O’Toole and his petulance were forgotten as soon as she entered her aunt’s chamber. So charmed was Deirdre with Lord Uxbridge’s gift that she could not help exclaiming at length on his generosity no less than his unerring eye for horseflesh. It did not take her long, however, to become conscious of the strained atmosphere that prevailed between Sir Thomas and Lady Fenton, and she faltered to a halt, looking expectantly from one to the other.
“Prepare yourself for a shock, Deirdre,” said Lady Fenton, her mouth thinning ominously.
“Rosemary!” snapped Sir Thomas, his voice and expression flashing a warning. He addressed his niece directly, and his tone softened. “Deirdre, my dear, Lord Rathbourne has applied to me in person, as head of this family”—here he looked toward his wife with a riveting eye—“as I say, as head of this family, to grant a favor which, much as I wish to, is only partially in my power to confer. Do you know what this favor is, Deirdre?”
She glanced at her aunt’s glowering expression. “Yes,” she said without prevarication. “He wishes me to cultivate Mrs. Dewinters and promote her entry into society.”
“And you agreed to this preposterous proposal?” demanded her aunt, her voice querulous and rising.
“Certainly I did,” returned Deirdre steadily, “as long as I have your permission, of course. Why should I not? Mrs. Dewinters’s manners are unexceptionable.” After an infinitesimal pause she concluded with less confidence. “And I happen to like her.”
“He means to marry her then?” questioned Lady Fenton of Sir Thomas.
“Possibly.”
“Well he can do it without my patronage! I have no intention of lending my support to the woman with whom he openly consorts, and I forbid Deirdre to be a party to this…this infamous affair.”
Sir Thomas, as a rule not given to outbursts of temper, shouted, “Silence!” with such volume that two pairs of shocked eyes simultaneously came to rest upon him. “I beg your pardon,” he said apologetically. “I did not mean to startle you, but this sort of wrangling is not only senseless but irrelevant. The matter has already been settled. I gave Rathbourne my word on the condition that Deirdre had no objections. Do you object, Deirdre?”
“No, sir.”
“Good girl. One thing more, madam wife, before you start spitting fire at me. Rathbourne is not the only one who is championing the cause of Mrs. Dewinters. The man obviously has friends at Court. Without divulging more than I ought, it only remains to be said that, as long as Deirdre is not averse to the scheme, you will do everything in your power to comply with the Earl’s wishes. Do I make myself clear?” Lady Fenton could not deny that he had.
Deirdre deliberated long and earnestly on her uncle’s disquieting disclosures. It was evident to her that some sort of pressure had been brought to bear on Sir Thomas. That should not have surprised her, she told herself with bitter self-mockery, for she more than anyone had reason to know how desperate and ruthless the Earl could become whenever he set his mind on some purpose. This lack of constancy in his regard was no surprise either. It merely confirmed that rank tendency she had long observed in the male animal. One might admire a man’s strength and fortitude, his intelligence and humor, even his virile beauty though its potency was vaguely menacing, but this sad want of particularity with respect to the darker side of his nature was an offense against every feminine sensibility.
Such were Deirdre’s thoughts when a day or so later she was called by her aunt to the window of her chamber which overlooked the front of the hotel to witness the arrival of Mrs. Dewinters and her extensive entourage. The ladies watched mesmerized as three carriage loads of baggage and scarlet-coated dragoons, with Mrs. Dewinters the center of attention, disgorged on the front steps of the hotel. A laughing Lord Rathbourne dismounted from a massive gray gelding and did the honors of leading the lady, over the protests of his vociferous comrades, into the hotel foyer. To Deirdre’s deep chagrin, Roderick Ogilvie formed one of the actress’s admiring cicisbeos.
“The whole of the bloody light cavalry seems to be in attendance,” observed Lady Fenton with blighting vituperation. “And to think that is the useless article that stands between Napoleon and England. Someone should tell Lord Uxbridge.”
“Mrs. Dewinters looks to be taking up residence at the d’Angleterre,” said Deirdre, her spirits sinking.
“It will be interesting to see where Lord Rathbourne decides to billet.” Lady Fenton’s mouth twisted with cynical disdain.
When, however, an hour or so later, the grande dame received a note requesting the pleasure of her company in the private parlor of Mrs. Dewinters, she assumed a tranquil and faintly smiling demeanor. “Take your cue from me, Deirdre,” she admonished her niece, then as an afterthought, “How the devil does she come to have a private parlor?”
“Influence, I suppose.”
“Sir Thomas shall certainly hear of this.” The smile slipped infinitesimally.
It was Lord Rathbourne who lazily uncoiled himself from the depths of an armchair and came to do the honors as host. “Maria is changing,” he said by way of explanation. “May I get you ladies a glass of something to drink?” He seemed in fine fettle.
“Sherry will be fine,” said Lady Fenton with perfect amity, her supercilious gaze damning the gentlemen for their partiality to strong spirits.
Captain Ogilvie took a step toward Deirdre but halted irresolutely when the lovely turned aside and gave him a perfect view of her back. Lord Rathbourne choked on his brandy. It was then that some of the younger gentlemen, observing that a dampener was about to descend on their jollity, made their excuses and left.
Deirdre and her aunt sat straight and primly on the edge of the white and gilt damask sofa awaiting the pleasure of their hostess. As was to be expected, Mrs. Dewinters made a grand entrance, the gentlemen all rising politely, the ladies’ eyes sweeping assessingly over every inch of her diminutive form.
“Oh no,” said Deirdre enviously to her aunt. “Scarlet satin and long sleeves!”
“All she lacks is a rose between her teeth and castanets in her fingers,” returned her aunt without moving her lips.
Deirdre’s eyes widened and she looked askance at Lady Fenton. Never in all her life had she ever observed such uncharitableness in the lady, and she wondered if it was provoked by the uncharacteristic despotism of a husband who, to her knowledge, was used to doting on his wife.
Mrs. Dewinters, catching sight of the ladies through the crush of red uniforms, approached with outstretched hand. She flashed a singularly triumphant smile in the direction of Lord Rathbourne and curtsied deeply, holding the pose for several moments.
“Come now, ma’am,” said Lady Fenton briskly, “we’re not royalty, nor is this the theater. Come and sit beside me and tell me how you are getting along in Brussels. Deirdre won’t mind taking a turn about the room, will you, dear?”
Mrs. Dewinters trilled a laugh and obeyed the summons gracefully. “I like it well enough,” she intoned in confiding accents, “but my circle of female acquaintances is almost nonexistent.”
Deirdre did not doubt it, and bit down on her tongue to stifle the comment that would have betrayed a childish resentment.
Rathbourne, glass in hand, strolled toward her. He took a long swallow of his drink, his eyes resting on the beauty reclining elegantly on the sofa. “Beautiful woman, isn’t she?” he asked Deirdre casually. “And blessed with all the female virtues to boot.” His eyes were alight with mockery.
“Oh, a paragon, indubitably! She’ll make you a marvelous Countess, Rathbourne.” Her tone was cold and clipped, and Deirdre regretted that she could not inject more warmth into her remarks.
Rathbourne, however, seemed inordinately pleased with her answer. “Do you think so? I’m very glad to hear it.”
Deirdre’s eyes followed the direction of his gaze. Mrs. Dewinters’s dark dramatic beauty could not be eclipsed. It was very evident to Deirdre, however, that the actress, beauty and paragon of every feminine virtue a
s Rathbourne professed, would never be blessed with babies with downy soft hair in the hue which she herself preferred above all others. The thought was oddly comforting, and Deirdre smiled.
“A penny for your thoughts,” said Rathbourne in a soft undertone, and Deirdre colored slightly.
“Oh no, Rathbourne! I’m not going to let you inside my head!”
His injured look was faintly reproving and his voice sank to a whisper. “I’d be satisfied, Miss Fenton, if you’d let me inside your—”
She cut him off in a rush. “Don’t you dare say it!” Shock registered in her eyes.
“—circle of intimates,” he concluded mildly, but he could not control the burst of laughter which was loud enough to drown all conversation in the room.
All heads turned in their direction. “Miss Fenton will explain the joke,” he said with maddening calm, and left her blushing and tongue-tied to face a sea of curious eyes.
“It w—was n—nothing,” Deirdre stammered lamely, and blushed more hotly when the curious eyes turned speculative.
Justly incensed with Lord Rathbourne for making her the center of unwelcome attention, she retired to the isolation of a corner chair where she covered her confusion by drawing a young and homesick ensign into conversation. His family farmed in Yorkshire and Deirdre, far from jogging the lad out of his melancholy as she had intended, found herself more homesick by the minute. She wondered when her aunt would signal that it was time to withdraw. Rathbourne and Ogilvie, she noted dourly, were hovering assiduously over the beautiful actress, giving Deirdre a perfect view of their backs. She munched on a macaroon and ground it into little bits between her teeth.
When her aunt rose to leave, Deirdre started to her feet with alacrity. She took Mrs. Dewinters’s hand and intoned a polite farewell.
Mrs. Dewinters’s sloe eyes, cordial and without affectation, looked directly into Deirdre’s. “Miss Fenton…Deirdre, thank you,” she said simply, and there could be no denying the sincerity of her expression.
Deirdre felt chastened. If only she could bring herself to dislike Mrs. Dewinters, this irrational and uncharitable urge to put a rub in the way of Rathbourne’s ambitions for the woman would seem less spiteful. But it was not in Deirdre to spurn a friendly overture. “Not at all,” she said, and smiled reassuringly, though a trifle wanly.
At the door, Rathbourne commented regretfully, “I hope you did not take it amiss, Miss Fenton, when I did not include you in the invitation to drive with me tomorrow, but Maria does not ride and my curricle accommodates only two comfortably.”
Since Deirdre had not heard the invitation, and she was sure that Rathbourne knew it, she looked at him questioningly for a moment or two trying to divine his purpose.
Lady Fenton, irritated to find her niece cast into the shade by a woman she had no hesitation in disliking, and to whom Deirdre had lost all her beaux besides, took it upon herself to become Deirdre’s champion. She rushed into speech before Deirdre had a chance to frame a suitable reply to Rathbourne’s question.
“Of course Deirdre does not mind, Lord Rathbourne. Why should she when Lord Uxbridge has mounted her? Yes and I’m sure that Deirdre has the handsomest seat of all the ladies in Brussels.”
Deirdre risked a quick glance at Rathbourne, certain that her aunt’s innuendo would cause another outburst of laughter. She was taken aback at the blaze of anger which was directed toward her before his expression became shuttered.
“Indeed?” he queried with glacial politeness. “Miss Fenton is fortunate to have attracted the notice of Lord Uxbridge.”
“Which of his mounts did he give you for your use, Miss Fenton?” asked Ogilvie.
“A handsome filly that goes by the name of Lustre,” answered Deirdre artlessly. “Do you know her?”
Ogilvie looked at Rathbourne. “Lady Capet particularly asked for Lustre but was refused. The filly is something quite out of the ordinary. I believe our commander said that she was to be reserved for Lady Uxbridge’s exclusive use should she make the trip to Brussels.”
“Oh dear,” crowed Lady Fenton, by no means put out by the reflective looks the gentlemen exchanged. “I do hope Lady Uxbridge is not of a jealous disposition. There’s no telling what construction she might put on his lordship’s excessive civility to Deirdre.”
Deirdre did not dare look Rathbourne in the eye. The smile on her face became fixed and she meekly followed her aunt out the door. Only a few steps took them to Deirdre’s chamber, and several more beyond that to Lady Fenton’s door at the top of the stairs, but the Earl insisted on escorting them. Deirdre sensed that he hoped to maneuver her alone to give her the sharp edge of his tongue. She was careful not to give him the opportunity, and sat for the next hour in Lady Fenton’s chamber until she saw him from the window ride off on his gray.
They were destined to meet again the following morning. Rathbourne and Mrs. Dewinters were in the open curricle with O’Toole sitting up behind. Deirdre, in form-fitting green riding habit with matching cap perched jauntily at a slight angle over one eye, was mounted on Lustre. Armand, astride a handsome roan, unwittingly had chosen to don a riding jacket that matched Deirdre’s habit exactly. Brother and sister, one darkly and negligently handsome, the other radiant with a translucent, porcelain beauty, drew many admiring glances. Rathbourne noted it with little pleasure as he checked his team. The two of them looked to have been born and bred to the saddle so easily did they sit their mounts and control their movements. Lady Fenton had not exaggerated. Deirdre had the handsomest seat he had ever seen in a woman.
They drew alongside each other and halted. “Will you ride with us in the park, Miss Fenton?” asked Mrs. Dewinters. “I should be glad of your company.”
“Thank you, no. Some other time, perhaps? Lustre is accustomed to something a little more strenuous in the morning. She knows the way to the Bois de la Cambre, you see, and would show a most unladylike side to her nature if I changed her schedule.”
Rathbourne’s smile was not far removed from a snarl. “Very commendable. But I trust that you will make yourself available this afternoon? I escort Maria to Grand’ Place to help her pick out a new gown or two, and your presence has been promised by Lady Fenton. Shall we say about two o’clock.”
Even Mrs. Dewinters looked to be pained by Rathbourne’s ill-natured display, but before anyone could say a word, the Earl had flicked the ribbons and had given his team the office to start.
Mrs. Dewinters might be only mildly ruffled, but Deirdre, the object of Rathbourne’s spite, was provoked to the limit of her endurance. “Philistine!” she grated through tightly clenched teeth. She looked to Armand for confirmation.
He stood in his stirrups, gazing steadfastly after the curricle as it bowled along the street. After a moment, he flashed a quick smile at his sister. “Amazing!” he exclaimed, his eyes dancing with devilment. “He can’t even hide it!”
“Hide what?” demanded Deirdre.
Armand shook his head, then laughed ruefully. “Why his temper, of course!” he replied evasively. “D’you know, I had the strangest feeling that he wanted to do me an injury?” He laughed again. “Come along, Dee. Let’s get these fidgets out of our horses.”
She held back. “Armand, you’ll come with me this afternoon to Grand’ Place?”
His eyes opened wide. “You must be funning! I have no wish, yet, to meet my Maker. But don’t worry, Dee. You, I am persuaded, are more than a match for the irascible Earl. Now come along!”
Deirdre took particular pains in dressing for her outing with Rathbourne and Mrs. Dewinters. She eschewed the pristine white muslins and elected to wear the new daffodil crepe walking dress with its white satin stitch roses embroidered lavishly at the bodice and hem. The loss of the long sleeves, which she had removed only the week before, she refused to lament, and purposively draped a white shawl over her arms and shoulders. As she critically surveyed herself from head to toe in the long, gilt-edged looking glass, she thought that she looked very prett
y, and wondered why she should be plagued by vague feelings of discontent.
Rathbourne, Deirdre was relieved to note, had recovered his equilibrium, and his mood verged almost on the playful. Mrs. Dewinters was her usual elegant self in a gown of startling peacock blue, and Deirdre felt a stab of envy when she observed the long sleeves with matching satin ribbon gathered at shoulder, elbow, and wrist. Mrs. Dewinters, she decided, was a fashion plate whom even Serena would be hard pressed to emulate.
The pleasant walk to Madame Lecquier in Grand’ Place, the heart of the shopping district, was delayed by frequent chance encounters with many of the young ladies whose acquaintance Deirdre had made in the previous month or two. After the introductions had been made, Rathbourne, at his most charming and urbane, skillfully brought Mrs. Dewinters forward. She behaved very prettily and demurely, and Deirdre had the pleasure of hearing many invitations to parties and musical evenings pressed upon the actress and her dashing escort, with herself included almost as an afterthought.
At Madame Lecquier’s, Rathbourne was in his element. “I want all the lady’s gowns put on my account,” he said with a wicked grin to the modiste, whose expression remained impassive. Mrs. Dewinters looked to be acutely embarrassed, and Deirdre did not know where to look.
“Have them made up in pastels, whites, pale green, and one in this color,” he said, indicating Deirdre’s new walking dress.
“Gareth,” said Mrs. Dewinters patiently, “those are Deirdre’s colors and suit her admirable. They won’t do for me.”
“Nonsense,” he replied with a show of gallantry. “Mayhap Deirdre lacks the panache to carry off vibrant tints such as scarlet and so on, but I am persuaded that any color would look divine on you.” He raised her hand to his lips, but his eyes, blazing with mockery, locked on Deirdre’s.
The Passionate Prude Page 24