Читать книгу A Most Unconventional Match - Julia Justiss - Страница 10

Still shaken from his encounter with Elizabeth Lowery, Hal returned to his bachelor quarters on Upper Brook Street. Feeling the morning’s events called for stiffer reinforcement than a glass of wine, he headed straight for the brandy decanter in the library.

The satisfying bite of the liquor burning its way to his belly helped relax the knots in his nerves. Breathing easy for the first time since leaving the widow’s presence, he tried to shake his mind free of her lingering spell.

All right, so she was still beautiful. Dazzling, even. And, yes, he burned as fiercely to possess her as he had the first time he’d seen her. Except now, moved by her plight and that of her fatherless son, he also wanted to protect them and ease the small boy’s misery.

He could handle his lust. For six years now he’d had a comfortable, mutually agreeable arrangement with a big-hearted lady he’d met at one of London’s most exclusive brothels and who now resided in a discreet house on Curzon Street he’d purchased for her. Sweet Sally would keep his masculine urges slaked.

He’d just have to work on leashing his emotions.

It was unfortunate that Lowery hadn’t entrusted his business affairs to someone capable of managing them. It appeared that Hal was going to have to tap his contacts and do some investigating to determine exactly how things stood so he could restore the Lowery finances to good order before turning everything over to Nicky upon his return.

Which meant he would probably see a lot more of Elizabeth…far more than was good for his heart or his senses. Hearing himself sigh at that conclusion like an infatuated moonling just up from Oxford, Hal straightened and squared his shoulders.

All right, so it was unlikely, given her professed dislike of shopping—a description Hal still had a hard time believing—that Elizabeth Lowery had got her household into financial difficulties. But just because, unlike his own mama, she didn’t visit the shops more regularly than she did her son’s nursery didn’t mean she was born to bear his children.

If he tried to focus his visits to Green Street on spending as much time with the boy and as little as possible with the widow, he might still escape this tangle intact. Surely he could manage to remain sensible for the two-or-so months remaining until Nicky came home?

He had just knocked back the last measure of brandy when a tap sounded at the door and his valet Jeffers entered, bearing several boxes.

To the unspoken question of his lifted eyebrows, Jeffers said, ‘Your lady mother called while you were out.’

Hal groaned. ‘Praise God I was out.’

Jeffers smiled. ‘Having called so early on the expectation of finding you at home, Mrs Waterman was…less than pleased to discover you away. It took a glass of Madeira and some of Cook’s best biscuits to convince her you’d not deliberately conspired to have her quit her bedchamber at nearly dawn and go out in the early morning damp so prejudicial to her complexion, all the while knowing she would fail to find you here. Though she did condescend to leave these packages, I believe it would be accurate to infer that you are still in her black books.’

‘Always am anyway,’ Hal mumbled.

Jeffers nodded sympathetically. ‘Quite.’

‘What’s in ’em?’ Hal gestured to the boxes. ‘Know you’ve looked.’

Jeffers cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Waterman purchased some garments that she felt might assist you in updating your wardrobe to present a more fashionable appearance.’

Hal rolled his eyes. ‘How bad are they?’

Jeffers opened the first box. ‘Wellington pantaloons are quite stylish now,’ he said, shaking out the garment and holding it up.

Grimacing, Hal inspected the long pants that featured side slits from calves down to ankles, where they fastened with loops and buttons at the heel. ‘Not so bad, but keep my breeches.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The valet opened the next box, and with a determinedly straight face, held up a waistcoat.

Alternating blue and yellow stripes, each nearly three inches wide, met Hal’s incredulous view.

‘Mrs Waterman said it was all the crack,’ Jeffers informed him.

Hal snorted. ‘Don’t doubt. On man my size, look like curtains out of bordello.’

The valet’s lips twitched. ‘I believe this last item meant to avoid that by giving you a more…slender look.’ He removed the garment from its box and held it out.

‘What the—?’ Hal exclaimed.

‘’Tis a Cumberland corset,’ the valet explained. ‘The body contains whalebone stays, which, once placed about the waist, cinch in with these strings…’

Hal nipped the garment from his servant’s hand, looked it over briefly—and burst out laughing. After a moment, Jeffers lost the battle to maintain an expressionless demeanour and started laughing as well.

Finally containing his mirth, Hal wiped his eyes and tossed the corset back in its box, where it collapsed in a clunk of whalebone.

‘I’d give ’em to poor, but poor not sapskulled enough to wear ’em. Take ’em, please.’ Hal stacked the boxes and handed them back to Jeffers. ‘New, and if know Mama, highest quality. Suppose you can sell ’em somewhere.’

‘Should I place the money in the household accounts?’

‘’Course not. Abominations yours now. As you well know, you damnable pirate. Sold enough of Mama’s gifts over years to fund retirement.’

Jeffers grinned. ‘Thank you, sir, ’tis very generous.’

‘Off with you,’ Hal said, grinning back. ‘One thing, Jeffers…’

Already carrying away the boxes, the valet halted. ‘Sir?’

‘Catch you wearing that waistcoat, you’re discharged.’

Jeffers swallowed a chuckle. ‘If I should ever don a garment even remotely resembling that waistcoat, sir, you may have me taken straight to Bedlam. Oh, Mrs Waterman did mention she hoped you’d have the manners to return her call.’

Hal sighed as he watched the heavily-laden Jeffers walk out. That was surely the purpose of his mother bringing gifts—besides her unslakeable urge to make purchases, of course. She knew that should she not find Hal at home, he would be obligated to call and thank her for her kindness.

At which time she would probably chastise him for his ingratitude in not wearing the new trousers and waistcoat. Recalling the latter, Hal grimaced. He’d suffer a hundred jawbonings before he’d wear a monstrosity like that.

Did Mama really think that a whalebone contraption and one hideous waistcoat could turn him into the pattern-card of fashion she wished him to be? Or was she merely trying to irritate him beyond bearing?

Unhappily, he was going to have to call on her and find out. Best do it first thing this afternoon and get it over with, before he went to Bow Street to investigate Mrs Lowery’s unsavoury caller.

Setting his lips in a grim line at the prospect, Hal tugged the bell pull to call for luncheon.

Several hours later, after dressing with a care that would doubtless be lost on a lady who was anticipating lace-tied pant legs and a boldly striped waistcoat, Hal presented himself at the large family manse on Berkeley Square. Holmes, his mother’s butler, showed him to the Green Parlour, assuring him his mother had been anticipating his call and would receive him directly.

Palms already sweating, Hal propped one shoulder against the mantel, hoping his mama’s social schedule was full enough that the time she’d allotted for this visit would be correspondingly brief.

He heard the door open, heralding his mother’s arrival, and took a deep breath. As Mrs Waterman swept into the room, Hal walked over to make his bow and kiss his mother’s proffered hand.

‘Lovely gown, Mama. Look enchanting.’

As, in truth, she did. Through arts jealously guarded by that lady and her dresser Hayes, though she was well passed her fortieth year, Letitia Waterman contrived to appear decades younger. Her intricately arranged blonde curls were as bright, her body as slender and her pale skin almost as unlined as when she had been the brightest new Diamond in society’s Marriage Mart, a society over which she ruled still.

One of the scores of beaux she’d dazzled her first Season had been Hal’s father, Nathan. And since, though the Watermans were untitled, the family was related by blood or marriage to half the great houses of England and possessed more wealth than most of them put together, it hadn’t been thought surprising that, from the scores of offers she’d reportedly received, she had condescended to bestow her hand upon Nathan Waterman.

Hal sometimes wondered if his father had ever regretted that.

‘Thank you, dear.’ His mother’s eyes, blue where his were grey, inspected him before she made a small moue of distaste and waved him to a chair. ‘I see you failed to avail yourself of the more fashionable garments I selected for you.’

‘Sorry, Mama. Most kind of you. But not my style.’

‘That’s precisely the point, son,’ she replied, a touch of acid in her tone. ‘I was attempting to replace “no style” with something more befitting a man of your stature, but I see that, once again, you have rebuffed my attempt.’

There was no point answering that, even if Hal were tempted to try to make an explanation. She’d only interrupt his laborious reply, wincing slightly as if his halting speech pained her, which he supposed it did.

Really, son, must you be so blockish? Her oft-repeated reprimand echoed in his head. Just state what you mean! If only it were that simple, Mama, he thought.

It wasn’t that he didn’t immediately formulate a reply. He just couldn’t get the words out. Not for the first time, he regretted that humans didn’t communicate by note.

He was an eloquent writer, all his Oxford professors had agreed. He’d even gained somewhat of a reputation penning amusing doggerel for his friends’ amateur theatricals. And, though he’d never admit it to anyone, occasionally he still wrote sonnets like the ones that had earned him high marks in his composition classes.

Though his mama, were she aware of this talent, would probably find it as shocking as his financial pursuits. A gentleman was prized for his clever, amusing drawing-room conversation, not for sitting alone scribbling verse.

She covered his silence by asking Holmes to pour wine before turning back to him, a smile fixed on her face.

Apprehension immediately began churning in Hal’s gut. He knew that smile. Mama wanted something from him, and past experience warned it wouldn’t be anything he had the remotest desire to give.

Hal waited grimly while the butler served them and then withdrew. As soon as they’d each had a sip, his mama put down her glass and smiled again. Hal braced himself.

‘It’s been weeks since I’ve had you to escort me anywhere. All that travelling about in the north, inspecting some dreadful earthworks or other.’

‘Canals, Mama.’

His mother waved a dismissive hand. ‘It sounds distressingly common. Is it not enough that you must dirty your hands dealing with those Cits on the Exchange? A gentleman simply shouldn’t engage in anything that smacks of trade.’

From the frown on her face, Hal surmised that another of society’s dragons must have been tweaking his mother—jokingly, of course—about her unfashionable son’s even more unfashionable activities. He thought again what a sore trial he must be to her…even though his ‘unfashionable’ activities maintained the fortune she so delighted in spending.

He considered apologising, but, true to form, she continued on without pausing to let him reply. ‘Well, enough of that! I expect I shall soon be seeing much more of you, for I’ve recently met the most charming young lady. Such beauty! Such presence! I simply had to make her my newest companion. I’m positive that once you meet her, desire for her company will lure you away from your tedious pursuits back into the ton gatherings where you belong.’

Gritting his teeth through that speech, Hal barely refrained from groaning aloud. Would Mama never give up? Unfortunately the Marriage Mart each year churned out a never-ending supply of new maidens on the hunt for a husband. Most of whom, he thought sardonically, seemed fully prepared to overlook his taciturn nature and unfashionable proclivities in order to get their lace-mittened hands on the Waterman wealth.

‘It just so happens that my dear Tryphena is visiting this afternoon. I’ll have Holmes escort her in so you two can become acquainted at once!’

Just wonderful, Hal thought glumly. He could try to tell his mother that he didn’t wish to meet her latest protégée, or that he needed to leave immediately on a matter of pressing business. But he knew he couldn’t utter enough words to argue with her, that she would easily overwhelm his limited powers of expression in a torrent of rebuttal and in the end, simply refuse to accept any answer but the agreement she wanted him to utter.

After seven years at this game, he’d long since learned it wasn’t worth his breath to try to dissuade her.

So he simply sat, sipping his wine and wondering how long he’d be condemned to remain before Mama would allow him to escape, while Mrs Waterman chattered on about the exquisite taste, superior accomplishments and well-connected family of Lady Tryphena Upcott.

All too soon, Holmes announced the arrival of the young lady herself. With resignation Hal rose to greet her.

The girl entering the room appeared a bit older than Hal had anticipated. Then the name clicked in his consciousness.

Daughter of an earl, Lady Tryphena had been several Seasons on the town without becoming engaged. The gossip at Hal’s club said she was too high in the instep to accept a gentleman of less than the most exalted rank, from whom, apparently, no such offer had yet been forthcoming. Perhaps, Hal thought, after ending three Seasons unwed, she’d decided great wealth would be an acceptable substitute for elevated title.

With her excellent family connections and exacting standards, it was small wonder Mama favoured the girl. Perhaps since Hal had rejected her attempts to saddle him with a chit fired straight out of the schoolroom, she thought to have better luck with an older candidate.

Though not up to his mama’s usual guage of flawless beauty, Lady Tryphena was attractive enough. Her dark eyes were large, if not brilliant, her face pleasant, her light brown tresses charmingly arranged and her afternoon dress doubtless in the latest kick of fashion.

Hal bowed over her hand. ‘Charmed.’

‘Charmed to meet you, too, Mr Waterman,’ Lady Tryphena replied.

‘I’ve just been telling my son that we’re counting on him to escort us to all the most select functions this Season,’ his mama said, indicating with an elegant turn of her wrist that they might be seated.

Hal took care to select a chair as far from Lady Tryphena as possible.

‘That would be delightful,’ the girl said as she perched beside his mother on the sofa. ‘I’m sure you will know just which entertainments will be the most glittering. Mama has always said you possess the most discerning intellect of any lady of the ton.’

Mrs Waterman smiled and patted Lady Tryphena’s hand. ‘How very kind of you both. Indeed, I’ve just received an invitation to Lady Cowper’s ball for Friday next. It will be the most important event of the beginning Season. Hal, you will be free to escort us, I trust.’

Heart sinking, Hal scrambled to think of an excuse. While he rapidly examined and discarded reasons that would prevent his appearance at this choice social event, Lady Tryphena said, ‘There’s sure to be dancing, of course.’

‘Naturally,’ his mother replied.

Lady Tryphena looked Hal up and down, her gaze as assessing—and faintly disapproving—as his mama’s. ‘He does own the proper attire.’

‘Of course he does. But I shall send his valet a note just to make sure. Though looking at my son you might not always be able to credit it, Jeffers is quite competent.’

Astounded, Hal realised the ladies were discussing him…as if he weren’t even present.

Lady Tryphena didn’t look convinced. ‘Dancing pumps, too? He doesn’t have the look of a man who possesses dancing pumps. Not that he actually has to dance—’ her glance said she suspected he might cavort about the floor like a tame bear if set loose upon it ‘—but he should still be properly outfitted. In any event, I should be delighted to remain at your side, conversing with the gentleman waiting to speak or dance with you, for I’m sure you shall be immensely sought after, as always!’

His mother smiled graciously at that speech. ‘Sweet child, how thoughtful you are! But you must dance as well. My son will be suitably attired, never fear. Besides, we can always purchase the appropriate footwear if necessary.’

This was the worst yet. His mama’s previous candidates had all been too awed in her imperial presence to attempt much conversation, nor had they dared dart more than a few timid glances in his direction.

Perhaps he preferred ingénues after all.

A rising anger submerging his shock—and a hurt he should be long past feeling—Hal rose to his feet.

‘Sorry, pressing engagement,’ he said, interrupting the ladies’ ongoing discussion of the best shops in which men’s dancing slippers might be procured. ‘Pleasure, Lady Tryphena. Mama.’ After according them a bow he had no desire to give, he turned to stride from the room.

Apparently realising she had pushed him as far as she could, his mother made no attempt to stop him. ‘Friday next, Hal. We’ll dine here before leaving for the ball.’

Hot with rage, Hal didn’t so much as nod. As he walked away, Lady Tryphena said, ‘Is his speech always so oddly stilted?’

‘It’s a sad trial to me,’ his mother said with a sigh.

‘Well, if it pleases you, I shall certainly work on that! Perhaps with your help I can bring him up to snuff.’

The closing door cut off whatever reply his mother had offered. Too agitated to wait for the butler to return his hat and cane, Hal brushed past the startled footman stationed in the entry hall and quit his mother’s house.

He’d arrived in a hackney, but at the moment he was too impatient to linger while one was summoned. Besides, a brisk walk might help settle his anger and dispel the lump of pained outrage still choking his throat. Thankful that he had a goal to achieve this afternoon—the investigation of Everitt Lowery’s finances—he set off towards the City.

How should he proceed with his mother? He could simply fail to appear, but in the past that had generally resulted in an immediate summons accompanied by a jobation on his unreliability and lack of consideration for her feelings and sensibilities. It was usually easier to outwardly acquiesce to his mother’s demands.

She knew she could win any verbal battle, so he no longer attempted any, but rather went through the motions of escorting her while according her candidate of the moment so little attention and encouragement that finally either the girl or his mother gave up. After which he would suffer through a painful scene where his mother would rant at him for his unfeeling, ungentlemanly behaviour and ingratitude at her efforts, then wail that she was destined to die abandoned and unloved, denied the comfort of a daughter-in-law and grandchildren, before finally weeping and declaring she meant to wash her hands of him for good.

Unfortunately, she’d never done so. But this attempt was her most embarrassing and humiliating effort yet.

Would she never give a thought to his needs and sensibilities? He laughed bitterly. When had she ever?

Less than a month after his father’s death, at six years of age he’d been dragged off to Eton, still begging Mama not to send him away. At Eton, thank the Lord, he’d met Nicky, and in the harsh and often cruel world of schoolboys, eventually found a place.

He’d never cried for his mama again. The grieving lad’s open wound of need for parental love had closed and scarred over. He’d come home as seldom as possible, often spending his holidays with his friends Nicky and Ned, then moved into a town house of his own as soon as the trustees of his estate gave its management over to him.

Yet in her self-absorbed, quixotic way, he knew his mother loved him, as much as she was capable of loving anyone. She always claimed to have missed him when he returned, first from Eton and then Oxford, and demanded to hear all his news. After a few minutes of his halting recitation, however, she’d interrupt to begin a monologue about fashion and gossip that lasted the rest of his visit. And he’d know that, once again, he’d disappointed her.

Even now, she chastised him if he called too infrequently, though his visits never seemed to give her much pleasure. Still, he supposed her continual efforts to ‘improve’ him and find him a suitable wife were her way of demonstrating affection, a misguided but genuine attempt to make his life better—according to her lights.

As Hal the boy had given up hoping for his mother’s love and companionship, Hal the man knew ’twas impossible he’d ever gain her understanding or earn her approval. He just wished she would leave off trying to remake him into the sort of son she wanted.

Still unsure how he was going to avoid Lady Cowper’s ball—but adamant that avoid it he would—Hal stopped at the first hackney stand he happened upon and instructed the driver to take him to Bow Street.