Читать книгу Lady Polly - Nicola Cornick, Nicola Cornick - Страница 10

Polly woke up with the conviction that something was terribly wrong. Her head ached with an unaccustomed thick throbbing and her tongue felt furry. She rolled on to her back. The sun was streaming through the curtains and she could hear the sound of wheels in the street outside. It was late.

Through the woolly feeling in her head, Polly remembered the fruit punch, so apparently innocuous and yet so dangerous. Oh, how could she have been such a fool, she who had been out for five years! Drinking spirits, becoming flirtatious, crowning her folly with a drunken encounter on the terrace with Lord Henry Marchnight! No doubt he thought her the most unutterable fool! She squirmed, turning her hot face into the cool linen pillow in an attempt to wipe out the vivid memories which were flooding back.

“I’ve tried to wake her once already, my lady,” a voice was saying, and Polly shot bolt upright, suddenly terrified that her mother was at the door. But it was only Lucille, who came into the room and pulled back the bedcurtains with a resounding rasp that echoed through Polly’s head.

“Oh! Do not!” Polly’s groan was heartfelt. She slumped back on the pillows, feeling dizzy. Her sister-in-law paused in surprise.

“Polly? Are you ill? I thought that you were coming with me to Lady Routledge’s picnic?”

The light was making Polly’s eyes stream. She squinted at Lucille through the brightness. There was a rhythmic pounding in her ears although she had no recollection of any major building works currently taking place on the house. “Oh dear…I think I may be sick…”

“If I did not know better, I should say that you were foxed,” Lucille was saying severely, eyeing her sister-in-law closely. “I had no idea that Lady Phillips’s ridotto had been such a hotbed of iniquity! Or was it the prawn patties you ate, perhaps? Yes, so much better for it to be the prawns, I think…That is what I shall tell your Mama. I will come and see you later…”

Polly was beyond replying. She turned over and was asleep again at once.

It was the afternoon when she awoke again, feeling marginally better.

“Lady Seagrave said that I wasn’t to disturb you on account of you being so sick, ma’am,” Polly’s maid said sympathetically, when summoned at last by the bell. “Can I fetch you anything, ma’am? Some food?”

A spasm of distaste crossed Polly’s face. “I think not, Jessie. Just a very large glass of water, if you please. I have seldom been so thirsty! And I shall get up now, I think.”

Jessie looked dubious. “Well, ma’am, if you’re sure you’re ready! My brother usually takes a day to sleep off his excesses…” She caught Polly’s outraged expression and dropped a submissive curtsy. A country girl from the Seagraves’ Suffolk estate, Jessie had a kind heart but no tact. “As you wish, ma’am!” she finished hastily. “Shall you be going out?”

“Yes!” Polly snapped, suddenly anxious to refute the suggestion that she was a drunkard to rival Jessie’s brother. “We shall go to the circulating library! My lilac walking dress, please!”

Half an hour later, attired in the lilac and lace dress and with a very becoming black straw bonnet on her dark curls, Polly sallied forth into the fresh air with Jessie trotting along behind. Lucille and the Dowager Countess had not returned from the picnic, but Polly thought it unlikely her mother could object to so innocuous a plan as a trip to the library. After all, no possible harm could befall her there.

It was pleasantly cool within and Polly spent an enjoyable time browsing amongst the shelves and choosing her books. There was something very soothing about the shadowy quiet of the library, something tranquil when Polly still felt a little disordered in both body and spirit. An elderly gentleman was dozing in a seat in the corner and two ladies were whispering together over a copy of Louisa Sidney Stanhope’s The Confessional of Valombre. There was nothing to disturb the peace. Polly leant forward to pull a book from the shelf and found herself looking into a pair of sleepy grey eyes as someone selected a book from the other side at precisely the same moment as she.

“Oh!” She dropped all her books and recoiled a step, causing the two ladies to break off their conversation and hush her noisily. The gentleman came around the end of the bookcase, bent down and gravely handed her back the books of her choice.

“Good afternoon, Lady Polly,” Lord Henry Marchnight said.

“What are you doing here?” Polly hissed crossly, forgetful of the fact that only hours earlier she had privately resolved never to speak to him again. He was looking immaculate in a dove-grey jacket which echoed the colour of those disturbing grey eyes and Polly felt both annoyed and ill prepared to meet him. If only she had stayed at home! The scene on Lady Phillips’s terrace flashed before her eyes once more, adding to her confusion. It was the greatest piece of bad luck to be obliged to face him again so soon.

Lord Henry gestured to the two slender volumes under his arm. “Like you, I am selecting some reading matter,” he said calmly. “A gentleman may attend the circulating library if he wishes!”

“Yes, but I would hardly have considered reading to be amongst your favoured occupations—” Polly bit her lip, aware that her confusion had prompted her to sound less than civil. “I beg your pardon, I only meant that I imagined you had other interests—” Again she broke off. That sounded even worse!

Lord Henry smiled, showing her the books. “Allow me to astound you then, ma’am! I have here Coleridge’s Biographica Literaria and some Homer, which I have not read since I was in short coats! I assure you, I am far more erudite than you think me!”

Polly blinked, unable to refute the evidence of her eyes. It seemed singular that a man whose self-proclaimed aim in life was enjoyment to the point of dissipation should sit in alone with only his books for company.

“I am so glad to see you restored to health,” Lord Henry continued smoothly. “I was at Lady Routledge’s picnic earlier and your sister-in-law intimated that you had been taken ill after the ball last night. Something you ate—or drank, perhaps?”

Polly could feel herself blushing with vexation. The last thing that she wanted was to be reminded of the previous evening and Lord Henry’s scandalous behaviour.

“I am quite recovered now, I thank you,” she said stiffly. “Good day, sir. I must be on my way home for we are promised for the theatre this evening.”

“Perhaps I may escort you back to Brook Street?” Lord Henry suggested politely.

He held the door for her as she went out into the sunny street. It was tempting to accept his offer, but since Polly was still smarting with mortification over her behaviour the night before, Lord Henry’s continued presence could only be a dangerous reminder. She gave him a smile behind which her regret was imperfectly hidden.

“Thank you, sir, but I think not. I have my maid with me for company and it is not far to home.”

“I am disappointed, ma’am,” Lord Henry said, falling into step beside her as though she had not spoken. “Are we not pledged to a better understanding? How may that be achieved if you refuse my company?”

“Pledged to a better understanding?” Polly stopped and stared up at him. The summer breeze was ruffling his thick fair hair and she stifled a sudden urge to touch it. She realised that she was still staring. Hastily, she started walking again.

“Why, yes.” Somehow Lord Henry had taken her arm without her noticing. It seemed churlish to draw away from him. “We are to be friends, remember? You suggested it last night!”

“Friends!” Polly almost tripped up with shock and his hand tightened momentarily on her arm, sending all sorts of strange but delicious sensations through her body.

“Yes, of course you must remember! We were on the terrace—”

“Yes!” Polly squeaked, convinced he was about to remind her of every searing detail. She took a deep breath. “Of course I remember our conversation, sir. I had the particular impression, however, that you did not care for my suggestion!”

Lord Henry turned to look at her. It was a distinctly speculative look. “You did not find my response to you…friendly?”

Polly blushed with indignation. “I did not, my lord! Presumptuous, outrageous, but scarcely friendly!”

Lord Henry’s shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter. “Come now, Lady Polly! You are severe! Was my company so repulsive to you?”

Polly was in a dilemma. Modesty required her to lie but she had been brought up to be exceptionally truthful.

“Your behaviour was not that of a gentleman, sir!”

“Ah, true!” Lord Henry smiled whimsically. “But I find myself rather taken by your proposal, Lady Polly. I have an ardent desire to promote our friendship. Our encounter last night whetted my appetite for it!”

They had reached Brook Street, which was fortunate since Polly was utterly unable to think of a suitable response. Lord Henry kissed her hand. “If you wish to be persuaded further of my erudition, perhaps you might wish to join me in St James’s Square? I have an excellent art collection which you might like to view…” His glance was wicked. “Unless you are already convinced of my scholarship and good taste?”

“I will accept your word on it,” Polly said, still trying to be severe though tempted to giggle. “Good day, sir!”

Art collection, indeed! Polly blushed a little as she considered the implications of his teasing invitation. He must consider her a green girl to be caught by that one! Lord Henry grinned and strolled off down the street, with just one provocative look back. Polly was annoyed that he had caught her looking after him.

“There’s a likely gentleman,” Jessie opined, looking over Polly’s shoulder. “Aye, and a dangerous one, too! You be careful, madam!”

Polly, who had been thinking exactly the same thing, turned away with studied indifference. “Oh, nonsense, Jessie! Lord Henry is just a flirt!”

“A flirt!” Jessie was indignant. “A rake, more to the point! Aye, and you like it, madam!”

Polly did not deign to reply.

As she dressed for the theatre that evening, she repressed a little shiver of excitement and apprehension at the possibility of seeing Lord Henry again. It seemed that her behaviour the previous night had, entirely unexpectedly, caught his interest. But his attentions could never be anything other than dishonourable, and as a result of her own actions he was now pursuing her in a wholly improper way.

The play that night was the farce The Devil to Pay, and the company was a merry one. Nicholas and Lucille Seagrave, the Dowager Countess and Polly, made up a party with Sir Godfrey Orbison and his cousins the Dacres. There was a vast number of their acquaintance at Drury Lane that night and the Dowager Countess spent an entertaining time leaning over the side of their box and identifying members of the fashionable crowd. When she saw Lucille’s twin sister Susanna Bolt on the arm of a distinguished-looking gentleman of military bearing, she dug Lady Dacre in the ribs.

“Do look, Marianne! There is the Duke of Garston making a fool of himself over the Cyprian! Only see how she preens and pouts! Lord, what is it about these worthy gentlemen that makes them such easy meat for her?”

Fortunately, Lucille was engrossed in conversation with Nicholas and Lord Dacre and did not hear, but Polly leant forward curiously. Susanna Bolt was looking very striking again, she thought, in her bold and flaunting style. There were jewels glittering in her hair and her mouth was a deep, curving red as she smiled triumphantly over her conquest. The sapphire blue eyes which appraised the crowd were the exact shade of Lucille’s but there the resemblance finished, for the Countess of Seagrave had such a sweetness of character and bearing that it softened every feature that Susanna’s avarice had turned hard.

Polly sighed, just a little envious of Susanna’s bold beauty. She knew that her own looks were pleasant enough, although she had never been considered an Incomparable. The Seagrave colouring of chestnut hair and dark brown eyes flecked with gold seemed to suit her brothers better, although her creamy complexion was much admired. And her figure was trim rather than voluptuous, which the gentlemen seemed to prefer. Polly wondered idly whether Susanna’s appearance on Garston’s arm indicated that her brief interest in Peter was over or whether she was just being naïve to imagine the Cyprian confining herself to one man at a time.

“Polly!” the Dowager Countess said sharply, as a young buck raised his quizzing glass to ogle her daughter. “Kindly sit back! You do not wish to attract the attention of the hoi polloi!”

Polly’s heart skipped a beat and she sat back slowly, for she had just seen Lord Henry Marchnight in a box across from them. He was in a lively group with Simon Verey, his wife Therese and some of their friends, all laughing animatedly at a remark Lady Verey had just made. Polly felt a quiver of envy and repressed it quickly. It was not that she was bored with her own party, for she always enjoyed Lucille’s company and the Misses Dacre were pleasant enough, if henwitted. Just for once, however, it would be fun to be part of a racier crowd. She was forever being chaperoned about by her mother or some other elderly female relative, which was all very well for a new debutante but decidedly slow for a lady of twenty-three. She risked another look across at the box, to find that Lord Henry was studying her with a concentrated regard which made her pulse beat faster.

The play began, but Polly found it incredibly difficult to concentrate. Normally she became engrossed in a performance, for playgoing was one of her favourite entertainments, but tonight all she seemed able to think about was whether Lord Henry was serious in his pursuit and whether she should respond. On the one hand, he could not have any serious intention and since her feelings were already engaged—and had been so for five years—she would be only stirring up all the old emotions that she should be trying to forget. On the other hand, she could not deny that she derived immense enjoyment from his company. If she managed matters well, perhaps…But could she manage Lord Henry? It would be very dangerous…a challenge, then? No, a risk and a hazardous one at that. Foolish even to consider it, knowing his reputation. But…Polly shivered. A risk worth taking? She had found the Season dull, repetitious. She wanted some excitement…The prim side of her character, the orthodox side, was asking her what on earth she was thinking of, to encourage the attentions of so notorious a rake.

There was a burst of applause, and Polly realised to her horror that the entire first act had passed without her even noticing. The audience started to chatter, to mill around and stretch their legs before the second act. Lucille took Polly’s arm as they strolled out with everyone else.

“What do you think of Venn’s performance, Polly? Is he as accomplished as Edmund Keen, do you think?”

Polly floundered. “Well, perhaps so…Or perhaps not…I need more time to consider—” She broke off as Lord Henry and the Vereys approached, and was not sure whether to be glad or nervous at the interruption.

Lord Henry greeted Lucille very warmly, and once again Polly felt a stirring of jealousy when she considered their friendship. She was not unsophisticated enough to think that just because Lord Henry had suddenly paid some attention to her, he might not be pursuing other interests. But surely Lucille could not rank as one of those! There was an innocence about the Countess of Seagrave which made such a thought seem foolish. Besides, Lucille had now turned her attention to the Vereys, leaving Polly and Lord Henry standing together.

“Are you enjoying the play, Lady Polly?” Lord Henry asked conventionally enough as they strolled down the corridor.

“Yes, thank you, my lord.” Polly was desperately hoping that he would not question her too closely about it.

“You always enjoyed the theatre, did you not?” Lord Henry said with a smile. “You are not one of those who come only to see and be seen! I remember when we came to see As You Like It, you were so enraptured that no one could get a word from you for a full half-hour afterwards!”

Polly blushed. She could remember the occasion to which he referred and the memory troubled her. It had been very early on in their acquaintance, when she was first out, and she had sat through the play in a dream. Although utterly engrossed in the story, she had still been fully aware of Lord Henry sitting slightly behind her, his attention as much on her as it was on the play. He had leant forward, smiling at her enthusiasm, and it had seemed to Polly that his enjoyment had derived as much from her pleasure as from the entertainment.

The bell rang for the second act, saving her the necessity of reply.

“A moment, Lady Polly,” Lord Henry said, when she would have excused herself and returned to the box. “Will you drive with me in the park tomorrow?”

Polly stood still, jostled by those returning to their seats.

“Surely not an unusual request?” Lord Henry said gently, with a smile that made her heart race. “You must be inundated by gentlemen asking to escort you!”

“Yes, but not by you—” Polly stopped herself. “I beg your pardon. What I meant was that you never take a lady up in your phaeton!”

“Not often,” Lord Henry amended, with the same disconcerting smile. “I am, however, accomplished enough as a whip to make the offer!”

Polly knew he was being deliberately obtuse. It was not his skill that was in question but the fact that it would cause a storm of comment if he took her up. Lord Henry handed her back into the box as the lights went down.

“I will see you tomorrow at five,” he murmured, taking her acquiescence for granted, and was gone. Polly saw him slide into his seat in the box opposite and incline his head as he saw her watching. She was annoyed that he had caught her looking at him yet again, rather than at the play.