Читать книгу A Convenient Bride For The Soldier - Christine Merrill - Страница 10

Chapter One

The dancers stopped and the musicians set down their instruments. Georgiana Knight had never been so glad to hear a song end.

‘You dance like an angel.’ Her partner, Sir Nash Bowles, showed no sign of releasing the hand he was holding, instead attempting to tuck it into the crook of his arm so he could escort her from the dance floor.

Had she heard the compliment, her stepmother would have been quick to point out that George was as far from angelic as it was possible for a girl to be. In Marietta’s opinion, George was lacking in both good sense and manners. In the years after her mother’s death, her father had allowed her to run wild in the country like a hoyden. The resulting damage to her character was most likely irreparable.

Which was just fine with George. She was happy, just as she was. She certainly did not want to be anyone’s angel. It made her think of dancing on a pinpoint, instead of the razor’s edge of courtesy on which she was balanced when dealing with Sir Nash. He was Marietta’s cousin. Any rudeness on her part would be reported back to her stepmother, which would result in another tiresome lecture on deportment during the carriage ride home.

She yanked her hand free of his grasp with such suddenness that she almost left him holding an empty glove. Sir Nash was sure to tattle about it and there would be another row.

Perhaps it was not too late to mitigate the damage. George gave him the sweetest smile she could manage, but made no effort to take his arm. ‘Thank you, sir. You are an excellent dancer as well.’ It was one of the many virtues, along with wealth and family connection, that Marietta would throw in her face when George refused his inevitable offer.

Sir Nash reached for her hand again, as though he had more right to touch her than she had to refuse. ‘Another dance, perhaps? I hear the orchestra leader tuning up for a waltz.’

She had to fight the shudder that rose at the prospect. He had managed to stand far too close to her in the most ordinary of line dances. Lord knew what he might attempt if given an excuse to hold her in his arms. ‘I would not want to stand up, only to stop before the dance was over.’ She reached for her fan and snapped it open, creating a fragile barrier between them. Then she closed it and touched it to her left ear, using the language of signals that ladies had created to avoid embarrassing scenes.

I want you to leave me alone.

Then she finished with words that they should both know were nothing more than a polite lie to save him embarrassment. ‘The last set left me quite fatigued. I think it best to sit for a while.’

‘I will find us chairs,’ he said, ignoring her hint, her tone, and everything else she had done in the last weeks to dissuade him from pursuing her. There was a faint sibilance when he spoke that always reminded her of the hiss of a snake. Though his body was far too stocky too support the serpentine analogy, his movements, whether dancing or walking, were smooth and silent. Even when she was not with him, she feared that he might appear suddenly to offer an inappropriate word or an unwelcome touch.

Now she laid the fan against her left cheek.

No!

‘It is not necessary to escort me,’ she said to reinforce the signal, snapping the fan open and giving it a furious flutter. ‘I must attend to necessities.’ It would have been so much easier had he been the sort of fellow who trod on hems. Short of ripping her gown herself she had no excuse to give other than a call of nature, to hide in the lady’s retiring room. Let him think what he wished about her reasons for going there, as long as she did not have to say aloud that she was trying to escape from him.

He gave a nod of defeat and let her go. But she knew, by the creeping feeling of the hairs at the back of her neck, that he watched each retreating step to make sure of her destination.

Once safely behind the door, she dropped into the nearest chair, ignoring the bustle of the ladies around her. Why was it that the most unappealing men were always the most persistent? The fact that Sir Nash was from her stepmother’s family made it all the more awkward. Marietta was continually singing the man’s praises in hopes of a match that, if George had any say in it, would never occur.

She shuddered again. As much as she did not like Marietta, she must make some effort to maintain peace for Father’s sake. But that did not mean she had to dance more than a courtesy set with Sir Nash.

‘Georgiana!’ Her stepmother’s voice cut through her introspection like a shard of glass.

‘Yes, Marietta,’ she said with a sigh.

‘Sir Nash says you are unwell.’

‘And you came to see if it was true,’ George finished for her.

‘I do not want you malingering in the retiring room when you should be enjoying yourself.’

‘I am enjoying myself,’ George replied, unable to contain the truth. ‘I find it much more enjoyable to be here, alone, than dancing with your cousin.’

‘Horrible, wilful girl.’ Her stepmother was looking at her with the usual, thinly disguised loathing. The woman liked her no better at nineteen than she had seven years ago, when she had married Father. George had long ago given up trying to gain an approval that would never come.

Now she resisted the urge to pull a face and behave like the spoiled child Marietta proclaimed her to be. ‘I am trying to be polite. If I have no interest in his suit, it would be cruel of me to give him false hope.’

‘If you think rejecting him without reason is a virtue, you are sorely mistaken,’ Marietta snapped.

‘I have reason enough,’ she said, glancing around. Their argument was drawing enough attention without her elaborating on the sordid details of her time with Sir Nash.

‘If I thought that your desire to hang on your father’s coat-tails was a reason to avoid marriage, then I would agree with you.’

‘Were it true, it would be no different than marrying me off to your cousin, so you can get me out of your house,’ George said sharply. ‘I am more than willing to go. But not if I must marry Nash Bowles.’ Now her face contorted in the grimace she had been trying to contain. But she could not help it. At the mention of the man’s name, all that was in her recoiled in revulsion.

‘Georgiana!’

It was the beginning of what was likely to be a colourful harangue about her deficient character, made all the more humiliating by the dozen or so women and maids who were pretending that they were not listening to every word. She would not stand for it. She would go and sit in the carriage if she had to. Perhaps, if she begged, the driver would take her back to the country where she belonged, for she’d had not a moment’s peace since the day they’d arrived in London. George shot up and out of her chair, pushing past Marietta and through the door, slamming it behind her.

She had not thought it possible for the evening to get worse. But on the other side, she all but ran into the only person she wanted to see less than Sir Nash.

Mr Frederick Challenger was lounging against the wall just opposite the door. What reason did he have to lurk outside the ladies’ room? Or was he possessed of some evil instinct that drew him to be where she was, so he might prevent her from regaining even a little of her pride?

Now he behaved as he did whenever he saw her. He did not bother with the sort of polite acknowledgement she would have got even from a rotter like Sir Nash. Instead, he glanced in her direction with a half-smile and then looked through her, as if she didn’t exist.

It was just as he’d done since the first moment they’d met. If one could call a glimpse that had not ended in an introduction a meeting. It had been at Almack’s, some weeks past. Marietta had been all but dragging her by the ear towards him. ‘You must meet Mr Challenger, Georgiana. He is the second son of the Earl of Roston, a hero of Waterloo, eligible and rich!’ She had said it loud enough for all in the vicinity to hear.

At least, it had been loud enough for Mr Challenger to hear and be insulted. He had cast a blank look in their direction, then turned and walked away before they could speak to him. And so it had gone at each meeting since. Apology was impossible, since they had not been introduced. Not that she should have to be sorry for a thing that was none of her doing. In fact, if he were a gentleman, he should have pretended not to have heard words that were clearly not meant for his ears.

But it seemed that his chief talent was sticking his perfect nose where it did not belong. Wherever she went, he was there, always watching her while pretending not to notice, never speaking, but always smiling as she made one faux pas after another. Why should she be surprised that he’d caught her red-faced and angry, fresh from the latest argument?

For a moment, their eyes met, accidentally, she was sure. His were already sliding away to make her painfully aware of his disinterest. In response, she directed all the petty irritations of the night at him in a wordless cry that was part anger and part exasperation.

He awarded her with a slightly raised eyebrow, as if to say he was aware of her presence, but thoroughly glad he did not have to speak to her.

She took a deep breath to regain control and answered with what she’d hoped was a dignified sniff that would declare him rude and beneath her notice. Then she swept past him, towards the outer doors.

That was the moment she discovered her skirt had caught in the slammed door behind her. Her grand exit was marred by the sound of ripping gauze and a confetti shower of spangles on the rug at her feet. Since the retiring room was one of the many places she’d been trying to escape, there was no point in going back for a repair. Instead, she grabbed what was left of her skirt and ran for the door, followed by the faint sounds of a man’s chuckle.

* * *

‘...and then she ran through the ballroom, with her petticoat exposed, almost to the waist.’

‘It was an accident,’ George muttered for what seemed like the hundredth time. She sat in the carriage seat opposite her stepmother, elbow on the windowsill and her chin resting on her fist, gazing outside at the London traffic.

‘Peace, Marietta.’ Her father’s voice drifted from where he sat beside his wife, staring out of his own window. ‘She did not mean to do it.’ Then he sighed.

Even as he defended her he sounded faintly disappointed. He had loved her once, George was sure. But lately, when he spoke, he always sounded tired. Was it of London and the demands of Parliament? Or was he simply tired of her?

‘Georgiana has far too many such accidents,’ Marietta proclaimed. ‘Since you did not bother to teach her manners, someone must. It amazes me that she has attracted any interest at all on the marriage mart.’

‘Which brings us back to Sir Nash, just as I knew it would,’ George said, grimacing again. ‘Marry me off if you mean to, but find someone else. I will not have him.’

Her stepmother drew herself up in indignation. ‘There is nothing wrong with Sir Nash. He is an honoured member of my family.’

‘I do not doubt it. But that does not mean I have been able to manufacture a romantic attachment to him where none exists.’

‘But, unlike the rest of London, he is quite taken with you,’ Marietta said.

So now all of London hated her. If Mr Challenger was any indication, perhaps they did.

Marietta continued. ‘In fact, he has assured me that there is no other girl in England who would make him happy.’

‘And there is no man in the world who would make me less so.’ She turned to her father for support. Even if he did want her gone, he had met Sir Nash. He must understand how hopeless this plan was.

‘You have said similar things about all the other men Marietta has recommended,’ her father said with another sigh, not looking back from the window.

‘Because all the men Marietta has recommended are wrong for me.’ She blurted the words before she could stop herself, immediately frustrated by her own lack of diplomacy. But it was true. She had done no better when looking for herself. It felt as if she had danced with every man in town and not a one of them had interested her.

Marietta nudged her father with a fingertip to demand his attention and gave a knowing nod as if to say that this was proof that George was just as difficult as they both thought.

Now Father turned to her with the distant look he wore so often lately. ‘I am thoroughly tired of acting as arbiter in these domestic squabbles.’

George smiled with relief. It was the arguments that bothered him and not her, after all. How shocked Marietta would be at the set down that was about to come. While Father might have some affection for his second wife, it was nothing compared to what he had always shown to his only child.

Then, he spoke. ‘You must marry, Georgiana. You are nineteen and no longer a child. I see no reason that it cannot be to Sir Nash.’

‘But...’ She did not know how to go on. It had never occurred to her that, when the moment finally came that he was forced to decide the issue, her father would take Marietta’s side against her.

‘He dined with us just last night and seemed genuinely fond of you.’

‘He...’ She shook her head, unsure of how to explain what had been wrong with the evening. The man had said nothing untoward when they’d spoken last night, or on any other. He had been almost too polite. But then, as he had sat beside her on the sofa, he had mentioned a liking for snuff and offered her a pinch from his box.

She had found it unusual, but faintly intriguing. It must be pleasant, or people would not take it. But since she could think of no proper woman who used it, there must be something scandalous about it. In the end, she had refused, not sure that even her normally lenient father would approve.

Sir Nash had given an indifferent shrug and set the box on the table near the fire in case she changed her mind. It had been a somewhat bizarre flirtation, but not harmful. Then, she had looked at the box again.

At first glance, the scene painted on the top of the smooth stone box was just as ordinary as the evening. A young couple in a woodland glade: he entreating, and she shielding her face with her hand and refusing with a shy smile.

But then, Sir Nash had taken another pinch and set the box down again, tapping the lid and drawing her gaze to it. The picture had changed. The girl, who had been wearing a pink gown, did not seem to be wearing anything at all. The hand to her face looked less like an innocent refusal and more like a desperate, frightened denial.

The boy who had been with her was no longer a boy at all. His chest was bare and his legs were hair-covered and ended in the cloven hooves of a goat. But the place where those legs met was as human as a Greek statue. And he was doing...

Something.

George was not exactly sure what was going on. But the girl in the miniature looked both revolted and compelled. By the strange way George felt when she looked at it, she was sure that it was something she was not supposed to know about. And the snuffbox was something that no decent gentleman would show to a young lady he was courting.

When he was sure she had seen it, Sir Nash picked up the box and dropped it into his pocket again. Then he gave her a knowing smile and remarked at how pretty her hair was and how much he favoured blondes.

Blondes like the one on the snuffbox.

‘You see?’ When she came back to herself, Marietta was pointing again. ‘She cannot come up with a logical reason for this refusal.’

‘I do not like him,’ George said, more weakly than before.

Because he showed me something I do not understand and I am afraid to ask you what it means.

‘Affection sometimes grows with time.’ Her father sounded almost hopeful as he said it and cast a brief, disappointed glance to his wife before looking out the window again.

‘I will not marry him. You cannot make me.’ George almost shouted the words, trying to regain his attention.

‘On the contrary, my dear. We can and you will.’ Marietta favoured her with a cool glare. ‘Either you marry Nash, or I will go.’ Then she turned to her husband and gave him the tight, uncompromising quirk of her lips that she thought was a smile. ‘I can no longer bear things as they are. Surely you must see that. Either you bring your daughter to heel, or I will go back to the Continent where I am sure to find someone who will respect me. It will be the two of you, alone again, just as she wants.’

After seven years of strife, that sounded almost too good to be true. George turned to her father with hope in her eyes, and waited for his response.

When it came, it was not the vindication she sought, but another tired sigh. ‘You have heard your mother, Georgiana. She is quite out of patience with you. Now let us have no more nonsense about refusing offers before they have been given, especially when they come from your mother’s cousin.’

For a moment, she could not believe what she was hearing. He had been forced to choose. And without a moment’s hesitation he had chosen Marietta. ‘She is not my mother.’ The words sounded childish, but she could not help them.

The carriage was just pulling up to the front of the Knight town house and she opened the door and jumped out before it had even fully stopped. Then she ran through the front doors, up the stairs, and to her room before her heart could break any further.

Inside, her maid was dozing in a chair, awaiting her arrival. She took one look at the ruined ballgown and murmured, ‘Oh, miss’, before reaching to help her out of it. ‘Let me call for a cup of warm milk. Then we will put you to bed.’

‘Do not treat me like a child,’ George said, immediately regretting her temper. She took a deep, calming breath. ‘I am sorry, Polly. But I do not want to go to bed. I do not want to spend another night in this house. Call for the trunks. We are going away.’

The girl looked up at her with a worried smile. ‘Where are we going, miss?’

It was an excellent question and one for which she had no answer. There was not a relation near or distant who would keep her, if her father wanted her to come home. And she had never thought to put aside even a small portion of the generous allowance she’d been given against disaster. Until this moment, she’d never had an inkling that she might need to.

She sat down on the end of the bed. ‘Never mind. I cannot think of a place we might go to.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And if I become a governess, I doubt my employers would allow me a lady’s maid.’

‘A governess, miss?’ Polly gave her a knowing grin. ‘Are you thinking about running away, again?’

Again. Had she really done it so often? It had become an idle threat she made, after particularly bad arguments with her stepmother. But the idea of employment had never lingered for more than a minute or two. She’d been an indifferent student. What good would she be as a teacher?

‘I must do something,’ she said, more to herself than the maid. ‘I cannot marry Sir Nash.’

‘Nash Bowles?’ At the mention of marriage, her maid dropped any hint of formality. ‘I will send for the trunks, immediately. We will get you away from here, so he cannot find you.’

‘You know him?’ She had not spoken of him in front of Polly. She had not even wanted to think about the man.

‘All the servants know him. And the girls know to keep away from him.’ The words ended in a whisper.

‘Why?’ But she suspected she did not want to know the answer.

‘He...’ Polly shook her head and left the sentence unfinished, just as George had done earlier. ‘He is not a fit husband for a gently bred young lady. My brother says...’ She paused again. ‘Do you remember my brother Ben? He was a footman here until he outgrew all the livery.’

‘I remember Ben.’ Georgiana covered her mouth, trying to hide her smile. Ben Snyder had not just outgrown the uniform—he had far outstripped the other boys in size and weight. At six foot four, and seventeen stone, he’d towered over the rest of the staff and dashed Marietta’s hopes for servants as evenly matched as the horses on the family carriage.

‘When he left here, he went to work at a gentlemen’s club. And the things that happen there...’ Polly paused again. ‘Well, he says that they are not the least bit gentlemanly. Even so, he has had to turf Nash Bowles out on more than one occasion for behaviour that the owners would not sanction.’

‘So, he is not a gentleman?’

‘He is not even a rake,’ her maid confirmed. ‘He is worse than that.’

It was just as she’d feared. The whole house seemed set on her marrying a lecher. ‘What sorts of things does he do?’

‘Ben would not tell me.’

‘Would he tell Father?’ And would the word of a former servant be enough to save her?

‘I do not think he would do that, miss,’ Polly said. ‘If Ben tells anyone what happens in the club, he risks losing his position. It is supposed to be very secret.’

‘Perhaps, if there were a way to get Nash to admit to everything... Or, if I were to see it for myself...’

Polly’s eyes grew round and she gave a warning shake of her head.

George smiled back with the first optimism she’d felt in ages. ‘That is what I must do. If there are scandalous goings-on, there must be ladies in this club, mustn’t there?’

‘Not ladies, precisely,’ said Polly.

‘Cyprians!’ Even better. ‘Perhaps one of them will help me. And Ben will be there to protect me once I have discovered what Sir Nash wants from me. If the owners do not want things to be too scandalous, then I am sure they would rather have me escorted from the place than allow me to come to harm.’

‘But if you are caught, the scandal will be real,’ Polly reminded her.

‘At least if I am ruined, no one will expect me to marry Sir Nash,’ George said, with renewed confidence. If worse came to worst, she would take the veil and spend her remaining days in repentance. A life of celibacy and prayer was not something she wished for, but it would be free of the interference from Marietta and her detestable cousin.

‘Come, Polly. We must write to your brother. And then you must help me to look like a fallen woman.’