charming to see you again,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas said, holding out her hand to be kissed. ‘I’m so glad you did not miss Lady Cannon’s garden party, it’s always so amusing.’

Malcolm smiled at her and bowed over the fine pale lavender kid glove he knew had come from Gordston’s own glove counter. Lady S.-T. was one of his best customers, and the first besides their hostess to greet him at the painfully genteel garden party. Not that there had been any lack of attention. Everyone stared, thinking themselves hidden behind teacups and parasols.

He glanced around at the groups gathered on the terrace, taking tea at small wrought-iron tables under the trees, strolling the flower-lined pathways. They all looked elegant, stylish in pastel gowns and feathered hats he could value to the shilling, smelling of attar of roses, smiling discreetly. A completely different world from the cold, harsh one he had known growing up.

It all made him think of the winter fairy, of her soft smile, her gentle touch. He had thought of her so often since their too-brief, too-embarrassing meeting, and he felt even more foolish than ever that he could have considered her less than a perfect lady. Everything about her had breathed gentleness and innocence, a castle tower high above the coal-streaked world. Just like this garden.

Lady S.-T. tapped his arm, bringing him back into that real world. She smiled up at him from beneath her wide-brimmed, lilac-trimmed hat. She was a widow of great fortune and whispered reputation, one of the great beauties of society with her masses of auburn hair and cat-like green eyes, her photograph displayed in shop windows along with Daisy Warwick and Princess Alexandra. Only a few people, like Malcolm, knew that slightly scandalous society lady was only a front for her work at the Foreign Office, for he sometimes passed on a titbit or two she might find useful. She was a great friend, someone whose company he much enjoyed—yet even her great beauty couldn’t quite distract him from the pale fairy.

‘Lady Cannon was quite naughty to invite you without telling me about it,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas said. ‘I would have so enjoyed being here early, to watch the stir your arrival no doubt created.’

Malcolm laughed. There had indeed been something of a ‘stir’ when he first stepped out of the French doors on to the terrace, a ripple of silence across the lush flowerbeds. ‘I’m not sure why she sent the card. Miss Mersey insisted I accept.’

‘Ah, the excellent Miss Mersey. She was quite right. You want as much publicity as possible for your new Paris venture. That was surely why Lady Cannon invited you. Everyone is astir with all things Paris now.’

‘Including your own office?’ Malcolm asked quietly.

Lady S.-T. tapped her gloved fingertip on her dimpled chin. ‘I may be crossing the Channel very soon, yes. Strange things seem to be afoot along the Seine. Perhaps I will call on you at your new store?’

‘You are always welcome.’

‘You know what must happen if I do. I must seem utterly empty in the pocketbook.’ She took his arm and led him down the terrace steps on to one of the gravel pathways. She nodded and waved to various acquaintances. ‘In the meantime, I must show you who is who, though no doubt you already know! They all shop at Gordston’s. Lady Amberson and Mrs Downley. Now, those hats could have come from nowhere else than your own milliner. Miss Chumleigh—now she could use a trip to your underpinnings department, such unfortunate posture. The Viscount Hexham over there, and Mrs Browne, his mistress, though they think they are terribly discreet. And Mr Evansley over there, though I do wonder why Lady Cannon would invite him. We should watch out for him. I have been tasked with keeping an eye on him most carefully.’

Malcolm studied the man she indicated. He looked quite inoffensive, small and pale with thinning blond hair, obviously thrilled to be there among the cream of society. ‘Why is that?’

‘I can’t quite say yet, of course, but he has been known to associate with Mr Nixson. We don’t know yet how deeply involved he might be in the business. Did you not refuse to get involved with that scheme not long ago?’ she answered.

Nixson. Malcolm frowned to remember when the man had come to him to propose a business deal—one that was entirely illegal, not to mention immoral. Of course he had turned him down. But who knew who among society wouldn’t be so wise to know what the man was about?

‘But oh, look!’ Lady S.-T. said happily. ‘There is Christopher Blakely, how utterly charming. I was rather good friends with his brother, Sir William. We should say hello.’

She took Malcolm’s arm and led him across the garden to greet Mr Blakely. As he and Lady S.-T. happily chatted, Malcolm studied the crowd around them, nodding to acquaintances, smiling at people who frowned at him, obviously wondering how he had been allowed into the party.

Then his attention was caught by some newcomers who appeared on the terrace with their hostess. A stately lady in a striped gown, with a younger lady behind her, small and delicate in pale blue, smiling politely. The winter fairy.

‘Ah, the Duchess of Waverton,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas murmured. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard of the family? Too high in the instep for the scandalous Marlborough House set, though Her Grace has deigned to talk to me once or twice. It’s a good thing, as they possess the Eastern Star sapphire, which would be a helpful decoy in Paris.’

Malcolm watched Lady Alexandra, his winter fairy who now had a name—and was a duke’s daughter. Not just any duke’s daughter, but Waverton’s, the man who had once ruined his family. The sweet girl who had once sat beside him near the river. The one whose innocence he would have done anything to protect. Now she was here, right in front of him.

She was smiling and nodding as Lady Cannon greeted them, but she seemed strangely far away. ‘A sapphire is involved in your plans?’

‘Bait for a villain, of course. Luckily, the Duchess’s nose is so far in the air she can’t see her husband’s business affairs dissolving right in front of her.’ Lady S.-T. tilted her head, watching as the Duchess nodded to Lady Cannon. She drew her daughter forward and Alexandra looked startled for a moment before her smile was in place again. ‘And that must be the daughter. They say the Wavertons have high hopes for her. She’s very unusual-looking, isn’t she? A bit rabbity and pale, maybe, but nothing the right clothes couldn’t fix in a trice.’

‘Pale and rabbity?’ Malcolm scoffed. ‘Fair, perhaps, but those eyes could never belong to a rabbit.’

Lady S.-T. gave him a long, considering glance. ‘How can anyone see her eyes from here? But now I am most curious. Little debs aren’t usually your style. Come, let’s go greet them.’

Malcolm remembered all too well how his first encounter in the park with Lady Alexandra had ended. She certainly wouldn’t want to see him now. ‘Laura, don’t be daft. No duchess wants to meet a shopkeeper.’

‘You are no mere shopkeeper. You are Malcolm Gordston, one of the richest men in London, keeper of the treasures of Gordston’s Department Store, where even the queen has bought a few things. Even a little rabbit is sure to be intrigued by that. And this party is too dull by half. Come along.’

She took his arm and pulled him along the path, back towards the terrace. He wasn’t entirely reluctant to go with her. Or, if he was honest with himself, as he always was, not reluctant at all. Surely he couldn’t embarrass Lady Alexandra so much when she was surrounded by her family and friends. And he was curious to know how it would feel to touch her hand again. Just for a moment.

* * *

Alexandra smiled at Lady Cannon, half-listening as her mother exchanged pleasantries with their hostess. She studied the garden, the crowd gathered there, arranged like a bright painting of an idyllic day. The Cannons’ annual garden party was famous, for they had what was easily the largest private garden in town, and they always seemed to find the loveliest spring day to show it off.

Surrounded by a towering box hedge, thick enough to keep the noisy streets at bay, the flowerbeds overflowed with white, purple, golden-yellow, pink, crimson, as bright as the gowns of the fashionable ladies who exclaimed over them. Classical statues, white and impassive, gazed down at it all as if unimpressed.

A buffet tea was laid out in the small, pillared temple, a tempting array of dainty sandwiches and sugar-art cakes, which people nibbled on at small tables in the shade. Parasols twirled, laughter echoed against the soft music of a string quartet tucked into an arbour and Lady Cannon’s little spaniels barked.

It was all most elegant and Alex wished she could explore it all. Could dash down the paths in search of her friends and whisper with them all day on one of the shady benches. But she knew she could not. She was on duty.

‘How excited you must be about Paris, Lady Alexandra,’ Lady Cannon said, drawing Alex’s attention back to that duty.

‘Oh, yes. It all sounds very agreeable,’ Alex murmured.

‘And so intriguing, with the Exposition going on!’ Lady Cannon sighed. ‘So many things to see from all over the world. I have told Lord Cannon we must go, but not until I have replenished my wardrobe. The styles are always so different in Paris.’

‘Different, perhaps, but certainly not better,’ the Duchess sniffed. ‘I have seen the latest fashion papers and the new sleeves are quite immodest. All those frills and bows.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Lady Cannon said wistfully. ‘They rather remind me of when I was a girl and sleeves really meant something in fashion. Oh, look, here is someone who is certain to know all the latest style news from France! Mr Gordston.’

Alex froze, certain she’d turned into a pillar of ice. Mr Gordston was here. Her Malcolm, who once she cared about so much and who had hurt her.

The icy shock quickly turned to burning embarrassment and she was sure her face was the colour of an apple. Oh, why couldn’t the terrace be a magical one, the stone opening beneath her feet to swallow her up? She wondered wildly if she had time to flee, but she did not. Lady Smythe-Tomas, who held Mr Gordston’s arm, waved at them with a merry smile and steered him inexorably towards the terrace steps.

It was the sight of Lady S.-T. as his companion that brought the icy feeling back again. She seemed exactly the sort of lady who belonged with a man like that, a lady who was everything Alex wasn’t. A sophisticated widow, beautiful, witty, stylish, famous even. Free. Alex had looked at her images in the fashion papers, elegant portraits, group photographs of royal house parties, Lady S.-T. dancing, riding to hounds, playing lawn tennis, and Alex had secretly envied her.

Not quite as much as she envied her right now, though, as Lady S.-T. whispered something into Mr Gordston’s ear, which she could do because she was also wretchedly tall, and he laughed.

‘You invited Mr Gordston to your garden party?’ the Duchess murmured to Lady Cannon.

Lady Cannon’s cheeks turned bright pink. ‘Well—my husband asked me to, Your Grace. They do say even the Prince of Wales has received him, privately, of course. And he does add a certain—decorative flair, don’t you think?’

Oh, yes, Alex did think so. Here in the calm of the quiet garden, away from the pressing crowds of Hyde Park, she had a moment to really study him. She’d wondered, in her daydreams of him, if his attraction would fade if she saw him again. If it was only the unusual circumstances of their meeting that made him so fascinating.

But that had not been it. He was fascinating. So golden and powerful, so different from everyone else around them. And she could see that she wasn’t the only one who thought so. Heads swivelled as he passed by, everyone watching him.

Alex forgot her urge to flee until he climbed the terrace steps, almost to her side. Then she remembered every detail of their first meeting—and her face burned again. But it was much too late to run away.

‘Your Grace,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas said, her voice full of laughter. ‘I hear we are to be in Paris together!’

‘Indeed, Lady Smythe-Tomas?’ Alex’s mother answered coolly. Alex knew her mother did not approve of the lady and her ‘fast’ friends. Not even the Prince of Wales was up to her mother’s standards.

‘Yes. Bertie and Princess Alexandra are always so kind to include their friends in their adventures. Mr Gordston here will also be in Paris, opening his latest investment on the Champs-Élysées.’ She smiled up at Malcolm from under her feathered hat. ‘Have you met Mr Gordston yet?’

‘No, I have not,’ the Duchess said shortly. Lady Cannon, who should have made the introductions, seemed to have frozen.

‘Well, Your Grace, may I present Mr Malcolm Gordston?’ Lady S.-T. said happily, seemingly impervious to any froideur, as if her elegant hat was a shield. ‘And this is the Duchess’s daughter, Lady Alexandra Mannerly.’

‘How do you do, Your Grace?’ he said with a bow, all perfectly correct.

‘How do you do?’ the Duchess murmured.

But Alex held her hand out to him. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. Would he remember her? ‘Mr Gordston. How do you do?’ She prayed her voice wouldn’t waver or dissolve into giggles. Luckily, it came out quiet but steady, like a normal person. ‘We do hear so much about you. I’m glad to meet you.’

He took her hand. He wore no gloves and through the thin silk of hers she felt the heat of his touch, the rough strength of his fingers. Just as when they had touched in the park, a spark seemed to dance over her skin, hot and shocking, bringing life with it. Everything around him turned into a mere blur of colour and she couldn’t look away from him.

He seemed to sense something odd, too. A frown flickered over his face and he looked rather discomfited, something she was sure he didn’t often do. He seemed made of confidence and strength and surety. ‘Lady Alexandra. How do you do?’

Alex’s mother gave a small cough and it was like being dropped with a thud back on to the hard stone terrace. Everything that had turned hazy sharpened and Alex saw that Lady Cannon and Lady Smythe-Tomas were watching her with avid interest.

She knew she would be gossiped about, which was the last thing she wanted. She stepped back, listening as Lady S.-T. and her mother exchanged news about Paris, and Lady Cannon was called away.

‘Your Grace, have you tried the raspberry ice yet? It’s quite divine,’ Lady S.-T. said and smoothly led Alex’s mother away under a cover of bright chatter that smothered any protest. Alex wished she knew that trick.

And now she was alone with Malcolm Gordston. They stared at each other for a long, silent moment and she wondered desperately what he was thinking. If he, too, was remembering their first meeting.

‘Would you care for a stroll, Lady Alexandra?’ he asked at last, his Scottish accent blurring his words.

‘Thank you, that would be nice,’ she answered. He offered his arm and she hesitated for a moment, wondering if that spark would fly through her again at his touch and she would burn to cinders. He frowned, as if he noticed her hesitation and mistook it, and she quickly slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.

She did not burn up, but she did find she enjoyed the feel of his arm under her touch. A lot. Too much, maybe. But there was no turning away now.

He led her down the steps to the pathway that wound past the flowerbeds. The rose-scented breeze caught at her hat, but luckily Mary had pinned it down firmly enough there were no new millinery disasters. He was so much taller than her, his stride so purposeful, that she felt quite protected. It was rather nice.

He cleared his throat, and Alex glanced up at him. ‘I—I feel I must apologise, Lady Alexandra, for our last meeting. I must not have been quite myself that day.’

Alex thought surely he was himself in the park. It was here that he, that both of them, were constrained, unsure. She felt so shy, so flustered, which was silly. They came from different worlds; they could have no expectations of each other. Surely they should be free around one another? She wished she could be, anyway. That she could just be Alex with him, whoever that was, and not Lady Alexandra. Once she could do that with him. But no longer. He had changed.

‘It is quite all right, Mr Gordston,’ she said. ‘It was an—an odd moment. And it was nice not feeling like a porcelain doll for a little while.’

They turned a corner on the twisting paths, into a small herb maze that was much quieter. ‘Is that how you usually feel? Like a doll?’

‘Sometimes,’ Alex said, marvelling at how he made her feel. Shy and yet bold at the same time. ‘Many times. I’m told where to go, what to say, who to sit with, who to dance with…’

‘Who to walk with in the garden?’

Alex laughed. ‘Yes, usually. But this time I was rescued by Lady Smythe-Tomas.’ She glanced back towards the terrace, now far distant, where Lady S.-T. was still chatting with her mother. ‘She is so elegant, isn’t she?’

‘One of Gordston’s best customers.’

And was she more than that? Alex found she didn’t like the little green-eyed pang that came over her at the thought. ‘Is she—friends with you? Old friends?’

He looked down at her with a crooked smile and she feared she had given too much away. ‘Friends, yes, only. We’re too similar to get along in any other way.’

‘As we were once friends?’ Alex blurted.

He frowned. ‘Friends?’

‘Do you not remember me? In Scotland? You taught me to fish. I never forgot.’ And she had never seen him again after that day she saw him with Mairie McGregor. How high had he climbed since then.

‘I did remember you later, after we met at the park. I felt so foolish for not realising right away. You were quite a terror with a rod and reel back then. Are you still?’

‘There isn’t much call for it here in London.’ Alex looked away, pretending to study the flowers. ‘Look at you now, though. And Lady Smythe-Tomas shops at Gordston’s, as does everyone! How did you come to own such a place? They say it’s so elegant, all the latest fashions.’

‘You haven’t been there?’

Alex bit her lip. ‘I don’t often get to choose where to shop.’

‘The porcelain doll?’

‘Yes.’

He led her to bench under the shade of a looming oak tree and sat down next to her. ‘Well, I didn’t grow up dreaming of department stores. I was born in Scotland, a country lad, as you know.’

‘Yes.’ She remembered when she was a child, the craggy hills against the lavender sky, the cold, smoky air, running free over the moors. The excitement of fishing with Malcolm. ‘I’ve never felt so gloriously free as when I was allowed to explore the hills.’

He watched her closely, his expression closed, unreadable. ‘It’s a bonnie place, nowhere else like it, in the hills. But it’s no good for work. I was an apprentice at a draper’s shop in Glasgow when I left. My father had recently died then.’

‘Oh, I am sorry!’ Alex cried. She remembered his father had not been well the last time they met.

‘He missed my mother so much, it was probably a blessing he went quickly,’ Malcolm said tonelessly. ‘I found work a good way to forget.’

Alex fidgeted with her parasol, not sure what to say. ‘And you found you liked that work?’

‘Aye. I was surprised by it. As you said, I was used to exploring the hills, being free. But I liked meeting the customers, seeing the pleasure it gave them to find just the right fabric, the right style. I even liked keeping the accounts, seeing them all add up. It was a great satisfaction.’

‘I do envy you,’ Alex said. How lovely it would be to have a job to do, learn how to do it well and see its rewards.

But Malcolm looked surprised. ‘Do you? It’s long hours, learning from mistakes, hard work on your feet. Even now, with a new kind of store. Maybe even especially now.’

‘That’s why I envy you! You forge your own path. I have to always follow. I don’t even know what I would be good at.’ She didn’t want to admit to him she had never tried anything. Emily was good at business, Diana at writing. All Alex had that was her own was the charity work she did and she did find great satisfaction in that.