Читать книгу A Suitable Wife - Louise Gouge M. - Страница 9

Chapter One

London, May 1814

“Well, Mother, have you chosen a bride for me yet?” Lord Greystone surveyed the guests in the ballroom of his Hanover Square town house, already bored by the dull young misses who had been paraded before him by overeager mothers.

“Greystone, it is simply appalling.” Standing beside him, Mother waved her closed fan carelessly toward the throng of guests, many of whom were engaged in a lively country reel. “I cannot think of any of these silly gels becoming my daughter-in-law. If you married one of them, I should be forced to utterly forsake your company to avoid all that nonsensical chatter.”

“If you fear you will be lonely, madam, perhaps you should consider hiring a new companion.” He sent his parent a playful smirk, but failed to evoke even a hint of a smile from the poor dear. Although she would never admit it, Mother missed her former companion Miss Newfield since the young lady married Greystone’s youngest brother.

“Nonsense.” Mother inspected him up and down through her quizzing glass, then brushed invisible lint from his blue satin sleeve. “I shall find you a bride who can fill the duties of a companion for me, someone who understands her responsibilities to family and Society.”

“Hmm.” Greystone resisted the notion of his future wife suffering under Mother’s domination, as Miss Newfield had. Perhaps after his marriage he should consider settling his parent in a dower residence. The house would be elegant and well staffed, of course, but at some distance from his other homes.

The thought stirred a strong measure of guilt in him. He and his two brothers owed everything to Mother. From the age of six, when his father’s sudden death had vaulted him into the titular headship of the Greystone dynasty, he had followed her every teaching. She had made certain he and his brothers, especially Greystone, were well versed in their duties to king and country. Although they had often loathed her controlling hand, she had restored the family fortune Father had gambled away, making possible a future for each of them. A future she herself designed.

Tonight she had gone to great effort for his birthday, inviting numerous aristocratic families and their marriageable daughters, ordering the best cuisine and hiring a fine orchestra. To match her scarlet gown, she wore the exquisite ruby necklace that had been in his family for some two hundred years. It suited her so well, he decided she must have it even after he married, as a symbol of his gratitude for all she had done for the family.

Although he felt the utmost gratitude toward her, recently he had begun to chafe against her controls. All these years he had observed how she had ruled the family. But how did a husband and father manage his own house? His memories of Father offered no example, only horror and fear. What if he inherited the man’s brutish ways? What if—

“Are you listening to me?” Mother’s sharp elbow cut into his biceps. He stifled a wince and clamped down on a cross retort. “What do you think of Lady Grandly’s eldest gel?” She waved her fan toward the comely Miss Waddington.

“Hmm.” Miss Waddington certainly possessed the appropriate breeding and character, but she stirred no feeling in him at all. Now that he had seriously begun his obligatory marital search, a new longing had started to stir within him. He wanted to experience genuine love, a deep emotion toward his wife, such as both of his brothers felt for their brides. A feeling so strong that it made each of them willing to risk everything to have the woman he loved.

Yet those other, darker thoughts always accompanied that sentiment. What if he had inherited his father’s propensity for cruelty? For evil? For profligate living? With no paternal example how could he truly become the good man he longed to be in the sight of God? Often after a burst of anger over some offense, real or imagined, he pondered whether he was even fit for marriage and fatherhood. Perhaps his brother Richard should continue as his heir. The newly ordained minister possessed an agreeable, temperate disposition and would never knowingly cause harm to anyone. But then such a passive course would mean that Greystone was neglecting his responsibility, something he would never do. He must choose a bride, must beget an heir. If he was fortunate enough to love the lady, then all the better.

Best get on with it.

“Do excuse me, madam. I should see to my guests.” He bowed to Mother.

“Just so.” She waved him toward the wall of young ladies without partners.

Instead Greystone strode toward the door, determined to play a few hands of whist with his brother Edmond. Greystone would seek the newlywed’s advice about choosing a bride.

When had Edmond realized no lady would do for him but Anna Newfield? How had he been certain of his feelings, despite the vast chasm between their social ranks? How had he developed the courage to defy Mother’s control? Perhaps as an officer over His Majesty’s Dragoons in America.

Neither Edmond nor Richard remembered their father, so Greystone doubted they would ever emulate his wicked ways. On the other hand, Greystone’s memories, forged from infancy, often found their way to the forefront of his mind, especially when his own temper threatened to explode like cannon fire. Then he prayed desperately that he might maintain control, unlike those few times in his youth when he had wreaked havoc on innocents. That must never happen again. He must never be like Father.

Pausing in the doorway, he surveyed the card room for the familiar head of dark brown hair. But his eyes stopped instead at the sight of golden curls framing the most exquisite female countenance he had ever gazed upon. Oddly his heart seemed to hiccup in his chest, and he had to remind himself to breathe. Even from a distance of some five and twenty feet, even in the flickering candlelight, he could see the sparkle of her blue eyes and her flawless ivory complexion. A pert little nose sat over full pink lips that were quirked to the side, as though she was concentrating on which card to play. From her sudden smile and decisive play he surmised the young lady could be counted on to betray her hand, a charming trait that revealed a lack of cunning.

But who was she? As host he should have met every guest at the ballroom door. Perhaps she was a latecomer. He did not have to search far to find someone to present him to her. Mother’s good friend Mrs. Parton sat across from the golden lady, and from their traded smiles, he assumed they were acquainted. If Mrs. Parton approved of the young lady, that was good enough for him. He made his way through the maze of populated tables toward his goal. With each step closer to her his pulse quickened.

Four sets of feminine eyes turned in his direction, but Mrs. Parton spoke first.

“Go away, Greystone. My partner and I are about to win this hand, and I forbid you to interrupt, even if it is your birthday.”

Greystone laughed. “And a good evening to you, too, dear lady.” He stopped by her chair and placed a kiss upon her plump cheek. Then he turned his attention to the other ladies. “I do hope you are having a pleasant time, Lady Blakemore, Miss Hart, and...?” He feigned innocent surprise, even as his pulse hammered wildly. “Forgive me, miss. Mrs. Parton, will you present me to this lovely young lady?”

“I will not.” She waved him away. He gave her a charming grin as he had since boyhood, and she harrumphed. “You never did mind well, Greystone.” Exhaling dramatically, she folded her hand of cards and placed them facedown. “Miss Gregory, may I present our host, Lord Greystone. Greystone, this is my new companion, Miss Gregory. She arrived in London just this afternoon.”

“Charmed, Miss Gregory.” To be sure, he was more than charmed. He was enchanted by those calm sapphire eyes. But while he kissed her hand, his mind scrambled and his pulse slowed. So this was Mrs. Parton’s long-awaited companion, and doubtless a penniless lady, if her unadorned, ill-fitting brown dress was any indication. If he chose a bride who was anything less than a baron’s daughter, Mother would be devastated.

“Lord Greystone.” The lady’s bright pink blush charmed him all the more. Every unmarried young lady blushed, but somehow Miss Gregory’s deportment bespoke something deeper than girlish nerves. Curiosity and interest quickly overrode his reservations regarding her status.

“Well, Greystone.” Lady Blakemore stood, as did her companion. “Since you have interrupted our game, Miss Hart and I will take our leave and find the refreshments.” Amid protests to the contrary, the two ladies disappeared from the room.

“Do forgive me. I have spoiled your game.” Greystone did not regret it for a moment. “Did you lose much?” He glanced around for a pile of coins or tokens but found none. Miss Gregory stared at him as if he had three heads.

“Gracious, no.” Mrs. Parton waved a silk fan before her ruddy cheeks. “You know I never gamble. Not even a button. Dreadful habit. Leads to ruin.”

Miss Gregory’s cheeks flamed even brighter, causing Greystone no little concern.

“Again, forgive me. I do not mean to be boorish.” He sat in one of the empty chairs, knowing full well he was neglecting his other guests. But surely after spoiling their game, he could be excused while he set things to right with these two ladies. Or so he convinced himself. “Tell me, Miss Gregory, where do you reside when not in London? Mrs. Parton has been foretelling your arrival for weeks, but she told us nothing about you.”

“My origins are of no consequence, I assure you, sir.” The young lady lifted her chin. Her eyes glinted, and her lips thinned into a line. So she had a bit of spunk. He liked that. Few young ladies of the gentry spoke so boldly to a peer of his standing.

“Now, my dear.” Mrs. Parton reached across the table and patted her hand. “Greystone is a treasured friend. He can be trusted with your secret.”

The young lady shifted her eyes this way and that, as if she would escape this interview. Greystone began to regret quizzing her, even as his interest in her increased, along with his curiosity and an odd pinch of protectiveness. “If you are in some sort of difficulty, Miss...” He could not imagine a problem Mrs. Parton’s vast wealth could not solve.

Again Miss Gregory lifted her chin, and wounded pride beamed from her elegant countenance. “I am not a mere miss. I am Lady Beatrice Gregory. My brother is Lord Melton. Perhaps you know him?” One perfect blond eyebrow quirked upward to accompany the question, as if she already knew the answer.

Greystone tried to inhale, but like last winter’s nearly fatal illness, this revelation stole his breath.

“Ah. Yes. Of course. I know Melton. He was absent from the House of Lords today. I do hope he is not ill.” He must get away. Must not let her charm him further.

Disappointment clouded Mrs. Parton’s eyes. How well she knew him. How well she was reading him even now. But she of all people understood why he could not associate himself with the sister of a drunken, degenerate gambler.

“If you ladies will excuse me. My other guests—” He rose and offered a weak smile before turning to make his escape.

* * *

“Do forgive Lord Greystone.” Mrs. Parton’s round face creased with disappointment. “He truly must attend to his other guests. It is his birthday, you know.”

“Yes, of course.” Beatrice offered her employer a conciliatory smile, for her late mother had taught her well. No matter what happens, no matter what feelings rage within her, a lady always maintains her dignity. Mama had always exhibited graciousness despite Papa’s neglect, and never had Beatrice felt the need to emulate her more than now. The instant she saw the horror on Lord Greystone’s face—a rapid withdrawal of interest at the mention of her brother’s name—her breeding held strong. With a practiced vise grip on her emotions, she maintained her posture and poise, even offering a smile to the gentleman’s retreating back. But her disappointment was keen, her heart deeply cut. Would all of Society treat her this way?

Yet what could she expect from any gentleman, especially an eligible peer? Did not all noblemen spend their lives and fortunes as it suited them? Did they not all sit in church every Sunday, as duty demanded, and yet utterly neglect their duty to their families?

But daughters also had a duty—to marry well so that the family might benefit. Beatrice had always assumed her parents would find a husband for her, preferably someone wealthy and titled who could give Papa some sort of political advantage. Mama had promised Beatrice a grand London Season during which they would arrange the marriage. But Mama had died long before she could keep her promise, Papa had died before finding her a husband, and her brother had spent the past three years gambling away the fortune that came with his title. Beatrice loved her charming brother, but the new Lord Melton’s wastrel ways had utterly destroyed her chance for marriage or even a Season when he squandered her dowry in hopes of recouping his losses. No gentleman wanted a penniless lady, no matter how old or formerly prestigious her family name. Still, her sense of injustice cried out that any man who did not see how different she was from Melton did not deserve her notice or her heart.

Still again, from the moment she had observed Lord Greystone’s tall form and handsome face as he had threaded his way across the room toward her table, she had experienced a growing sense of admiration, at least for his outward appearance. Broad shoulders, thick, nearly black hair curled in the latest Caesar style, a lightly tanned complexion, high cheekbones and a slight cleft in his strong chin—features woven together to create an appealing presence. No doubt the gentleman knew his blue satin jacket reflected in those icy blue eyes, making him all the more attractive.

But no one could feign the kindness that shone from his countenance as he had spoken with Beatrice’s employer. This was the gentleman of whom Mrs. Parton had spoken so highly in regard to his defense of the poor. This was a gentleman of godly faith, a worthy soul who shared Beatrice’s concern for the downtrodden. But somehow his generous feelings did not extend to the sister of a wastrel.

“Shall we go to the ballroom?” Mrs. Parton stood and fussed with her gown, a deep purple silk creation with an orange print sash draped across one shoulder and fastened at the high waist with a golden broach. Her purple turban, which kept falling over her ruddy forehead, sported a blue-green peacock feather that bobbed when she moved. “I shall find you a partner for the quadrille, which should be the next dance, unless Lady Greystone has changed her usual order.” When Beatrice remained seated, the lady tilted her head in question. “Well, come along, my dear. We’ll not have any fun hiding here among the dowdy dowagers.” She waved a chubby arm to take in the rest of the room and received a few cross looks for it.

As Beatrice rose, the bodice of her borrowed and overlarge gown twisted to the side. She hurried to straighten it, but nothing could be done about the excess fabric. “I should not dance in this—” She wanted to say “rag,” but that would be an insult to Mrs. Parton’s daughter, for whom it had been made last year. But while the dark bronze gown might have complemented the young matron’s auburn hair, Beatrice knew it washed out her own lighter features. “I fear I will trip.”

“I’m sure you can manage, Miss Gregory.” Although a twinkle lit Mrs. Parton’s eyes, her tone and choice of address reminded Beatrice of her place.

Mortification brought a warm flush to her face. She was the daughter of an earl, the sister of his heir. She held precedence over Mrs. Parton, who was the daughter of a mere baron, the widow of a middle-class, albeit wealthy gentleman. But gratitude overcame shame, and Beatrice smiled at her benefactress. At one and twenty she was at last enjoying her first—and no doubt only—London Season. She must not expect to find a husband, even if Mrs. Parton should become agreeable to such a search. No, she was here to be the lady’s companion and nothing more.

On the other hand this nonsense of calling her Miss Gregory instead of Lady Beatrice would be revealed for what it was: a fraud. Then no reputable person would have anything to do with her. But if only for one evening she could escape the pain caused by Melton’s irresponsible behavior, she planned to make the most of it. A spirited quadrille might be just the cure she needed to heal her wounded pride.

The bright third-floor ballroom, though not terribly large, was exquisite, not unlike the ballroom at Melton Gardens in County Durham. Tall windows on the south side revealed the last dim glow of daylight over the rooftops on the opposite side of Hanover Square. But one would hardly know evening had arrived. The brilliant candlelight from numerous girandoles was magnified by their mirrors, while sparkling crystal chandeliers hung from a ceiling carved with a swirling leafy pattern. Beneath their feet, the polished oak floor had been dusted with chalk to keep dancers from slipping, and a sizeable orchestra sat on a dais at the east end. The scents of countless perfumes and pomades hung heavy in the air, making it difficult to breathe one moment and delightfully pleasant the next.

Beatrice stood next to her employer with growing hopes she would soon put to use the skills her dance master had praised in her youth. Several men were seeking partners, and one or two looked her way, then at Mrs. Parton, as if considering a request for an introduction. But against her will and all good reason, her eyes sought a certain tall viscount and soon found him.

Halfway across the room Lord Greystone stood beside a gray-haired matron of medium height wearing a scarlet gown and a glittering ruby necklace. From his close attention Beatrice guessed the lady was his mother, even though the severe expression on her thin face did not in the least resemble Lord Greystone’s warmer countenance. Beatrice admired the solicitous way he leaned toward the lady, wishing she could be the recipient of such kind gazes. She released a quiet sigh and forced her attention back to the dancers forming groups for the quadrille.

Beside her Mrs. Parton suddenly gasped. “We must go.” She gripped Beatrice’s forearm and tugged her toward the door.

“But—”

“Tst. Come with me.” Mrs. Parton jerked her head toward two gentlemen who were making their way through the crowd toward her.

Melton! Her prodigal brother. And he had the nerve to give her their secret wave, running a hand over one ear, then touching his chest over his heart. As they were growing up, they often played with the village children and had devised several signals to win games. This one was a promise always to listen to each other, always to care for one another. But after he destroyed his own reputation and her possibilities for marriage, she had long ago decided he had forever shattered that promise. Now only horror filled her, and she willingly permitted herself to be led away.

Count on Melton to destroy her chances for even one night of happiness. Well, now he could count on her to refuse to acknowledge him in public.

* * *

Coward. Greystone had berated himself from the moment he had so boorishly left the two ladies at their table. Lady Beatrice had quickly hidden her mortification, but not before he had seen the hurt in her eyes. Lovely eyes, blue as sapphires. Golden hair, ivory complexion—but he must stop thinking about her. Brooding over an unacceptable lady would do no good at all. Instead he would ask Mother’s opinion on whom he should approach for this next dance.

“Have you met Mrs. Parton’s companion?” Not the question he had intended to ask.

“No. Is she here?” Mother glanced beyond him. “Humph. Pretty enough, if one cares for the pallid sort.” She stared up at him, her eyes widening in alarm. “Now, Greystone, you must not give consequence to this gel. ’Twas bad enough for your brother to steal my companion. You must not steal Julia’s. In any event, you are Lord Greystone, and none will suit for your bride but the daughter of a duke—or at least an earl.”

“Ah, we’ve moved up the ladder with our expectations, have we?” Greystone stifled a laugh. Mother’s ambitions were not unlike every Society parent’s, each and all seeking some sort of advancement. He would tell her the truth about Miss Gregory, except that he was still trying very hard not to notice the young lady, much less give her any attention. Once again his eyes betrayed him just as his words had. But when he looked in her direction, he saw to his vexation that Mrs. Parton was dragging her from the room. Just as well. He could have no future with the young lady, but not for the reasons Mother stated.

In the corner of his eye he noticed two gentlemen following the ladies. What was Melton doing here? And that scoundrel Rumbold? Neither had been invited to this fete. Furthermore, Mrs. Parton seemed in a rush to elude them. Offering a quick apology to Mother, Greystone strode across the room to intercept the interlopers so the ladies might make their escape.

* * *

Lord Melton could hardly believe his eyes. Beatrice had looked directly at him, had seen him give her their secret wave and was actually giving him the cut. His own sister, the one whose presence had gained him access to this ball. He could only stand in shock.

“Come along, Melton.” Frank Rumbold gripped Melton’s arm in the same manner that Mrs. Parton had taken charge of Beatrice. “This will turn out even better if we catch them on the ground floor. Then we can walk them home.”

“If you think that is best.” Melton had permitted his older friend to guide him for three years, but they’d had a few setbacks socially. Actually more than a few. As if by some tacit agreement, members of the ton now refused to admit Rumbold into their drawing rooms. After Beatrice’s debut in Society, he and Rumbold hoped to amend the situation. With wealthy Mrs. Parton as her sponsor, his sister would meet only the best of Society and could draw them into her growing circles. He often felt stabs of conscience that he lacked the funds to sponsor her debut, much less a dowry to bestow upon any gentleman fortunate enough to win her hand. But Rumbold had expressed interest in her. Now that he had seen her, it should take very little to complete the marriage agreement. That is, if he could manage to arrange the introduction.

“Good evening, Melton.” Lord Greystone approached them, a tight smile on his arrogant face. “I fear there has been some mistake. This ball is only for invited guests.” He waved a hand toward the door. “Perhaps you will permit me to escort you out.” He nodded toward two footmen, one of them the fellow Rumbold had paid to let them into the affair, claiming Beatrice had their invitation. Now the man acted as if he had never seen them.

“We were just leaving.” A sudden thirst struck Melton. He needed some brandy from that drink table in the corner. “But first may I introduce—”

“No.” Not even looking at Rumbold, Greystone spoke politely, but there was a hint of anger in his tone. The two oversize servants who flanked him made his intentions clear as he again gestured toward the door. “If you please.”

“Come along, Melton.” Rumbold chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder as if it were all a fine joke. “We have four more invitations for the evening. Let’s not waste time here.”

They soon found themselves on the street amidst the carriages belonging to those attending the ball. To make matters worse, one or two of the awaiting drivers were imbibing freely, yet Melton had to endure his thirst.

“I am Lord Melton,” he muttered to his companion. “An earl of the realm. How dare a mere viscount cast me out of his house?” He glanced down the street toward the town house next door, Mrs. Parton’s abode. Somehow the old bat and his sister had already managed to disappear behind the massive front door.

Rumbold followed the direction of Melton’s gaze. “That will change once Lady Beatrice and I—” The idea seemed to encourage him, for he once again clapped Melton on the shoulder. “But really, my boy, you will have to bring her under control. What kind of sister gives her titled brother the cut?”

Melton snorted out his agreement. “Indeed. What kind of sister?” But that nagging conscience once again jabbed at his mind. She had always been the best and sweetest of sisters. Somehow that Parton woman, with no title at all, had turned Beatrice against him. To forget their secret signal was not unlike forgetting the whole of their childhood friendship. It was all entirely too much. He would need more than one drink to get over the pain her cut had caused.