It Happened One Autumn

by Lisa Kleypas

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  St. Vincent laughed. “I shall propose a carriage drive for the day after tomorrow then. Does that sound agreeable?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Excellent,” St. Vincent said, adding in an offhand manner, “unless, Westcliff, you have some other claim on Miss Bowman’s schedule?”

  “No claim at all,” Westcliff said flatly.

  Of course not, Lillian thought with sudden rancor. Obviously Westcliff had no desire for her company, unless it was to spare his guests the sight of watching her cast up her crumpets on the dinner table.

  They rejoined Daisy, who raised her brows at the sight of St. Vincent and asked mildly, “Where did you come from?”

  “Were my mother alive, you could ask her,” he replied pleasantly. “But I doubt she knew.”

  “St. Vincent,” Westcliff snapped for the second time that evening. “These are innocent girls.”

  “Are they? How intriguing. Very well, I’ll try for propriety… What subjects may one discuss with innocent girls?”

  “Hardly any,” Daisy said glumly, making him laugh.

  Before they reentered the dining hall, Lillian paused to ask Westcliff, “At what time shall I visit the countess tomorrow? And where?”

  His gaze was opaque and cool. Lillian couldn’t help but notice that his disposition seemed to have soured since the moment St. Vincent had invited her on a carriage drive. But why would that displease him? It would be laughable to assume that he was jealous, since she was the last woman in the world in whom he would entertain a personal interest. The only reasonable conclusion was that he feared that St. Vincent might try to seduce her, and he did not want to deal with the trouble that would ensue.

  “Ten o’clock in the Marsden parlor,” he said.

  “I’m afraid that I am not familiar with that room—”

  “Few people are. It is an upstairs parlor, reserved for the family’s private use.”

  “Oh.” She stared into his dark eyes, feeling grateful and confused. He had been kind to her, and yet their relationship could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be considered a friendship. She wished that she could rid herself of her growing curiosity about him. It had been much easier when she had been able to dismiss him as a self-important snob. However, he was far more complex than she had originally thought, revealing dimensions of humor, sensuality, and surprising compassion.

  “My lord,” she said, ensnared by his gaze. “I …I suppose I should thank you for—”

  “Let’s go in,” he interrupted curtly, seeming eager to be out of her presence. “We’ve tarried long enough.”

  “Are you nervous?” Daisy whispered the next morning, as she and Lillian followed their mother to the door of the Marsden parlor. Although Mercedes had not been specifically invited to meet with the countess, she was bound and determined to be included in the visit.

  “No,” Lillian replied. “I’m certain we have nothing to fear as long as we keep our mouths shut.”

  “I’ve heard that she hates Americans.”

  “That’s a pity,” Lillian said dryly, “since both of her daughters married Americans.”

  “Quiet, the both of you,” Mercedes whispered. Dressed in a silver-gray gown with a large diamond brooch at the throat, she gathered her hand into a tangle of sharp knuckles and rapped at the door. There was no sound from within. Daisy and Lillian glanced at each other with raised brows, wondering if the countess had decided not to meet with them after all. Frowning, Mercedes knocked at the door with increased force.

  This time, a barbed voice penetrated the seams of mahogany paneling. “Stop that infernal hammering and enter!”

  Wearing subdued expressions, the Bowmans entered the room. It was a small but lovely parlor, with walls covered in blue flowered paper and a large set of windows that revealed a view of the garden below. The Countess of Westcliff was arranged on a settee beneath the window, her throat swathed in ropes of rare black pearls, her fingers and wrists weighted with jewels. In contrast to the brilliant pale silver of her hair, the lines of her brows were dark and thick, set uncompromisingly low over her eyes. In feature and in form, she was completely bereft of angles; her face round, her figure run to plumpness. Silently Lillian reflected that Lord Westcliff must have inherited his father’s looks, for there was little resemblance between him and his mother.

  “I expected only two,” the countess said with a hard look at Mercedes. Her accent was as clean and crisp as white icing on a tea cake. “Why are there three?”

  “Your Grace,” Mercedes began with a toadying smile, bobbing in an uncomfortable curtsy. “First let me tell you how deeply Mr. Bowman and I appreciate your condescension to my two angels—”

  “Only a duchess may be addressed as ‘Your Grace,’ ” the countess said, the corners of her mouth drawn downward as if by an excessive pull of gravity. “Did you intend that as mockery?”

  “Oh no, Your…that is, my lady,” Mercedes said hastily, her face turning skull-white. “It was not mockery. Never that! I only wished to—”

  “I will speak alone with your daughters,” the countess said imperiously. “You may return in precisely two hours to collect them.”

  “Yes, my lady!” Mercedes fled the room.

  Clearing her throat to camouflage a sudden irrepressible laugh, Lillian glanced at Daisy, who was also struggling to contain her amusement at seeing their mother so handily dispatched.

  “What an unpleasant noise,” the countess remarked, scowling at Lillian’s throat clearing. “Kindly refrain from producing it again.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Lillian said with her best attempt at humility.

  “You may approach me,” the countess commanded, looking from one to the other as they obeyed. “I watched you last evening, the both of you, and I witnessed a veritable catalogue of unseemly behavior. I am told that I must act as your sponsor for the season, which confirms my opinion that my son is determined to make my life as difficult as possible. Sponsoring a pair of maladroit American girls! I warn you, if you do not heed every word that I say, I will not rest until each of you is married to some sham continental aristocrat and sent to molder in the most godforsaken corners of Europe.”

  Lillian was more than a little impressed. As far as threats went, it was a good one. Stealing a glance at Daisy, she saw that her sister had sobered considerably.

  “Sit,” the countess spat.

  They complied with all possible speed, occupying the chairs that she indicated with a wave of her glittering hand. Reaching to the small table beside the settee, the countess produced a piece of parchment liberally covered with notes written in cobalt ink. “I have made a list,” she informed them, using one hand to place a tiny pair of pince-nez spectacles on the abbreviated tip of her nose, “of the errors that were made by the two of you last evening. We will address it point by point.”

  “How could the list be that long?” Daisy asked in dismay. “The dinner lasted only four hours—how many mistakes could we have possibly made in that length of time?”

  Staring at them stonily over the top edge of the parchment, the countess let the list unfold. Accordionlike, it opened…and opened…and opened…until the bottom edge brushed the floor.

  “Bloody hell,” Lillian muttered beneath her breath.

  Overhearing the curse, the countess frowned until her brows formed an unbroken dark line. “If there were any room left on the parchment,” she informed Lillian, “I would add that bit of vulgarity to it.”

  Repressing a long sigh, Lillian settled low in her chair.

  “Sit up straight, if you please,” the countess said. “A lady never allows her spine to touch the back of her chair. Now, we will begin with introductions. You have both displayed a lamentable habit of shaking hands. It makes one appear distastefully eager to ingratiate oneself. The accepted rule is not to shake hands but merely to bow when being introduced, unless the introduction is being made between two young ladies. And as we
’re on the subject of bowing, you must never bow to a gentleman to whom you have not been introduced, even if he is well-known to you by sight. Nor may you bow to a gentleman who has addressed a few remarks to you at the house of a mutual friend, or any gentleman with whom you have conversed with casually. A short verbal exchange does not constitute an acquaintanceship, and therefore must not be acknowledged with a bow.”

  “What if the gentleman has done you some service?” Daisy asked. “Picking up a fallen glove, or something like that.”

  “Express your thanks at the time, but do not bow to him in the future, as a true acquaintanceship has not been established.”

  “That sounds rather ungrateful,” Daisy commented.

  The countess ignored her. “Now, on to dinner. After your first glass of wine, you may not request another. When the host passes the wine decanter to his guests during dinner, it is for the benefit of the gentlemen, not the ladies.” She glowered at Lillian. “Last night I heard you ask for your wineglass to be refilled, Miss Bowman. Very bad form.”

  “But Lord Westcliff refilled it without a word,” Lillian protested.

  “Only to spare you from drawing yet more undesirable attention to yourself.”

  “But why…” Lillian’s voice faded to silence as she saw the countess’s forbidding expression. She realized that if she was going to ask for explanations on every point of etiquette, it would be a long afternoon indeed.

  The countess proceeded to explain dinner table conventions, including the proper way to cut an asparagus point, and the way to consume quail and pigeon. “…blancmange and pudding must be eaten with a fork, not a spoon,” she was saying, “and much to my dismay, I observed you both using knives on your rissoles.” She looked at them significantly, as though expecting them to wilt with shame.

  “What are rissoles?” Lillian dared to ask.

  Daisy answered cautiously, “I think they were the little brown patties with the green sauce on top.”

  “I rather liked those,” Lillian mused.

  Daisy regarded her with a sly smile. “Do you know what they were made of?”

  “No, and I don’t want to!”

  The countess ignored the exchange. “All rissoles, patties, and other molded foods must be eaten only with a fork, and never with the aid of a knife.” Pausing, she glanced over the list to find her place. Her birdlike eyes constricted to slits as she read the next item. “And now,” she said, staring meaningfully at Lillian, “as to the subject of calves’ heads…”

  Groaning, Lillian covered her eyes with one hand and slid down in her chair.

  Chapter 11

  T hose who were accustomed to Lord Westcliff’s usual purposeful stride would have been more than a little surprised to witness his slow meander from the study to the upstairs parlor. A letter was held lightly in his fingers, the contents of which had occupied his mind for the past few minutes. But as significant as the news was, it was not entirely responsible for his pensive mood.

  Much as Marcus would have liked to deny it, he was filled with anticipation at the thought of seeing Lillian Bowman…and he was keenly interested in how she was managing his mother. The countess would make mincemeat of any average girl, but he suspected that Lillian would hold her own.

  Lillian. Because of her, he was fumbling to retrieve his self-control like a boy scurrying to pick up a box of scattered matchsticks. He had an innate distrust of sentiment, particularly his own, and a profound aversion to anyone or anything that threatened his dignity. The Marsden lineage was famously somber …generations of solemn men occupied with weighty concerns. Marcus’s own father, the old earl, had rarely smiled. When he had, it had usually preceded something very unpleasant. The old earl had dedicated himself to erasing any nuance of frivolity or humor in his only son, and while he hadn’t succeeded completely, he had left a forceful influence. Marcus’s existence was shaped by relentless expectations and duties—and the last thing he needed was distraction. Particularly in the form of a rebellious girl.

  Lillian Bowman was not a young woman whom Marcus would ever consider courting. He could not imagine Lillian living happily in the confines of the British aristocracy. Her irreverence and individuality would never allow her to blend smoothly into Marcus’s world. Moreover, it was universally acknowledged that since both of Marcus’s sisters had married Americans, it was imperative that he preserve the family’s distinguished pedigree with an English bride.

  Marcus had always known that he would end up married to one of the countless young women who came out each season, all of them so similar that it hardly seemed to matter which one he picked. Any of these shy, refined girls would suit his purposes, and yet he had never quite been able to bring himself to take an interest in them. Whereas Lillian Bowman had obsessed him from the first moment he had seen her. There was no logical reason for it. Lillian was not the most beautiful woman of his acquaintance, nor was she particularly accomplished. She was sharp-tongued and opinionated, and her headstrong nature was far more suitable for a man than a woman.

  Marcus knew that he and Lillian were both too strong-willed, their characters designed to clash. The conflict between them at the jumping course was a perfect example of why a union between them was impossible. But that did not change the fact that Marcus wanted Lillian Bowman more than any other woman he had ever known. Her freshness, her unconventionality, called to him even as he struggled against the temptation she offered. He had begun to dream about her at night, of playing and grappling with her, entering her warm, thrashing body until she cried out in pleasure. And there were other dreams, of lying with her in sensual stillness, their flesh joined and throbbing… of swimming in the river with her naked body gliding against his, her hair trailing in wet mermaid tendrils over his chest and shoulders. Of taking her in the field as if she were a peasant girl, rolling with her on the sun-warmed grass.

  Marcus had never felt the bite of unspent passion as keenly as he did now. There were many women who would be entirely willing to satisfy his needs. All it would take was a few murmurs and a discreet tap on the bedroom door, and he would find himself in a pair of welcoming female arms. But it seemed wrong to use one woman as a substitute for someone that he couldn’t have.

  Drawing near the family parlor, Marcus paused beside the half-open door as he heard his mother lecturing the Bowman sisters. Her complaint appeared to hinge upon the sisters’ habit of speaking to the footmen who served them at the dinner table.

  “But why shouldn’t I thank someone for doing me a service?” he heard Lillian ask with genuine perplexity. “It’s polite to say thank you, isn’t it?”

  “You should no more thank a servant than you would thank a horse for allowing you to ride it, or a table for bearing the dishes you place upon it.”

  “Well, we’re not discussing animals or inanimate objects, are we? A footman is a person.”

  “No,” the countess said coldly. “A footman is a servant.”

  “And a servant is a person,” Lillian said stubbornly.

  The elderly woman replied in exasperation. “Whatever your view of a footman is, you must not thank him at dinner. Servants neither expect nor desire such condescension, and if you insist on putting them in the awkward position of having to respond to your remarks, they will think badly of you…as will everyone else. Do not insult me with that vapid stare, Miss Bowman! You come from a family of means—surely you employed servants at your New York residence!”

  “Yes,” Lillian acknowledged pertly, “but we talked to ours.”

  Marcus fought to suppress a sudden laugh. It had been rare, if ever, that he had heard anyone dare to spar with the countess. Knocking lightly at the door, he entered the room, interrupting a potentially caustic exchange. Lillian twisted in her chair to view him. The flawless ivory of her skin was burnished with pink at the crests of her cheeks. The sophisticated braided coil of her hair, pinned high on her head, should have made her appear older, but instead it seemed to emphasize her youth. Altho
ugh she was motionless in the chair, an air of electric impatience seemed to surround her. She reminded him of a schoolgirl who was eager to escape her lessons and run outside.

  “Good afternoon,” Marcus said politely. “I trust your discussion is going well?”

  Lillian gave him a speaking glance.

  Sternly fighting a smile, Marcus delivered a formal bow to his mother. “My lady, a letter has arrived from America.”

  His mother stared at him alertly, making no response even though she knew that the letter had to be from Aline.

  Stubborn bitch, Marcus thought, cold annoyance settling in his chest. The countess would never forgive her older daughter for marrying a man of low descent. Aline’s husband, McKenna, had once been in service, working for the family as a stable boy. While still in his teens, McKenna had gone to America to seek his fortune, and had returned to England as a wealthy industrialist. In the countess’s view, however, McKenna’s success would never atone for his common birth, and therefore she had objected violently to the marriage between McKenna and her daughter. Aline’s obvious happiness meant nothing to the countess, who had developed hypocrisy to an art form. Had Aline simply had an affair with McKenna, the countess would have thought nothing of it. Becoming his wife, however, was an unpardonable offense.

  “I thought you would wish to learn its contents at once,” Marcus continued, coming forward to hand the letter to her.

  He watched his mother’s face grow taut. Her hands remained motionless in her lap, and her eyes were cold with displeasure. Marcus took a slightly malicious enjoyment in forcing her to confront a fact that she so obviously wished to disregard.

  “Why don’t you tell me the news?” she invited in a brittle voice. “It is obvious that you will not leave until you do.”

  “Very well.” Marcus slipped the letter back into his pocket. “Congratulations, my lady—you are now a grandmother. Lady Aline has given birth to a healthy boy, named John McKenna the second.” He allowed a fine edge of sarcasm in his tone as he added, “I’m certain you will be relieved to know that she and the baby are doing quite well.”