Читать книгу Scandal in the Regency Ballroom: No Place For a Lady / Not Quite a Lady - Louise Allen - Страница 10

‘Are you writing a poem, Dysart?’

‘A what?’ Max put down the glass of brandy he was nursing and focused on the amused face of his friend Avery, Viscount Lansdowne. ‘Of course not. Are you foxed?’

‘I’ve been holding what I thought was a perfectly sensible conversation with you for the past ten minutes and you’ve just said “The underside of bluebell flowers” in answer to a question about what you were doing next Thursday night.’

‘Was I being coherent up to that point?’ Max hoped so. And he was damned if he was going to explain that his mind had drifted off in an effort to find just the right colour to describe Bree Mallory’s eyes.

‘Probably. You have been saying, “yes”, “no” and “I see what you mean” in approximately the right places. On the other hand, so does my father when my mother’s talking to him, and I know he doesn’t hear a word she says.’

‘I am not your father, thank God. Start again.’

‘All right. But you haven’t seemed to be yourself ever since we had that race to Hounslow.’

‘It was a long night of it, and then I got shot in the shoulder coming back, if you recall.’

‘You’re getting old,’ his friend retorted with a singular lack of sympathy. ‘Don’t tell me that driving a stage is so much more tiring than driving a drag.’

‘Well, it is. You’ve a team that is any old quality, and just when you get used to it, they change it. You’ve a strict schedule to keep to and a coachload of complaining passengers to look after. And it’s heavier than a drag. You’re only nagging me because you lost to both Nevill and Latymer and you want to try a stage.’

‘I expected to lose to young Nevill, with you up on the box alongside him,’ Lansdowne retorted. ‘That was no great shock. But I don’t say I wouldn’t have minded putting Latymer’s nose out of joint for him. And as for driving a stage—now you’ve got the “in,” can’t you arrange for the rest of us to have a go?’

‘No.’

‘Selfish devil. Well, then, forget whatever you’re brooding about and tell me—are you going to come?’

‘To what?’

‘There! I knew you didn’t hear a word I’ve been saying to you.’ Avery crossed his long legs and made himself more comfortable. ‘To my sister Sophia’s betrothal party. Grandmama Matchingham has insisted on the full works—dinner first, ball after, all relatives from both sides mustered.’

‘Who did you say she’s marrying?’ Max ignored Avery’s exaggerated eye-rolling.

‘Kendal. You know, Viscount Farleigh. You must have met him, gets to everywhere that is respectable. Prosy type, if you ask me, but Sophia seems to like him, so there you are, another sister off my hands.’

‘Prosy he might be, but at least with him you can be sure he’s not setting up a chorus dancer on the side, or running up gaming debts for you to settle.’ Max thought about what he knew of Farleigh: all of it was boringly ordinary.

‘There’s that to be said for the match. I’d be as worried as hell if she fancied one of the Nonesuch crew.’ Avery grinned. ‘Anyway, I need some leavening at this party—what with Grandmama Matchingham insisting he bring along his entire family for inspection, and Sophia inviting every insipid miss she calls a friend, it’ll be a nightmare. I’m asking all the Whips in sheer self-defence—at least we can get up a few card tables.’

‘You make it sound so tempting, how could I resist such a flattering desire for my company?’ Max murmured. ‘Why does the old dragon want to inspect all the Kendals—no black sheep in that lot, are there?’

‘Apparently there are some rattling skeletons she’s heard about. Anyway, Kendal pokered up and said he had no concerns about producing the entire family down to third cousins once removed, if required, so I expect it’s all a hum.

‘Say you’ll come, there’s a good fellow. I’ll put you next to a nice girl at dinner.’

‘I thought you said they were all insipid,’ Max grumbled mildly. Of course they’d be insipid; there was only one woman who wouldn’t be. ‘All right, I’ll come. Anything for a friend.’ Anything to take my mind off going to the Mermaid in High Holborn and committing a monumental indiscretion with Bree Mallory.

‘Miss Mallory, I implore you, allow me to cut your hair! How are we to contrive a style even approaching the mode with this much to deal with?’ Mr Lavenham, the excruciatingly expensive coiffeur Bree had decided to employ, lifted the wheaten mass in both hands and looked round with theatrical despair. His assistant rushed to assist with the weight of it, clucking in agreement.

She dithered. It was heavy, it took an age to dry when she washed it, the fashion was for curls and crops. Don’t cut it. The deep voice rang in her head. Bree swung between practicality and the orders of a man she was never going to see again. What is the matter with me? There is no decision to be made—I no longer take orders from anyone.

‘Leave it,’ she said decisively. ‘I am paying you a great deal of money, Mr Lavenham—I expect you to work miracles.’

‘Your Grace, may I introduce my sister, Miss Mallory, and my brother, Mr Mallory, to your notice?’

How very condescending, as though we are actually well below her Grace’s notice, Bree thought, the fixed smile on her lips unwavering. At least he hasn’t slipped in the half sister and brother, just to distance himself as much as possible.

Bree swept her best curtsy, watching out of the corner of her eye as Piers managed a very creditable bow. In front of them the Dowager Duchess of Matchingham narrowed her eyes between puffy lids and assessed them.

How old is she? Bree wondered. Old enough not to care about anyone or anything beyond her own interests and those of the family, and she is one of the generation for whom very plain speaking was the norm. The washed-out blue eyes focused on her.

‘I hear you run some sort of inn.’

‘My brother is half-owner of the Challenge Coaching Company, your Grace. It operates from the Mermaid Inn in High Holborn.’

‘Hmm. What’s this I hear about horse dealing?’ Definitely a throwback to an age where good manners were considered a weakness.

‘My Uncle George breeds the horses for the company, your Grace. He also manages the two farms the family owns. They are very extensive and situated near Aylesbury.’

‘Your family owns land?’

Time to bite back. Bree raised one eyebrow in elegant surprise. ‘But of course, your Grace. Our father was one of the Buckinghamshire Mallorys—Sir Augustus is a cousin.’ The baronet was a fourth cousin once removed and she’d never met him, but he was suitable for these purposes.

‘Indeed.’ Her Grace’s nose was slightly out of joint, Bree could see. The prejudice she had formed could not be sustained, which was always uncomfortable. Time to move on—it would not be politic to rub it in. The Dowager turned her attention to the next person in the receiving line. ‘Lady Bracknell, it must be an age since we met …’

Bree swept another curtsy, thankful, for once, for her mama’s insistence on deportment lessons. Piers was close at her side. ‘Phew, what an old dragon!’

‘And we slew her nicely,’ Bree murmured. ‘Now, time to do the pretty to everyone else.’

Lady Sophia was pale, beautiful in a way that had Piers gazing with dropped jaw until Bree dug him in the ribs and painfully correct. ‘Miss Mallory, Mr Mallory. I am so pleased to meet you.’

‘And we are delighted to meet you,’ Bree rejoined warmly, meaning it. Surely this lovely creature would make James more human? ‘I wish you every happiness.’

Freed from the principals, they were still faced with a formidable line. The Duke, the Duchess, Viscount Lansdowne, all waited to be greeted. Bree liked Sophia’s brother on sight. He was languid, elegantly handsome and had a twinkle in his green eyes that had her dimpling back. It occurred to her, with startling suddenness, that he was exactly the sort of man she had believed was her model of excellence. Until she had met one large domineering gentleman with brown eyes, a stubborn jaw and strong, gentle hands.

‘Run the gauntlet, Miss Mallory?’ the viscount enquired softly.

‘I am afraid the family skeletons were not up to scratch, my lord,’ she rejoined demurely, wondering what possessed her to be so bold. ‘We scarcely rattled at all.’

‘Good. Grandmama deserves the occasional set-down. Will you save me a dance, Miss Mallory?’

‘I would be delighted, my lord.’

‘You are going it!’ Piers observed as they emerged, with some relief, from the end of the receiving line. ‘Dancing with a viscount, indeed.’

‘Why not?’ Bree demanded. ‘I have been having driving demonstrations from an earl, after all.’ She glanced around the big reception room. ‘You should go and find yourself a pretty heiress to flirt with.’

Piers, predictably, went pink to his hairline, but strolled off, heading for a group of young men around the fireplace at one end of the long room.

For an unchaperoned single woman, things were more awkward. She assumed a confident smile and drifted towards a group of gossiping young matrons.

Her silken skirts swished reassuringly as she moved, reminding her that, in this department at least, she had nothing to fear. Sea-foam green silk trimmed with tiny gilt acorns and fine gilt ribbon clung in elegant simplicity. Her hair, braided and curled by a master, was dressed into a style where the intricacies of plait and twist were all the ornament it needed, and, to complete her air of confidence, Mama’s thin gold chains and aquamarine ear bobs provided a refined hint of luxury.

Bree rarely had the opportunity, or wish, to dress up, but when she did, she found a totally feminine delight in it. In fact, after the events of a few days ago, shedding every trace of the booted, overcoat-clad stagecoach driver was a pleasure to be revelled in.

As she came up to the group, a young woman stepped back, squarely on Bree’s foot. ‘I am so sorry! How wretchedly careless of me. Are you all right?’

She was black haired, lovely and vivacious and her wide, apologetic smile had Bree smiling back, despite her sore toes. Then she realised who this lady must be: the likeness was unmistakeable. ‘Excuse me, but are you related to Lady Sophia?’

‘But, yes, she is my baby sister, and Avery is my big brother.’ Her new friend linked a hand confidingly through Bree’s elbow. ‘I am Georgy—Lady Georgiana Lucas, if you want to be stuffy. So now you’ll have met all of us except Augustus and Maria, and they are still in the schoolroom.’

Slightly dazed by the flow of information, Bree allowed herself to be steered to a sofa. ‘I couldn’t bear another minute of Henrietta Ford’s account of her last confinement,’ Lady Lucas continued. ‘It’s bad enough having babies oneself, without someone going through all the details endlessly, don’t you think?’

Georgy stopped, her head on one side, waiting for a response. ‘I’m not married,’ Bree explained. ‘So people don’t talk about that sort of thing in front of me.’

‘Aren’t you? Good heavens! You look married.’ Bree must have appeared puzzled, for Lady Georgiana went off in a peel of laughter. ‘You know—confident, poised. Not at all like someone just out.’

‘Well, I’m an old maid, so that accounts for it.’

That provoked more mirth. ‘I don’t believe you—and I’ll wager next month’s allowance that Avery has already asked you for a dance. He always asks the prettiest girls. I just wish he’d marry one. Would you like to marry him? He’s very nice and badly in need of a wife to make him settle down.’

‘He seems charming, but I am quite ineligible for such a match.’ Despite the shocking frankness of Lady Georgiana’s conversation, Bree couldn’t help liking her. Whatever did she make of dear James?

‘Why?’ Georgy demanded.

‘My father was a farmer. My brother and uncle own a stagecoach company,’ Bree confessed.

‘Oh!’ Georgy laughed delightedly. ‘I know who you are—you are the black sheep!’

‘I believe so. I am Bree Mallory, and that’s my brother over there, the tall blond youth on the right of the fireplace. I think, to be accurate, we are the skeletons in James’s cupboard. Our mother married the second time for love, you see.’

‘Then you will be my sister-in-law. We will be the greatest friends. What fun I will have matchmaking,’ Georgy announced. ‘Admittedly, a country squire and a stagecoach company is just a teensiest bit of a handicap if you want an eldest son at the very top end of the aristocracy, but I’m sure I can find you a nice baron, or the second son of a viscount. In fact, I’ve got just the man in mind. Are you poor? I hope you don’t mind my asking, only that does make a difference.’

‘No, I’m not,’ Bree said frankly, half-fascinated, half-appalled by this frankness. ‘I’m very comfortably off, I’m happy to say.’ And she was. She had money in her own right from her parents, Piers and Uncle George insisted she take a fair share of the company profits and she managed her money with care. A top-flight coiffeur and a fashionable evening ensemble had not caused her a moment’s financial worry. ‘But I am not—truly—in search of a husband. I’m not at all sure I could give up my independence now.’

‘It will have to be a love match then. I do not despair.’ Georgy got to her feet in a flurry of amber silk. ‘Come along and meet people.’

Bree worried that Georgy would make the most embarrassing introductions, but she flitted amongst the growing crowd, talking to everyone, introducing Bree with a cry of, ‘You must meet my new sister-in-law to be! Isn’t she lovely?’ Everyone seemed friendly, no one drew aside their skirts in horror at meeting Farleigh’s embarrassing relative and she began to enjoy herself.

‘And this is Mr Brice Latymer.’ Georgy halted in front of a saturnine gentleman of average height and exquisite tailoring.

Latymer, the man from the inn yard, the man who was racing Max’s cousin that night. Did he see me? Bree could feel the blood leaving her cheeks and forced a smile to match his.

‘Miss Mallory, I am delighted. And I understand I have the pleasure of taking you in to dinner.’ He was very suave, his eyes on her appreciative, without being in any way offensive. Bree felt herself relax. Of course he did not recognise her. He made her an immaculate bow. ‘I shall seek you out again when dinner is announced, Miss Mallory. I look forward to it.’

‘Phew, he is so smooth,’ Georgy remarked once they were out of earshot. ‘Really good company, and he makes an excellent escort, but I wouldn’t waste time with him, Bree, dear. Not quite enough money.’ She steered them firmly towards the fireplace. ‘Now, introduce me to your handsome brother.’

‘Miss Mallory?’ It was Mr Latymer again, this time offering his arm to escort her in. She let him lead her, enjoying the sensation, just for once, of being comprehensively looked after. It would pall after a time, she knew, but it was quite fun, once in a while, to be treated like a fragile being.

The Duke took the head of the table and the party began to settle themselves. Just as the footman tucked the chair under Bree’s knees there was a slight flurry as another couple arrived opposite. Beside her she felt Mr Latymer stiffen and glanced across to see what had caught his attention.

There, staring right back at her, was Max Dysart, arrested in the act of sitting. The earl looked blankly at her, and she realised, with an inward tremor of mischief, that he couldn’t decide whether she really was the woman he had rescued in the inn yard.

It was unthinkable to speak across the table. Wickedly, Bree gave not the slightest hint of recognition. Doubt flickered in his eyes and there was a frown line between his dark brows. Bree fussed a little with her napkin, and turned her head sideways, allowing Lord Penrith—should he still be looking—the picture of upswept hair, elegant jewellery and the line of a white throat.

Then it occurred to her that, amusing as it might be to tease his lordship, he was now almost certain to approach her after dinner in an attempt to decide whether his eyes were deceiving him or not. And, if he said the wrong thing in this crowded assembly, she could find herself in a very difficult position indeed.

‘Penrith’s taking an inordinate amount of interest in this side of the table,’ Mr Latymer observed, directing a hard look back. ‘Are you acquainted with him?’

‘Lord Penrith?’ Bree laughed, hoping it was not as shrill as it sounded inside her head. ‘Good heavens, no!’ Now she had done it. Damn, damn … I should have thought, said I had some slight acquaintance. Now if he seems at all familiar Mr Latymer may assume the worst.

Bree Mallory. It has to be her. But how can it be? ‘Miss Robinson, allow me.’ Max handed his dinner partner the napkin that had slipped from her grasp.

The slender brunette at his side batted sweeping lashes and gazed at him admiringly as she prattled on.

Max smiled and nodded and murmured agreement with her inanities. And Avery promised me a nice girl as a partner! Like the one opposite. Just what has Brice Latymer done to deserve her? It has to be Bree.…

Surely there was no mistaking that glorious wheaten-gold hair, the weight of it caught up into a masterpiece of the coiffeur’s art? And surely there was no mistaking that generous, lush mouth or those eyes, the colour of bluebells in a beech wood? A blue you could drown in.

But the elegant society lady across the table looked back at him without a glimmer of recognition. And besides, what would practical businesswoman Miss Mallory in her breeches and boots have to do with this gorgeous creature?

He realised he was staring as he caught Latymer’s sharp green eyes glancing in his direction. Time enough to solve the mystery, Max decided, turning to show an interest in Miss Robinson’s intensely tedious recital of her feelings upon being invited to this event. There was a sense of anticipation flowing through his veins, like the feeling before hounds draw first cover on a crisp autumn morning—it would more than support him for the duration of this meal.

As the covers were removed after the first course Max took the opportunity to scan the couple opposite. The blond woman reached out her right hand to pick up her wine glass. She misjudged the distance and the back of her wrist knocked against the heavy cut-glass flagon of drinking water. Max saw, more than heard, her sharp intake of breath. Small white teeth caught on the fullness of her lower lip and she closed her eyes briefly before lifting the wine glass.

That clinched it—hair, eyes, mouth might all be some amazing chance likeness, but all that and a painfully injured right wrist, that was beyond coincidence.

He caught her eye and mouthed Bree? For a moment he thought she might continue to cut him, then a twinkle of mischief lit her eyes and she nodded slightly before raising one gloved finger to her lips in a fleeting warning.

How the Devil did she get in here? Max jerked his attention back to the young lady on his left who, unfortunately, showed no sign of wanting to prattle mindlessly, unlike Miss Robinson. He was going to have to exert himself to entertain this one, when all he wanted to do was speculate wildly about Bree’s presence under the Dowager Duchess of Matchingham’s roof. Admittedly, it was the current Duke’s roof, but no one, let alone that nobleman, believed he had any chance of ruling it while the Dowager lived.

He offered peas to the young lady, agreed that the latest gossip about the Prince Regent was too intriguing for words and asked her opinion of the latest exhibition at the Royal Academy.

That at least gave him a chance to think about Bree. How had she obtained the entrée into such a gathering? And where, for goodness’ sake, had she obtained a gown that was the work of a top-flight modiste?

The meal dragged on interminably, the passage of time doing nothing but build the tension in his nerves and the disconcerting feeling of arousal in his loins. How could he have guessed that the enchantingly different girl in her man’s clothing was the possessor of an elegant neck, of white, sloping shoulders and the most deliciously rounded bosom? The gown she was wearing was apparently designed to make the very best of all these features and, unlike the very young ladies in their first Season, she had dispensed with the froth of tulle or lace that disguised them. If he had wanted her before, now the need was painful.

The ladies, called together by the Duchess rising, began to file out amidst a scraping of chairs. At the door Bree glanced back over her shoulder. Their eyes met. Was he imagining things or had she motioned with her head towards the terrace?