Читать книгу The Incomparable Countess - Mary Nichols, Mary Nichols - Страница 7

Frances smiled as she left the door of the rundown tenement in Monmouth Street which was home to some twenty orphans. If her Society friends could see her now, they would have apoplexy, she decided—that is, if they recognised her at all. Hatless and dressed in a grey wool dress and a short pelisse, she looked the image of a very ordinary woman, the wife or widow of a clerk or some such, respectable but nondescript.

Although, as Countess of Corringham, she was in the forefront of the charity which raised money for the orphans, it was as plain Mrs Fanny Randall that she worked at the orphanage, rolling up her sleeves to help bathe the children, or serve them the plain food which her money helped to provide. She loved the work and the children.

‘A real pied piper, you are,’ Mrs Thomas, the plump matron of the home, had said, adding that she must be sorry she had had no children of her own. Frances had passed it off with a smile, but her childlessness was the biggest regret of her life and something she found difficult to talk about.

She climbed up beside John Harker, who had been instructed to come and fetch her at noon in her tilbury. He was used to her ways and made no attempt to stop her when she picked up the ribbons and drove them towards Oxford Street, which was lined with shops and businesses, its pavements full of pedestrians and street hawkers. She tooled the horses with consummate ease, weaving the light carriage neatly in and out of the medley of riding horses, carts and carriages of every description which filled the road. No one paid any attention to an unmarked vehicle being driven by a nobody, but the slight chance she might be seen and recognised led an added piquancy to the adventure.

Less than twenty minutes later she turned into Duke Street and drew up with a flourish at the door of Corringham House, only to discover the Duke of Loscoe, dressed for riding, standing on the top step, apparently having found she was not at home and about to leave. She would have driven on in the hope he would not recognise her, but it was too late; he was standing quite still, staring at her. Was it in distaste? She could not be sure.

There was nothing for it but to carry off the situation as if it were nothing out of the ordinary for ladies of the aristocracy to drive themselves about town in what was considered to be a single man’s carriage. Throwing the reins to Harker and instructing him to see to the horses, she jumped down with an agility which the ladies of the ton would have described as hoydenish if they could have seen her, and advanced towards him, smiling.

‘Your Grace, I did not expect you, or I would have been at home to greet you.’

‘Good day, Countess,’ he said, doffing his curlybrimmed hat and bowing, while at the same time his dark eyes appraised the simple clothes she wore and his eyebrows rose just a fraction. ‘If it is inconvenient…’ His voice tailed off.

She smiled inwardly to think that he was more discomfited than she was. She could easily have asked him to come another time when she was prepared to receive him, but she had to admit to being a little curious. Why was he visiting her? Surely they could have nothing to say to each other after all this time? ‘It is not inconvenient, my lord. Please come in.’

The door had been opened by a footman who stood on the threshold, waiting for her to step inside. She led the way. ‘Creeley, show his Grace into the green salon and ask Cook to bring refreshments.’ She turned to the Duke. ‘Please excuse me while I change. I will not keep you long.’

Once in her bedchamber, she stood and looked at herself in the mirror. She was a perfect antidote. The gown, although it had been clean when she left the house three hours earlier, was spotted and rumpled and some of her hair had escaped its pins and was curling about her neck. There was a smudge on her nose and a scratch on the back of one hand where the kitten they had bought to help keep down the mice at the orphanage had scratched her. It had been her own fault for teasing it.

Rose was waiting for her, clucking her disapproval. ‘And the Duke of Loscoe standing on the step,’ she said, pulling the gown over Frances’s head. ‘What must he have thought of you?’ Rose had been with her a very long time and considered that gave her the right to speak her mind.

‘I do not care a fig what he thinks, Rose.’

‘What shall you tell him?’

‘About what?’

‘This,’ she said, throwing the grey dress into a corner in distaste.

‘Nothing. It is none of his business.’

‘It will give him a disgust of you.’

‘Do you think that bothers me, Rose? Do you think I lay sleepless at night, wondering what people think of me?’

‘No, my lady.’

But there had been a time when she had lain sleepless because of the man who waited for her in her drawing room and that thought brought a wry smile to her lips. She had pretended not to care then for her pride’s sake, but she did not need to pretend now, she told herself firmly, she did not care.

But even so, she had a feeling her ordered way of life was about to be eroded by a man she thought she had left far behind in her youth. If she had not known him before, if they were only now making each other’s acquaintance, would she feel any differently? Would she find him elegant and charming? She did not know. It was not possible to rewrite history.

Marcus prowled round the room and wondered what the lovely Countess was up to. The house was furnished in exquisite taste, with carpets and curtains in pale greens and fawns. There were paintings by the masters on the walls and one or two that were unsigned and which he guessed she had executed herself. There was a cabinet containing some beautiful porcelain and vases of fresh flowers on the tables.

In his experience, when aristocratic owners of beautiful houses fell on hard times, it showed in threadbare carpets or peeling paint or walls bare of valuable paintings, but this was a room of quiet opulence, with not a hint that there was anything wrong with its owner. So why was the Countess so shabbily attired? The Earl had left her well provided for, hadn’t he?

But she didn’t own the house, he reminded himself. It belonged to her stepson, the present Earl of Corringham. Did he keep his stepmother on short commons? Was that why she had to paint those sickening portraits and teach young ladies to draw? Oh, poor, poor Fanny. He was glad he had decided to visit her. Teaching Vinny would add to her income and he felt he owed her something for the way he had treated her in the past.

He was standing at the window, looking out on a perfectly maintained garden when he heard her enter. He turned towards her, a smile on his lips which he only just managed to stop becoming a gasp of surprise.

She was dressed in a dark green silk day gown. It had bands of velvet ribbon around the skirt and a low-cut square neck. But what was so startling was that it showed her figure off to perfection: the trim waist, the well-rounded bosom, the long, pale neck and the raven hair, pulled into a topknot and arranged in careful curls at the back of her head. Without the least attempt to appear girlish, she presented herself as still a young woman of astonishing beauty and great poise. She wore no jewellery; her lovely neck was unadorned. He felt a sudden urge to bury his face in the curve of it.

‘Countess.’ He bowed towards her, realising his smile had become a trifle fixed, as if he were afraid he would let it slip and all his thoughts and emotions would be laid bare.

‘I am sorry to have been so long,’ she said, without explaining why. ‘I hope refreshments were sent to you.’

‘Indeed, yes.’ He nodded towards the tray which a maidservant had put on one of the tables and which contained a teapot, cups and saucers and a plate of little cakes. ‘I have been waiting for you to come and share them with me.’

‘Then do sit down.’ She sat on a sofa and indicated the chair opposite. ‘I prefer tea at this time, but if you would rather have Madeira or sherry…’

‘No, tea will suit me very well.’ He lifted the skirt of his coat and sat down, his long legs, clad in buckskin riding breeches, stretched out in front of him. There was no fat on him, she realised; the shape of his calves and thighs was due to well-toned muscle.

She poured two cups of tea and handed one to him, pleased that her hand was as steady as a rock. ‘Please help yourself to a honey cake.’

‘No, thank you, though they do look delicious.’

She sipped her tea with what she hoped was cool detachment, but this mundane conversation was driving her mad. What did he want? Why had he come? He appeared to be sizing her up, as if he was trying to make up his mind whether she had been pining after him all the years they had been apart. Surely he did not hope to take up where they left off? If that were so he was insufferably conceited and she would soon show him how mistaken he was. ‘It is a lovely day,’ she said. ‘I am surprised you are not out riding. I believe Lady Lavinia is very fond of that exercise.’

‘She is indeed. We had a ride this morning, and I took her home half an hour since, but she finds riding in the park somewhat restricting and, as I have not brought her mare to London, she has perforce to use a hired hack.’

‘She will be glad to return to Derbyshire, then.’

‘Oh, I have no plans to return in the immediate future, so if she wants to ride, she must learn to bear it.’ He was waiting for her to ask why he was visiting her, she decided, and she would not satisfy him on that score, even if they sat exchanging small talk all day. He put his cup down and she smiled and asked him if he would like a second cup of tea.

‘No, thank you,’ he said, looking round the room. ‘You have a beautiful home.’

‘Thank you. I have enjoyed refurbishing it over the years. Of course, it now belongs to the present Earl, my stepson, but he has said I may consider it my home for as long as I wish.’

It would be different when he came fully into his inheritance on his twenty-fifth birthday, when the Essex estate and the London house would be handed over to him. Then she would have to find somewhere to live; she did not like the idea of living there under sufferance and certainly not after he married. And before long he would. Her steady, unruffled life was about to change, but she had been putting her head in the sand and doing nothing about it. However, sooner or later, she must.

‘It would be an inconsiderate son who said anything else, Countess.’

‘He is far from inconsiderate, my lord. I cannot have wished for a better son, and, before you ask, I have not been so fortunate as to have children of my own.’

‘I would not dream of asking such a personal question, my lady.’

She was cross with herself for allowing her agitation to show and picked up his cup and saucer and put it on the tray to give herself something to do with her hands. ‘Stanmore House is said to be a very fine example of a London house,’ she said, doing her best to retrieve the situation with an easy smile. ‘I am told the staircase is unique and the decoration of the reception rooms superb.’

‘Yes, but old-fashioned. My late wife did not like London and never came, so it has remained as it was in my mother’s time.’

She longed to ask why the Duchess had not liked London, but that would be as personal a question as asking her about her childlessness and she would not give him the satisfaction of pointing that out to her.

‘My daughter has never been to the capital,’ he said, breaking into her thoughts. ‘And until now I did not feel she needed to, but next year she will be seventeen and must make her mark on Society if she is to take well.’

‘Surely there is plenty of time for that? I think seventeen is far too young for any young lady to make up her mind about marriage. Why, they are still only schoolgirls at that age and given to all manner of fits and fancies.’ That is one for you to think on, she thought, as she watched his face for a sign that he understood what she was saying; that she had been fanciful at that age and had recovered from it. But the years had taught him to mask his feelings and not for a second did his expression reveal that the barb had gone home.

‘I have no wish to saddle her with marriage before she is ready for it,’ he said, evenly. ‘But she must make her bow at court and I would not like it said she lacked polish.’

‘You propose to polish her, my lord?’ She spoke with the hint of a teasing smile which jerked him back seventeen years—the young Fanny Randall had had a finely tuned sense of humour—and made him stand up and go to look out of the window. The view was no different from the one he had been looking at earlier, but it was an excuse to keep his face turned from her until he had brought himself back under control. This was a business meeting and he must not allow emotion to gain the upper hand.

‘No, that would be foolish in me. I shall employ others to do it.’ He turned back suddenly. ‘You, for one, if you agree.’

‘Me?’ She could not hide the surprise and dismay in her voice. ‘I am persuaded you are jesting.’

‘Not at all. I am told one of the accomplishments a young lady needs, besides being able to sew a fine seam, play a musical instrument and dance the latest steps, is the ability to draw and paint and I can think of no one more suited to teach Lavinia that.’

He sat down beside her on the sofa, which did nothing for her hard-won control. He was so close, she could almost feel the warmth emanating from a body which was still lithe and muscular. Her own body seemed to want to lean towards his, to feel again the contact of thigh against thigh, his arms about her, lips on lips. Shocked to the core, she stood up and went to pull the bell for the maid to remove the tray.

Because she was on her feet, etiquette demanded he should rise too. She sat down abruptly and motioned him to the other chair. He sat down again, far enough away to allow her to breathe more easily. ‘It is true I have a certain facility, but…’

‘You are far too modest, Countess. You have an incomparable reputation…’

‘Fustian!’ She smiled, remembering those were the words that Lady Willoughby had used; she had probably repeated them in his hearing. ‘You have seen my work for yourself, at Lady Willoughby’s. And criticised it too.’

‘I would not presume to do so, my lady. I simply made a comment that you had flattered your subject.’ He smiled suddenly and his amber eyes lit up in the way she remembered; it made his somewhat sombre face come alive, the light in his eyes giving depth to his expression. ‘And considering your subject, you should take that as a compliment.’

‘People do not pay to see the truth, your Grace.’

‘And it is important they should pay,’ he murmured softly.

‘Yes, it is,’ she said bluntly.

‘I shall pay. I shall pay handsomely.’

‘I have a set fee for pupils who join my class.’

‘I do not want Vinny to join a class. I expect her to receive your undivided attention.’

‘I am not sure I have the time for that.’

The maid came in answer to the summons and removed the tray. He waited until she had gone and closed the door before speaking again. ‘Two hours twice a week—surely you can manage that, especially for twenty pounds every time she comes.’

‘Now you are being ridiculous,’ she snapped, taken aback by the amount. ‘No one is worth that much.’

‘Oh, do not underrate yourself, Countess, it will be worth every groat of it to have my daughter properly taught.’

‘And what if she shows no aptitude?’ She was feeling very confused. What was he up to? She ought to refuse to do as he asked, ring for a footman to show him out, but in the back of her mind she was doing sums. Twenty pounds twice a week, that would pay for all the food, clothes and hired help at the orphanage. It might even help to furnish the new home, once they had bought it. She would be mad to turn it down.

‘Drawing can be taught, can it not?’ he countered.

‘Up to a certain level, perhaps, but if the talent is not there, then…’ She shrugged her shoulders, lifting her breasts within the bodice of her gown, so that he felt a sharp surge of desire, which he quickly stifled. ‘I do not make a practice of attempting to teach what cannot be taught.’

‘I do not wish to make a genius of her, nor even an artist, dependent on patronage for a living. I wish her to have a modicum of competence, no more.’

‘Mediocrity is not something to aim for, my lord, whatever one’s station in life and whatever one is doing,’ Frances said, with some asperity. ‘You would not subscribe to that for yourself—as I recall, you were always the perfectionist—so why think that a daughter should not excel? It does not preclude her from making a good marriage.’

He laughed suddenly. ‘Blunt as ever, my lady. But you are right, of course. So what do you say? Will you take Lavinia on? She is a delightful child but, without a mother to guide her since my wife died two years ago, she has been let run a little wild and I can think of no one more suited to become her mentor than the incomparable Countess of Corringham.’

She refused to smile, though it was difficult when he was so blatantly trying to gammon her. ‘So, I am to provide the polish, am I?’

‘Why not?’ He grinned at her and the hard lines of his face softened, so that he looked years younger and less overbearing. If she agreed with his outrageous suggestion, did that mean she would be often in his company? Could she bear that if, as now, he was smiling at her, trying to win her over? ‘You have it in abundance. While you are instructing her, she might learn a little polite conversation, a way to conduct herself in company.’

‘Twice a week. How much polish can be applied in so short a time?’

‘Enough, for now. I am expecting my sister from Ireland; she is married to Lord Felmore, you know. I hope to prevail upon her to take Lavinia in hand and bring her up to the mark for her come-out next year.’

‘Then why do you need me?’

‘Oh, I need you,’ he said softly and she wished she had not spoken, but if he thought that his flummery would have her eating out of his hand, he would have to think again. She would not be caught out a second time, but then he showed how wrong she was in that assumption when he added in a far more practical tone, ‘Besides, I have business to deal with and I do not have the time to be continually taking her out and about.’

‘So, I am to keep her out of mischief.’

‘And be paid well for doing so.’

He would not bring his daughter himself, she decided; he would send her in the carriage with her governess and a footman, so she would not have to meet him, except every now and again to report progress and she could keep those meetings strictly businesslike. ‘You think I need the money?’

‘Don’t you?’ he asked mildly.

‘Yes, but not for the reason you suppose, your Grace. And it is only that which inclines me to agree, but I would have to meet and talk to Lady Lavinia before I finally make up my mind. We may not deal well together…’

‘That is understood. Let us arrange a day and time.’

‘Bring her here, tomorrow, at two in the afternoon.’

‘I shall look forward to it.’

She rang the bell for a footman to conduct him to the door, bringing the interview to an end.

He picked up his hat from the floor at his side and got to his feet. ‘My lady, your obedient,’ he said. ‘Until tomorrow.’

As soon as he had gone, she sank back into her seat and shut her eyes. The encounter had exhausted her. She thought she had got over him, had learned not to care, and to remain cool in a crisis, so why was she shaking? Why had she been such a fool as to agree? Did she really want to spend hours in the company of his daughter, who could so easily have been her daughter too, if her early hopes and dreams had been realised? No one expected her to pay the whole cost of that orphanage, nor even the major part of it, she did not need to put herself through torment just for that. She could easily find other commissions which would not be anything like as stressful.

She stood up and poured herself a glass of wine from the decanter on a side table and sat down again to give herself a good scold. She was too old to let a middle-aged roué upset her. It was business, he had said so, and business was all it was, and she really ought to thank Lady Willoughby for recommending her so highly. Incomparable! She laughed suddenly and the wine spilled over her hand. She downed the rest before she could spill any more.

She spent the afternoon teaching a class of half a dozen young ladies about line and perspective and in the evening she went to a soirée given by Lady Holland. Her ladyship was sharp and imperious, and some people made fun of her, but she was still a great Society hostess and Frances knew she would enjoy the conversation of her guests, which was usually well-informed and witty and ranged from the financial troubles that the end of the war had brought with it to poking fun at the Regent. Frances returned home in a happy frame of mind, ready to take on the world.

She was not so sure about that the next afternoon when the Duke of Loscoe was shown into her drawing room, bringing with him a reluctant Lady Lavinia, but she did not let that show as she rose to greet them.

He was dressed in a dark blue superfine coat, white pantaloons tucked into tasselled hessians which would have done duty as mirrors they were so polished. His cravat of white lawn was tied in an intricate knot which undoubtedly had a fancy name but which eluded her.

‘Countess, your obedient.’ He swept her an elegant bow, which she suspected was more for his daughter’s benefit than hers and she answered in like manner by dropping a deep curtsy.

‘Your Grace.’ She did not wait for him to raise her before standing up and turning to the servant who hovered in the doorway and ordering refreshments. If he wanted his daughter to be shown how things were done, then she would do her best, though this stiff formality was not to her taste. She turned to the girl. ‘Lady Lavinia, what a pleasure it is to see you again.’

Her father nudged her and she curtsied and mumbled, ‘My lady.’

Frances indicated the two sofas which faced each other on either side of the screened fireplace. ‘Please be seated.’

Father and daughter sat side by side, so that Frances, sitting opposite, was able to assess how alike they were in looks. Both had amber eyes and thick lashes and though Lavinia’s hair was lighter than the Duke’s and fastened back with two glittering combs, she could detect a streak of chestnut in the gold ringlets. Both had lean faces with strong cheek bones and the finely arched brows of all the Stanmores. Lady Lavinia’s mouth was thinner than her father’s, more sulky, and her chin a little less prominent, though she could undoubtedly be stubborn, Frances decided.

Looking at the silent girl who seemed to be studying the toe of her shoe peeping from the hem of a pale green muslin gown, Frances was not at all sure of being able to succeed in teaching her; there was nothing worse than an unwilling pupil. But she was reminded of herself when young; she had had the same wayward streak and tendency to rebel. In her it had been squashed by a domineering mother and a broken heart and later she had channelled her energies into something more acceptable, bringing up her stepchildren, her good works and her painting.

The maid brought in the refreshments and a few minutes were occupied in pouring tea and offering sweetmeats, during which the conversation, conducted entirely between the Countess and the Duke, revolved around the weather.

‘Now, Lady Lavinia,’ Frances said, at last. ‘I believe you are to come to me for drawing lessons.’

‘So Papa says.’

‘You do not like the idea yourself?’

Lavinia shrugged. ‘I am hopeless at it.’

‘Oh, dear. Who has told you that?’

‘Miss Hastings, my governess. She loses all patience with me—’

‘It is not to be wondered at,’ the Duke put in. ‘You do not even try.’

‘I cannot see the point in trying. What use is being able to draw to me? Or dancing? Or playing the harpsichord? Or mincing about learning to curtsy?’

He sighed. ‘We have been over this all before, Vinny. These are accomplishments all young ladies need in order to enter Society.’

‘Then I shall not enter it. It is all a terrible bore.’

‘Lavinia,’ he said sharply, ‘you will do as you are told. You know what we talked about only yesterday…’

‘That Mama would have wished it. Yes, yes, I know, but Mama is not here, is she?’

Oh, poor child, Frances thought. She misses her mama dreadfully and he cannot see that. ‘Lady Lavinia,’ she said gently. ‘Shall we have a trial, just to see how we deal together? If we cannot do so, there is no point in continuing; I cannot teach you if you do not wish to be taught.’

‘Do not forget, I have also commissioned a portrait,’ Marcus reminded her. ‘I insist she sits for that.’

‘We will deal with that later,’ Frances said, looking from the girl to the man, her brows drawn together in annoyance. How was she to get through to the child if he continually interrupted?

He glared at her, but fell silent under her withering glance.

‘Now, my lady,’ Frances went on. ‘Shall you come again tomorrow and we will talk some more? Perhaps you could come with your governess, so that your father may go about his business.’

‘I will bring her,’ Marcus snapped. ‘My daughter does not go about town without a proper escort. Her governess would be useless in a tight corner.’

‘Very well, your Grace,’ she said, wondering what sort of tight corner he had in mind. ‘I will expect you both at ten o’clock. I am afraid I cannot make it any later. I have a class at noon and an appointment for the afternoon.’

‘That will serve,’ he said, rising. ‘Come Vinny, we have other visits to make.’

All very cold and businesslike, she told herself after they had gone, and cold was the only word to describe him, cold and top-lofty. Was he like that with his daughter all the time? Did he ever show her any affection? Whether she would break through the girl’s petulance, she did not know but, for some reason she could not explain, even to herself, she wanted to try. Perhaps it was simply that she enjoyed a challenge.

She repeated that thought to Sir Percival when they were riding in Hyde Park the following morning. They had enjoyed a good gallop over the turf and had returned to walk their horses along the carriageway before returning home.

‘If you do not mind my saying so, Fanny, you are a ninny,’ he said, while bowing to an acquaintance in a phaeton. ‘You will only invite gossip.’

‘It was you who told me no one would remember the scandal, Percy.’

‘Yes, but you do not have to remind them of it.’

‘I am not, but if I had refused the Duke’s request, he would think I bear him a grudge and that I cannot have. The past is dead and gone and teaching Lady Lavinia will prove it.’

‘How?’

‘Why, because nothing will come of it. It is a business arrangement and when it comes to an end and he takes his daughter back to Derbyshire, everyone will see it is.’ She smiled and inclined her head in greeting towards Lady Jersey, sitting in a carriage with one of her bosom bows.

‘You should be careful you are not hoist on your own petard, my dear.’

‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

‘Oh, I think you are well aware of my meaning.’

‘I have no interest in the Duke of Loscoe, except as a client,’ she said, turning back towards the Stanhope Gate. ‘He is paying me well.’

He laughed. ‘And you so poor you cannot afford to turn him down!’

‘No, I can’t. I put the money I earn to very good use.’

‘Now, I never had you down as a pinchcommons.’ He sighed. ‘It just shows how wrong a fellow can be.’

She laughed. ‘You know me better than anyone, Percy, and you know I am not at all interested in money for its own sake.’

‘Do I?’

‘Naturally, you do.’

‘But you know the latest on dit is that his Grace is looking for a second wife.’

‘So?’

‘Will he go back unmarried, I ask myself?’

‘What has that to do with me?’

‘He is rich as Golden Ball, if it is money you want. Not that you would have much of a bargain. The gabble-grinders have it that his marriage was far from content and the consensus of opinion seems to be that it was his fault. He is too stiff and overweening to make any woman happy and only his enormous wealth will make the ladies overlook his failings.’

‘Percy, I do believe you are a little jealous.’

‘Not at all.’ They passed through the gate into Park Lane. ‘But do not say I did not warn you.’

They rode on in silence while she mused on what he had said and arrived at Corringham House, just as the phaeton containing the Duke and his daughter turned into the road. This was beginning to become a habit, she thought, this meeting on the doorstep. She must remember that the Duke was a stickler for punctuality and not to be late in future. They stopped and Sir Percival sprang down to help her dismount as the carriage containing the Duke and his daughter came to a halt.

She was magnificent, Marcus decided, standing at her door in a green velvet habit that nipped her waist, and the most amazing riding hat, like a man’s top hat, but with a sweeping feather and a wisp of veil to make it more feminine. He jumped down and made his bow. ‘My lady.’

She inclined her head, almost haughty, except that her smile belied it. ‘Your Grace, am I late or are you early?’

‘I am punctual, my lady. It is the politeness of kings, so they say, and who am I to be less polite than a king?’

‘I will remember that, my lord. Will you please come in? Sir Percival, will you join us?’

‘No, don’t think so, m’dear,’ he murmured, taking her hand and kissing the back of it. ‘Things to do, don’t you know?’

‘Of course. Thank you for your escort.’

‘My pleasure, dear lady.’ He turned to the Duke. ‘Good day, Loscoe. Lady Lavinia.’ And with that he remounted and set off at a trot towards Brook Street.

‘I do not intend to stay long,’ Marcus said to the groom who came round from the side of the house to lead the horses away. ‘Just keep a watch on the horses for me.’

Relieved by that, Frances conducted them indoors and, once his Grace had been relieved of his hat and Lady Lavinia had been divested of her pelisse and bonnet, led the way up to her studio, where she left them to go and change out of her habit.

It took her no more than five minutes and she returned to find Lavinia standing at the window with her back to the room and the Duke prowling round looking at the pictures displayed on the wall. He had his hands clasped under the tail of his brown frockcoat.

‘These are good,’ he said. ‘A deal better than that fribble you did of Lady Willoughby.’

‘Thank you. They are the ones I have painted for my own pleasure.’

‘You should share that pleasure, not hide them away.’

‘They are not hidden,’ she said, thinking of those she had painted of him seventeen years before and was glad she had put them on the floor with their faces to the wall. She did not want him to know that she had kept them. ‘Anyone who comes into this room can see them.’

‘But you have not exhibited them?’

‘No, they are not fashionable.’

‘I can readily see that. There is too much stark realism, the brushstrokes are too bold but, in my humble opinion, the execution is top of the trees. I am sure a more discerning public would see their merit at once.’

She laughed. ‘You think someone would like to hang a picture of a dead fox on their drawing-room wall?’

‘No, perhaps not that one. Why did you do it?’

‘The barbarity appalled me.’

Lady Lavinia turned towards her. ‘You think so too, my lady? I hate it. Papa persuaded me to join in the hunt last autumn and, though I enjoyed the ride, it was awful when the dogs caught the fox. They cut off its brush and wiped my face with it. I was dreadfully sick. I’ll never go again.’ It was the longest speech Frances had heard her make.

‘I told you, Vinny,’ the Duke put in with a smile, ‘you only have to be blooded once. It will not happen again.’

‘I am sure that is a great comfort to the fox,’ she retorted. ‘It only has to die once. Well, I tell you this: when I marry, I shall not let my husband hunt.’

He grinned. ‘You think you will have the ordering of your husband, do you? Oh, Vinny, you have a great deal to learn if you believe that.’

‘I shall have it written in the marriage contract or there will be no marriage.’

He laughed aloud, which made the girl colour angrily and Frances decided to intervene. ‘You are evidently very fond of animals, Lady Lavinia.’

‘Yes. I have a menagerie at home at Loscoe Court, but of course I could not bring them with me. Tom, the stable boy, is looking after them for me.’

‘Have you tried to draw them?’

‘No. Why should I? They are there to be seen and touched—why would I want to commit them to paper?’

‘Now, there is an interesting question.’

‘What is?’

‘Why commit anything to paper or canvas? Or plaster and bronze, come to that? Shall we sit down and discuss it? We could do that while I make some preliminary sketches of you.’

‘I would rather be out of doors.’

‘Then let us go into the garden.’ She rose and collected up two sketchbooks and a few pieces of charcoal. Then she turned to Marcus. ‘You may safely leave Lady Lavinia with me, my lord. I am sure you have other calls on your time.’ It was as near a dismissal as she could make without being unpardonably rude. She wanted him to leave; his presence, even when he was not speaking, was unnerving. She needed to be calm and in control, if she were going to teach her pupil anything at all.

He rose and smiled. ‘I will return for her in an hour.’

They went down to the front hall together, where he retrieved his hat, bade Lavinia behave herself, and took his leave.

‘Well, he did not need to say that,’ Lavinia said, peevishly. ‘I am not a child. Anyone would think I was going to demolish the place.’

‘Oh, I do hope not,’ Frances said with a laugh. ‘I have only just got it looking the way I want it.’

Lavinia looked sideways at her and then, realising she was joking, smiled. Her smile, like her father’s, lit her eyes, making Frances wonder why she did not do so more often. There was the promise of great beauty and a telling charm, which should be nurtured. Was that what Marcus had meant about polish? And should she still be thinking of him as Marcus, when that intimacy had long ago vanished and she ought always refer to him, even in her thoughts, as ‘his Grace’ or ‘the Duke’?

‘Come along,’ she said briskly, leading the way through the main hall, past the carved oak staircase and along a corridor to a door which led into a conservatory filled with exotic plants. It was hot and humid and smelled of peat and the heavy perfume of tropical flowers. They passed quickly through it and out into the garden, where the air was dry and balmy. ‘Now, where shall we sit, in the arbour or by the pool?’

Lavinia shrugged. ‘It’s all one to me. I would sooner be sitting a horse.’

Frances laughed. ‘Do you know, so would I.’

‘Then why do this?’ Her arm indicated the drawing equipment.

‘Because we cannot always be doing what we want to do. We all, even you, have obligations, commissions, tasks, whatever you like to call them, which must be seen to before we can think of pleasure. Your papa is paying me to teach you to draw and so I must put my efforts into that. Now, let us make a start.’ She looked about her and pointed to a small wooden structure at the end of the path, which had fretted sides and a steep pitched roof with a cupola on the top. ‘Would you like to draw the pergola?’

‘Oh, very well.’ Lavinia gave a great sigh and took the sketch-book and charcoal Frances held out to her and sat down on a bench beside the pool. She slashed impatiently at the paper, making a line here and another there, a few bold curves and some squiggles and the pergola appeared. Without taking the least trouble over it, she had the line and perspective almost exactly right. ‘There,’ she said handing it back. ‘There is your pergola, my lady.’

Frances bit back the scolding she felt bound to deliver. Lavinia was a spoiled child who thought that being uncooperative might relieve her of doing something she did not want to do. ‘Did you suppose this would persuade me that you are a hopeless case, Lavinia, and that I would tell your father we would not go on with the lessons?’

Lavinia sighed heavily. ‘No, for he is paying you.’

‘That is true, but it is not the only reason we will go on, I assure you,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful and friendly, though she was very tempted to give the child a sharp slap. ‘I am afraid I must disagree with your governess—you are not a hopeless case at all, not when it comes to drawing, at any rate.’

‘How can you tell from that? It is nothing but scribble.’

‘Then pray do something that is not scribble. Add some refinements while I begin my sketch of you.’

Lavinia worked with an ill grace, her face set in a scowl, which Frances transferred to her own sketchbook. Then she turned the page and began on a clean sheet. ‘Lady Lavinia, do you think you could smile, or at least have some pleasant thoughts?’

‘Such as?’

‘Imagine you are out riding, or playing with your pet rabbit.’

‘How do you know I have a rabbit?’

‘Oh, no menagerie would be complete without a rabbit.’

Lavinia laughed and Frances began capturing the image, but she had to work quickly before the girl began to frown again. Both worked in silence for perhaps five minutes before Lavinia flung the pad on the seat beside her and began to roam about the garden. Frances continued to work. ‘I cannot capture your likeness if you do not sit still, Lavinia.’

‘Why not? It seems to me likeness has nothing to do with it. Paint what you think my father would like to see, someone demure and pretty, with hands neatly folded and empty eyes. That is what you do, is it not? Whoever pays the piper calls the tune and so you play it.’

Frances was taken aback, not only by the girl’s outspokenness but by her accuracy, and it made her feel uncomfortable. She was even more discomfited when she realised that Marcus had come into the garden and was leaning against a tree watching them. How long he had been there, she did not know. She shut the sketchbook with a snap and stood up. ‘I think we have had enough for one day, Lavinia,’ she said evenly. ‘Your papa is here to fetch you.’

‘Oh, do not stop on my account,’ he said, coming forward. ‘I can sit and watch you both at work.’

‘We have been getting to know one another,’ Frances said. ‘There has been little work done.’

He picked up Lavinia’s book and flipped it open. ‘I can see that,’ he said. ‘A child of six could have done this in three minutes.’

Frances smiled. ‘A child of sixteen did it in one.’

‘Lavinia…’ he began.

‘Oh, I know what you are going to say,’ the girl said. ‘You are going to tell me that is not what you are paying Lady Corringham for.’

Frances took the book from him. ‘Your Grace, we have both learned a great deal this afternoon, though it might not be obvious. Your daughter has a natural talent, which we must encourage. Scolding her for doing what I asked her to do will not make her any more willing.’

‘You asked her to do this scrawl?’

‘I asked her to draw the pergola. And she did. Her imagination added the rabbit, but as she has pointed out to me, I sometimes use my imagination to enhance an image…’

He gave a wry smile. ‘I heard her. It was insufferably impertinent of her and I apologise on her behalf.’

‘Oh, do not do that, sir. If any apologising needs to be done, Lady Lavinia will acknowledge it and do it herself. And perhaps I should crave her pardon for being too condescending.’

‘Fustian! If you are going to collude with her in her mischief, she will only become worse.’

‘Let me be the judge of that, my lord. Now, if you do not wish me to continue giving lessons to your daughter, then please say so. I shall not be offended.’

‘Of course I wish you to continue.’

‘Then she shall come again next Thursday, if that is convenient to you.’

‘It is perfectly convenient.’

She stood up and collected together the drawing equipment. He reached out to take it from her and between them they dropped the sketchbooks. They both stooped at the same moment to pick them up. Their hands touched and she felt a shaft of something akin to fire flash from his fingertips to hers and course along her arm and through her whole frame. She lifted her head and found herself looking into his eyes. His expression puzzled her. It was as if he were trying to convey something to her. Was it reproof? Sympathy? Desire, even? She held his gaze, unable to look away, almost mesmerised by those deep golden eyes.

It lasted only seconds, which seemed like a lifetime before he stood up and held out a hand to bring her to her feet. ‘My lady.’ His voice was perfectly normal.

She murmured ‘Thank you, your Grace,’ and led the way indoors.

Five minutes later, he and his daughter were gone, leaving her breathless. Never, never could she have foreseen the effect he would have on her. Had he noticed it? Had it given him a feeling of satisfaction, that, after seventeen years, he could still put her in a spin?

How was she going to deal with seeing him every time he brought his daughter to her? And if he really was looking for a second wife, he would undoubtedly be out and about, attending functions which she was also expected to attend. She could not shut herself away, her friends would wonder what was wrong with her. And why should she? It behoved her to bring all her self-control to bear and behave with indifference. She would be indifferent.