Читать книгу Regency Collection 2013 Part 1 - Хелен Диксон, Louise Allen, Хелен Диксон - Страница 32

Almack’s Assembly Rooms: late March 1815

‘My dear, I agree it would be laughable if it was not my own cousin involved with the creature, but as he is, I simply cannot find it in me to be amused.’ The speaker’s affected voice was instantly recognisable as she entered the room. Lady Angela Hardy. Behind the screen in the retiring room Lily’s fingers stilled on the recalcitrant knot in her garter, then slowly curled.

‘Oh, I do so understand and sympathise.’ The other speaker oozed understanding. ‘So vulgar—the whole family will be devastated if your suspicions are true. And that impossible hair. And the clothes! No wonder she has stayed unmarried so long.’

‘With that amount of money?’ The third female voice was harsher. ‘I cannot agree; personally I am amazed no one has snapped her up before now, despite the grocer grandfather and the carrot curls and her age. Society is littered with gentlemen in dire need of a fortune to restore their own. Worse handicaps than red hair and vulgarity have been overlooked often enough—and at least her parents are dead.’

Lily wrenched the knot undone, then retied the garter with enough force to cut off the circulation to that leg. As she straightened, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror and pushed a stray lock of dark auburn hair back behind her ear. It was not carroty. And what, precisely, was wrong with her gowns? Nothing, except that those three witches could not afford anything so fine.

Lady Angela and her two bosom bows, Miss Fenella George and Lady Caroline Blackstock, seemed in no hurry to take themselves back to the dance floor. Probably they had no partners, Lily thought unkindly, applying her eye to the join in the screen panels. From the expression on Angela’s face her friends would be made to regret the remark about age; Lily, the object of their venom, might be twenty-six, but Angela was all of twenty-five and just as dangerously on the shelf.

As her father had taught her, Lily closed her eyes and thought calming thoughts. Never let your temper master you, Lily my girl, Papa had said so often. We redheads are at enough of a disadvantage without making an exhibition of ourselves. Flying into a rage is bad business—keep calm and get even later.

The door opened again, admitting a small group of young ladies, flushed from their exertions in a country dance. No, get even now. She would probably regret it, but she was sick and tired of playing the meek little miss, pretending that she did not hear the catty remarks about her parentage, her money or her looks.

With a twitch at her satin skirts that made the rows of fringing toss, Lily sailed out from behind the screen. Her appearance effectively silenced Angela, who froze, her mouth half-open.

‘Lady Angela, Lady Caroline, Miss George.’ Lily dropped a neat little bob of a curtsy. ‘So edifying as always to hear your opinions, but if I might just drop a little hint, Lady Angela? I heard two of the Patronesses earlier this evening commenting on your misfortune in not receiving an offer again this Season.

‘They seemed to feel that your so freely expressed views might have something to do with it. How did they describe you? Oh, yes, the bran-faced spinster with the adder tongue. Very unfair, I thought. After all, I am sure that the application of enough of Rowland’s Kalydor Balm must improve even the most sallow complexion. It can do nothing for the tongue, of course.’

Lily smiled sweetly and swept past the giggling girls who had just come in, ignoring the livid fury on the faces of the trio she had been addressing. As the door swung shut behind her, she caught the first spluttering words from Lady Angela.

‘The cat, the vulgar little cat! She’ll live to regret she ever—’

The music and the babble of conversation cut off the rest of the threats as Lily made her way out into the main assembly room at Almack’s. She was already feeling guilty for losing her temper; at least she had had the discretion not to name the Patroness who had uttered that damning verdict—and all of them, save Lady Jersey, were present this evening, so hopefully Angela would not guess which one was responsible.

As she made her way around the edge of the room to where she had left her chaperon, Lily glimpsed an elegant figure making his way in. Adrian. At last. He had been his usual offhand self when she had tentatively enquired whether he would be present this evening, and Lily had learned better than to try his patience by pressing him. That a baron was taking an interest in her was exciting enough; that the handsome, assured, thoroughly top-lofty Lord Randall seemed on the point of offering was a miracle.

The cold blue eyes swept the room haughtily before he turned and made some remark to the men who had come in with him. Who was he looking for? Her? Or for some family member—his cousin Angela, for example? And would Angela pour out the tale of how that vulgar Miss France had insulted her? Of course she would.

Lily ran the tip of her tongue between lips that seemed suddenly dry. If she let Lord Randall slip through her fingers now, then her father’s ambitions, her family’s future social prospects, her own carefully mapped-out destiny, would slip away too. Adrian Randall was a leader in society, for all his notorious debts and spendthrift ways, and if he spurned the ‘Grocer’s Granddaughter’, then the other hopefuls with their pockets to let would think twice about being seen to take up what he had rejected.

Adrian was making his way towards her now, taking his time about it, greeting friends as he did so. Mindful of her chaperon’s strictures and her aunt’s warnings, Lily contained her impatience and waited demurely upon his pleasure. Oh, but he was handsome: slender and pale, blond and languid—a complete contrast to her blaze of dark auburn hair, her vivid green eyes and her restless energy.

He reached her side at last and she managed a start of surprise that would have deeply gratified Lady Billington, her excruciatingly expensive hired chaperon, if she had been privileged to observe it.

‘My lord.’ Her curtsy was another triumph of hard-learned decorum.

‘Lily.’ There was a spark of heat under the cool tones and he lifted her hand to his lips, letting it rest in his for just a daring fraction too long. ‘You are very lovely this evening, I do not think I have ever seen your eyes sparkle quite like that.’ Her heart thudded and she felt a little sick. Nerves, of course.

Aunt Herrick, totally focused on her mission to marry her niece off to a member of the aristocracy, had been quite blunt about it. Give him what he wants, Lily—whatever he wants. This is no time to be missish. You must catch him fair and square. He’s a gentleman, he’ll do what’s right. After all, once you are married, who is to know what went before?

The thought of giving Adrian what he appeared to want made Lily feel quite dizzy and not a little apprehensive. She was not even sure if she liked him. Not that that was any bar to marriage, as her entourage of supporters assured her. Liking did not enter into it. Love most certainly did not.

She, the great-granddaughter of a hardworking carpenter, the granddaughter of an ambitious grocer and the daughter of a tea merchant—a very, very rich tea merchant—had a destiny that had been set out for her from the moment of her birth. She was to marry a lord and be the mother of English gentlemen. It was the duty she had been raised for.

Papa had even explained how fortunate it was that she was a girl, for a son would have had a much harder time breaching the walls that upper-class England set about itself.

But his protracted illness when they had been visiting tea plantations in India, her period of mourning, the long journey back to England and the necessity to find a suitable chaperon—all delayed her come-out until she had reached the impossible age of twenty-five. And now that she had just had her birthday, it was only her huge fortune that kept her in the Marriage Mart at all.

Apprehension about what she had done made her decisive; if Lord Randall reacted badly to this indiscretion, then it was hopeless in any case. ‘I have to confess that I have just lost my temper and have acted most imprudently,’ she declared.

‘Indeed?’ Adrian’s azure eyes glittered with interest. ‘Tell me.’

‘You will be annoyed with me.’

‘That might be stimulating.’ His voice dropped to a purr. Lily did not quite understand what was going through his mind, but whatever it was, she blushed at the look in his eyes.

‘I insulted your cousin, Lady Angela,’ she blurted out, with none of the finesse she had intended to use. ‘I am afraid something she said about me—’

‘Say no more.’ Adrian waved it away with one white, exquisite hand. ‘Angela is a shrew. She needs a husband, but with that tongue she is never going to get one. She will end up on the shelf with no one to blame but herself.’

‘But—’

She almost winced at the immediate flash of displeasure in the pale eyes. Adrian disliked being contradicted. ‘Angela is a bore. I have an aversion to being bored.’ He looked round the stuffy, crowded room. ‘In fact this assembly looks utterly dull. I can think of much more interesting things to be doing.’

The heat was back in his eyes and something inside her stirred, not altogether pleasurably, in instinctive recognition. And yet, her breath was suddenly short in her throat and her heartbeat seemed to trip. It was exciting to be looked at like that, to feel wanted and desired. Lily lowered her eyelashes modestly, feeling the brush of her long diamond ear drops against her cheek reminding her of her own worth.

‘More interesting? At Almack’s?’ Her own laugh sounded false to Lily. ‘Surely not?’

‘No. Not here. Come with me, Lily.’ Adrian’s fingers were caressing the inside of her wrist and he was standing scandalously close. She could feel the heat of his body. The strange sensation inside was becoming more disturbing now, but pleasurably so.

‘Where to?’

He chuckled softly. ‘I thought we should get to know each other better my dear—before we make any announcement public.’

‘You mean … my lord, are you making me a declaration?’

Adrian drew her back into a curtained embrasure, letting the heavy brocade fall softly behind them, secluding them in a secret bubble amidst all the chatter and music. ‘Would one be welcome, Lily? My lovely Lily …’ His mouth was very close to hers now. They were almost exchanging breath.

‘Yes. Yes, I think you must know it would be, my lord.’ Was it? She would be the most arrant flirt if she had not meant the encouragement she had given Adrian Randall these past few weeks. And he was exactly what she knew it was her duty to seek: titled, fashionable and with connections through every layer of the aristocratic world.

‘Then come with me now. We can … talk about things. Alone.’

‘You mean you will drive me home?’ It was not what he intended and she knew it. One had to play the game, Aunt had explained.

‘Eventually.’ Adrian smiled, his blue eyes narrowed with amusement.

‘But my chaperon? Lady Billington …’

‘Janey Billington will turn a very blind eye. I think she would be most surprised and disappointed if we stayed here all evening, don’t you?’ He was running the back of his hand down the curve of her neck now, murmuring appreciatively at the soft touch of her skin. Lily could feel her eyes becoming heavy with a languorous need. Can this be love? Surely I would not feel like this otherwise?

‘Very well.’ It was like stepping out in the dark. Where would she land?

‘Just go and tell Lady B. you’ve got a headache and that I’ll see you home.’ He took her arm and steered her out into the room again, ignoring the outraged stare of a dowager with complete insouciance. ‘In fact, I will come with you.’

As they circled to the chaperons’ corner, Lady Angela stepped out into their path. The patches of colour on her cheeks made Lily think of a wooden Dutch doll. ‘Adrian! This bitch—’

‘Been sucking lemons again, have you, Angela?’ Adrian’s tone was anything but playful. ‘I hardly think we all want to hear your spiteful ravings. And do take care, coz, or that expression will stick.’

Their departure was a haze after that. The picture of Angela’s furious face as Adrian swept Lily past her, Lady Billington’s complaisant, knowing, smile, the scrupulously bland expressions of the servants fetching their cloaks—they all swirled together. And in her head Aunt Herrick’s voice—You can’t afford to be nice like those aristocratic little misses. Your money is all very well, but you’ll need to sweeten the pill of your birth for him. You are buying his name and you need every penny piece and then some for that.

He helped her up into the carriage, his hand warm on her arm, his every gesture graceful and respectful. ‘Home, Granger.’

The vehicle swept out into the foggy night, into St James’s Square. Torches flared, light spilled from doorways into the murky damp of the evening. Sweeten the pill. No, surely Adrian wanted her for herself as well as for her money. Surely?

Adrian moved to sit next to her, lifting her hand in his. Lily thought he might kiss it. Instead he bent it back so that he could nuzzle the inside of her wrist where the tender flesh was exposed in the gaps between the tiny pearl buttons of her long evening gloves. His lips were hot—and seemed hotter still when he shifted her into his arms and began to kiss her neck.

Lily stiffened, then tried to make herself relax. This was the man she was going to marry, and she should not be shy of his advances. But no one had tried to make love to her before, so naturally it felt—strange.

No, it did not feel strange, she realised. It felt horrible. She fought down the panic and tried to slide away a little, her satin skirts slipping over the leather upholstery, adding to her sense of being off balance. Adrian was breathing heavily, his mouth not merely hot as it moved over her skin, but moist. His hands seemed to be everywhere.

In response to her wriggling, he pressed her back, down on to the seat. He was hurting her upper arm where his hand was clenched on it, but her protests were stifled by his lips and his weight as he shifted, almost on top of her.

‘No!’ Lily managed to get her mouth free. Adrian …’

His other hand was under her skirts, moving up past her garters to the bare skin of her thighs with practised ease. Lily moved convulsively, too panicked now to try argument or reason. The carriage lurched round a corner and Adrian rolled off her, cursing.

‘Adrian, please do not, not here like this …’

‘Oh, yes, just like this.’ She caught glimpses of his face as the lights in the street outside caught the inside of the carriage in flashes. He was flushed, breathing heavily, his lips parted and an expression on his face that Lily, even in her innocence, had no trouble in interpreting. Adrian was excited by her fear, excited by the semi-public nature of the carriage with its undrawn blinds—and he was in no mood to be gainsaid.

Adrian lunged for her and Lily twisted away, but not before his hand had jerked open her cloak. ‘Damn it, keep still, I am not going to hurt you.’

But he was. She had known that, assumed it was an inevitable part of losing one’s virginity—but Adrian did not care, it was obvious. With a grunt of satisfaction his fingers closed on the neckline of her gown, pulling her towards him. ‘Don’t be such a bloody tease, Lily.’ And then his mouth fastened on hers.

Lily groped wildly for some weapon, reached up to try to get some purchase on the top of the squabs, and found the check-string twisting in her fingers. With a sob of relief she pulled it. The carriage slowed and stopped.

‘What the hell?’ Adrian pushed himself off her and jerked down the window. ‘Granger, what the devil are you about?’

Lily tore at the opposite door handle and half-jumped, half-fell into the roadway. Where was she? The thoroughfare seemed nightmarish as the fog swirled around the flambeaux and lanterns. The road itself was congested with hackneys and private coaches, men with handcarts and sedan chairs. The pavements were thronged, mostly with men, but amongst them the cream of the demireps in paint and feathers. Lily swung round, still grasping the door handle in an effort to keep her balance. Piccadilly—at least she knew where she was.

‘Get back in here, Lily!’ It was Adrian, scrambling across the seat and reaching for her. Lily took to her heels, feeling her cloak tear from her shoulders as she went. She looked back; he was jumping down from the carriage. The moment’s inattention was almost fatal, the kerb tripped her and she fell headlong, only to be caught up by a tall buck.

‘Well, damme, but here’s a pretty thing to have fall into my arms!’ His long fingers slid under her chin. ‘Let me look at you, sweetheart.’

‘No!’ Lily tore herself free and ran on, looking for a hiding place. The fog swirled as a door swung open and she glimpsed an interior as vivid and unreal as a stage setting: Hatchett’s Coffee House, the sign said. Sanctuary.

The tall man in the corner booth at the back of Hatchett’s leaned forward, watching the door for long minutes after it closed, his face as expressionless as when he had shaken hands and said goodnight to his companion. Then he sat back abruptly and rubbed both hands over his face, as though to scrub away the evening’s effort at diplomacy and persuasion. The wasted effort.

What did that leave now Hotchkinson had proved unwilling? He flicked through the notebook on the table beside him. A few more introductions to take up, one or two ideas still to be tried, before his money ran out and he had to return home. One hundred pounds he had allowed himself for this London venture, budgeting it as carefully as a prudent young lady making her come-out might. His expenditure was far more prosaic, but his aim was the same as hers: to catch a rich man. Only he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that what he had to offer was much less attractive.

He clicked his fingers at the waiter and ordered the house ordinary. There were cheaper eating houses; his choice of this one had been a futile attempt to impress Hotchkinson, but now he was here he would indulge himself for once. When the man came with the food and a tankard of porter, he asked for paper and ink. This warm, noisy space was a more pleasant place to spend the evening than his room at the Green Dragon off Compton Street.

The man forked some braised gammon and greens into his mouth, then pulled forward his notebook and began to draft.

Persons desirous of investing … No, too wordy. An attractive investment … Only it was apparently unfashionably unattractive. If he was promoting a canal now, that would be another matter altogether.

He paused to tear off a hunk of bread and to glance at the advertisements in that day’s Morning Chronicle for inspiration.

… will provide the fullest particulars at the sign of the Green Dragon …

And if this did not work? How much longer could he afford to stay in London? He flicked to the back of the book and did some rapid calculations—he would have to budget carefully unless he was prepared to travel home in the basket of the stage.

The door opened again, slamming back against a settle and sending a swirl of damp air into the warm room. He glanced up, along with most of the men in the room, then slowly lowered his quill. The person who stumbled in was not, as one might have expected, someone slightly the worse for wear, looking for a strong cup of coffee, or a meal to sober himself up.

The young woman who half-fell into the room, pushing the door shut behind her and leaning back against it, was no street walker. She was not even one of the expensive barques of frailty who flaunted themselves amongst the fashionable crowd like so many moths seeking nectar. This was a lady, as incongruous and as flustered as if she had been picked up by a whirlwind off the dance floor at Almack’s and dropped into the midst of this coffee house.

She had no cloak over her gown which was, even to his eye, in the extreme height of fashion. Diamonds dripped from her ears and flashed across her bosom with the unmistakable watery fire of the real thing. Her rich auburn hair was elaborately dressed and pinned with yet more gems. He corrected his initial fancy—not so much Almack’s, she seemed to have been snatched from the floor of Carlton House itself. He half-expected Prinny to stumble in after her. The other occupants of the coffee house just gawped at the vision, transfixed.

The lady stared around, green eyes wide, looked at him— and he found he was on his feet. Her dress was torn, her hair was coming down; she was in trouble. He took a step forward and she held out a hand. ‘Please, sir, I beg you, hide me.’