The Passionate Prude

by Elizabeth Thornton

  “That must have been ghastly for you,” said Deirdre in stricken tones, laying a comforting hand on his sleeve.

  “Certainly it was. But for Rathbourne especially. I understand there was a rift with his mother over the tragedy. Damn fool woman! As though Gareth did not blame himself already for what had happened. He was distraught. I think he was always in the habit of looking out for Andrew, and now Caro, of course.”

  Deirdre felt a rush of sympathy, the first time such a gentle emotion had ever touched her with respect to the Earl. It was hard to imagine him as a young and vulnerable youth. He always gave the impression of being so much in command of himself and every situation. Ogilvie’s revelation did not fit in with the impression she had taken of Rathbourne’s character. It puzzled her that he should feel so little empathy for her position with respect to Armand when, if Ogilvie was correct, he had experienced some of her own anxieties for a younger sibling.

  This new softening toward the Earl was not fated to last long. It died a very sudden death when Deirdre next set eyes on him at one of the receptions given by the British Embassy.

  There were many such parties which, for all their frivolity, concealed a more serious purpose—or so Sir Thomas said. Confidence between the Belgians and their allies had never stood very high, and most Bruxellois were known to tolerate the English only marginally better than they tolerated the French. It was hoped that these informal assemblies would ease that very natural and mutual distrust which lay just below the surface.

  The conversation that evening, as ever in diplomatic gatherings, was of Napoleon Bonaparte and his amassing armies, which were reputed to outnumber the British by two to one. It was known that his former generals, to a man, had offered him their allegiance without firing a shot, and that the unpopular Louis had fled Paris only in the nick of time. The latest rumor which circulated was that the workshops of Paris were turning out huge quantities of guns and ammunition night and day. It might be supposed that such an intelligence would have put a blight on the festivities, but the officers, looking very handsome in their dress regimentals, laughed it off with a show of unconcern and merely remarked that it was ever the fate of the British Army to be outnumbered and outgunned. This calm indifference from veterans who had chased Napoleon’s armies out of Spain did much to relieve the tension, and if anything, the gaiety became more extravagant.

  “How typical of the English,” said Armand to Deirdre in slightly contemptuous accents. “Their confidence is insufferable when one considers that some of their best units are across the Atlantic—yes, and have taken an ignominious beating at the hands of the despised colonials. Who do they think they are? They underrated the Americans and paid for that error. Now listen to them laugh off the threat of Napoleon and his ‘froggies.’”

  Deirdre’s eyes nervously swept over the throng of dancers. “Keep your voice down,” she said severely. “And you’re wrong about their confidence. They know perfectly well what they’re up against. I think that they are the bravest, most gallant fellows I’ve ever encountered.”

  The words were scarcely out of her mouth when her eyes were drawn to the powerful figure of a man who had just entered the grand saloon. My Lord Rathbourne, magnificent in full dress regimentals of red tunic with gold epaulettes and lace across the throat, the uniform of a staff officer, stood at his ease, one white-gloved hand negligently resting on his hip. It was the first time Deirdre had ever seen the Earl in regimentals and her heart constricted painfully. Until that moment, the war had seemed remote, a thing apart that could not touch her or hers. In one blinding moment of revelation, that illusion was destroyed forever.

  His eyes searched the room and found her. She stared at him, incapable of speech or movement, her breasts rising and falling slightly with her quickening breath. There was a movement behind him, and the spell was broken. Mrs. Dewinters inclined her head slightly in Deirdre’s direction, and said a few words in Rathbourne’s ear. They shared an intimate smile that pointedly excluded Deirdre.

  She swayed slightly and found Armand’s comforting hand at her back. He turned her toward him.

  “I had hoped to spare you the knowledge of their liaison,” he said softly. “She’s seen everywhere with him, but I never thought he would introduce her into the circles you move in, Dee.”

  The orchestra played the opening strains of a waltz, and Deirdre said miserably, “Dance with me, Armand.”

  They danced well together, Armand taking up the slack in the conversation until Deirdre should come to herself. When she finally made a response to some innocuous comment he had made, he said, “That’s better! Now smile,” and Deirdre obliged.

  “And I thought you didn’t care for him,” Armand quizzed gently.

  “Are you softening toward the Earl?” she asked, a trifle breathless as Armand swung her neatly to the crescendoing rhythm.

  “Oh, I don’t know. He’s a hard man, it’s true, but one picks up things, you know.”

  “Like what?”

  “This and that,” was the maddening reply. “I daresay much of what I heard is exaggerated. He doesn’t care much for me, however, that I do know.”

  The Duke of Wellington put in a brief appearance, and Deirdre could well imagine why he was reputed to inspire such confidence though little affection in the rank and file of his men. Tall, of aristocratic demeanor, contemptuous of praise and censure alike, he moved from group to group exchanging a few pleasantries. In his wake appeared Uxbridge, by far the more approachable of the two men. His graceful manners and easy address made friends for him everywhere. But it was Lord Rathbourne who was easily the most sought after.

  He was the epitome of the young warrior: handsome, erect, and of brooding demeanor until his wandering eye should alight on some breathless female. Then his lazy, persuasive smile would come into play, and every feminine heart in the room would beat a little faster. That he was an accomplished though inconstant flirt was quickly established, but to be taken up by him, notwithstanding the propriety airs of his companion, Mrs. Dewinters, lent a lady a degree of glamour that was the envy of her less fortunate sisters.

  Deirdre was not sorry that she did not lack for partners and her vanity would have been soothed if she had known that her beauty was remarked by many a young officer who waited on the sidelines to capture her hand for the next dance. It was the first time Deirdre had worn the sea-foam creation which Serena had persuaded her to have made up. It drew an inordinate number of compliments from her partners, but she grew rather impatient with their inanity when she heard for the upteenth time that her eyes were like pools of liquid emerald that a man could lose his soul in, or words to that effect.

  It was left to Lady Fenton to deflate any conceit that Deirdre might have entertained as a consequence of her success. “So Serena was ahead of herself, was she, with the fashion for long sleeves?” she asked dryly, nodding in the direction of Mrs. Dewinters, whose gown of gossamer lavender drew the admiring eyes of every lady. The sleeves, Deirdre noted, sheathed her arms to the wrist.

  “Mark my words,” observed Lady Fenton, “in another week or so, long-sleeved gowns will be all the crack.”

  Deirdre was claimed by Lord Uxbridge and her ruffled vanity was somewhat soothed by the stares, some speculative, some spiteful, of many a young woman who aspired to be his flirt for the evening. When he sat out the following dance with Deirdre and impatiently waved away the young bucks who thought to break up their intimate tête-à-tête, the suspicions of the room were roused against them. In fact, Uxbridge and Deirdre were enjoying a discussion on a subject which was close to the heart of each of them—horses. So spirited did the argument become at one point that Lord Rathbourne was upon them before they were aware of it. He spoke briefly to Lord Uxbridge in an undertone which made it impossible for Deirdre to catch what was said.

  “Miss Fenton,” Lord Uxbridge said, taking her gloved hand and placing it in Rathbourne’s extended one, “I beg leave to be excused. A soldier must ever be read
y to make sacrifices in the course of duty. Believe me, nothing less would drag me from your side. Rathbourne will stand in for me. I know you to be old friends and have reason to believe that you will not mind the substitution.”

  Rathbourne held out his arms and Deirdre moved stiffly into them, studiously avoiding looking directly into his eyes. It had seemed to her that in the course of the evening he had danced every dance with only the prettiest girls in the room, but not once had he made the slightest move to engage her interest. It galled her to think that it was only by the direct order of his commanding officer that he was dancing with her at all.

  She placed one hand gingerly on his shoulder and picked up her demi-train. When she felt the pressure of his hand, splayed out at the small of her back, bringing her closer, unexpected and unwanted recollections brought her senses alive, and her eyes swept up to meet his searching gaze.

  “That’s better,” he said, and immediately spun her round with such violence that she momentarily lost her balance and clung to him to save herself falling. He laughed and spun her around again. Two spots of color showed on Deirdre’s cheeks.

  “You are making a spectacle of yourself,” she said caustically.

  “Am I? I rather thought you were the one who held that distinction this evening. You have attracted quite a bit of notice. And flirting with Uxbridge, too, of all people. Pray, tell me, when am I to wish you and Captain Ogilvie happy? Oh very good! That look of pained surprise is most convincing. I assure you that in the officer’s mess the announcement of your engagement is no longer a matter of conjecture.”

  Deirdre spluttered, but before she could get a word in edgewise, he whirled her into a series of fast turns that made her head spin. “Gareth,” she said weakly. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what? Don’t congratulate you on your performance as a lightskirt? Or was it a performance? Now that I have introduced you to passion, do you think to repeat the experience? I’d be happy to accommodate you, if it’s only a man you want.”

  Deirdre could not believe that this conversation was taking place. “You cad…you blighter…you seducer,” she began, her voice rising as she warmed to her subject.

  “Hush!” He gave her a slight shake. “People are staring.”

  Deirdre, recalled to a sense of decorum, showed the world a mouthful of perfectly even white teeth as she bared them at her unsmiling partner. “Hypocrite!” she said in a pleasantly modulated voice. “Your mistress is becoming suspicious.”

  Rathbourne followed the direction of Deirdre’s glance. Maria Dewinters, in the arms of Captain Ogilvie, bowed slightly in their direction.

  “You are jealous,” he said to Deirdre, not without some degree of satisfaction. “You don’t like to think of me making love to another woman, do you? You’re such an innocent, Deirdre. But I’ve told you that before, haven’t I?”

  “I am not jealous,” she protested hotly. “I happen to like Mrs. Dewinters.”

  He was silent for a long moment, then spoke in more moderate accents. “Deirdre, you are mistaken. Maria is not my mistress. She just happens to be desperately in need of friends at the moment. You are in a position to do her a good turn, if what you say is true.”

  “What good turn?” she asked, her suspicions roused.

  “No doubt you have noticed that Maria is on the fringes of society. If you were to take her up, befriend her, others would soon follow your example.”

  Deirdre digested his words slowly. “That is not the advice you gave to me in London. As I recall, you warned me off forming a friendship with the lady.”

  “Circumstances have changed,” he asserted without hesitation. “Maria is aiming at respectability. And I should like to do everything in my power to assist her to achieve her object.”

  She absorbed the shock of his words without a flicker of emotion, but inwardly, she felt herself reel as if the ground had been cut from under her feet. She recalled the occasion in the hotel gardens when he had intimated that, should she make no claims upon him, he might soon marry. In the light of these observations, his sudden desire to lend Mrs. Dewinters an air of respectability was easily understood. It was a long moment before the lump in her throat dissolved and she was able to speak with some composure.

  “My aunt may object.”

  “Leave her to me.” He was watching her closely, trying to read her expression. “Are you jealous, Deirdre?” he asked softly.

  She shot him a withering look. “Bring Mrs. Dewinters to see me tomorrow. If it is possible for a wanton such as I to lend countenance to another of the same ilk, then by all means, it shall be as you wish.”

  “Thank you,” he said with a chuckle, and smiled in that lazy, gloating way which she detested. “I am sure Maria and you will deal famously together.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rathbourne’s earnest suggestion that Deirdre ease Mrs. Dewinters’s way in polite society seemed, on more sober reflection, as impracticable as it was unpalatable. The more she debated the propriety of such an action, the more ineligible Deirdre deemed the enterprise. Setting aside a personal distaste, which appeared irrational in light of her avowed cordiality toward the actress, she did not see how her aunt could be persuaded to such a course, quite the reverse, as she soon discovered.

  In the carriage on the way home from the reception, there could be little doubt that Rathbourne had lost his credit with Lady Fenton. Deirdre, still reeling from the shock of Mrs. Dewinters’s presence in Brussels and all that it might signify, sat mute and miserable as her aunt voiced her outrage at Rathbourne’s want of delicacy in consorting openly with such a woman. Lady Fenton’s parting shot at the door of her bedchamber as Deirdre made to move off down the length of the corridor, “You’re well out of it, my dear, well out of it,” expressed the very thought that had taken hold of Deirdre’s mind. Had she been persuaded to marry Rathbourne, she would be stuck at his estate in Warwickshire while he would be cavorting in Brussels doing whatever it was he was doing with Mrs. Dewinters. The thought was the perfect antidote to the morass of self-pity that heaved with distressing effect in the pit of her stomach. A surge of pride, hot and angry, brought a quickness to her step and a determined jut to her chin. If she was discomposed by Rathbourne’s misconduct, and she was not prepared to admit that it was more than that, he at least would never know it. She would kill Rathbourne and his lightskirt with kindness before she let him think that he could evoke in her breast anything stronger than an imperturbable tolerance.

  For the next day or two, Deirdre pushed Rathbourne from her mind. She had an unwitting ally in Lord Uxbridge, for on the morning following the reception. Sir Thomas arrived at the hotel with a note from the commander. Uxbridge requested in the politest terms possible that Deirdre allow him the honor of providing a mount for her for as long as she intended to stay in Brussels. He had done as much for his sister, Lady Capet, who had arrived with her family, as arranged, in the previous week. Furthermore, he taunted brazenly, he was sure that once Deirdre had put her spurs to Lustre, she would be forced to concede what she had disclaimed in their tête-à-tête at the Embassy, namely that, in spite of her preference for Barbaries and Turks, there could be no finer horseflesh than the English thoroughbred, especially when such a specimen could claim Eclipse for her grandsire.

  Deirdre was thunderstruck. She looked at her uncle for confirmation.

  “I gave my permission,” he said with a twinkle. “Uxbridge’s groom awaits your pleasure.”

  Deirdre picked up her skirts and dashed down the stairs with little ceremony and halted abruptly when she was blinded by the bright light of day. She shaded her eyes with one hand then let out her breath on a rush. A mounted groom held the reins of a glossy, blood chestnut. She stood about sixteen hands high, long and clean limbed with powerful quarters and an eye that sparkled with intelligence.

  “Give me five minutes,” breathed Deirdre to the groom, and spun on her heel to go racing back the way she had come. She met her aunt and uncle in th
e hall.

  “Will someone tell me what all the fuss is about?” asked Lady Fenton plaintively. “It’s only a horse after all.”

  Deirdre pushed impatiently toward her chamber. “You tell her, Uncle Thomas. I must change into my riding habit.”

  Sir Thomas obliged. “That little filly has a pedigree, my dear, that even Prinny cannot match.” He saw that his words had made little impression on her ladyship. “Her grandsire was Eclipse.” Not a flicker of intelligence registered in Lady Fenton’s eyes. “She is related to Wellington’s Copenhagen and Napoleon’s Marengo. They share the same grandsire,” he concluded patiently.

  “Oh, is that all? Well, I’m sure that’s very agreeable for Deirdre and most civil in Uxbridge. Now what was it you particularly wished to say to me, dear?”

  Sir Thomas’s pained grunt of resignation was lost on Lady Fenton. He held the door open for her, and at the thought of the coming interview, he purposefully squared his shoulders.

  Deirdre returned to the hotel in high alt. Uxbridge had provided the sweetest little goer that she had ever been privileged to mount. Bred for stamina and speed, and with a mouth that was sensitive to the slightest pressure of the bit, Lustre had proved herself an incomparable. Not for this filly a sedate jog in the park to take the fidgets out of her long, clean limbs, but a hard gallop in the open terrain around Bois de la Cambre, where any equestrian worth his salt was to be found exercising his bloods.

  As she walked back from the mews to the hotel, Deirdre pondered on the one blight in an otherwise perfect morning. She had chanced to meet Rathbourne’s groom, O’Toole, when she had checked Lustre on the rise of hill. He was directly below her, mounted on the Earl’s magnificent gray. Her cry of recognition had gone unheeded, although she was certain that he had seen her. He had, she mused, given her the cut direct. She would not have believed him to be so petty, but she concluded that the groom bore a grudge for the way she had duped him in London. It seemed absurd for a lady to be put out by the crotchets of a servant, but Deirdre freely admitted to herself that such was the case. She had lost O’Toole’s good opinion and it troubled her.