by Louise Allen
‘Do you have to sort your thoughts, my lord?’ It was such a direct explanation with no attempt to excuse himself that Phyllida felt herself thawing a trifle. Dangerous. Little alarm bells were jangling along her nerves. He cannot be anything to you and you do not want him to be, either.
‘My brain feels like a desk that has been ransacked by burglars,’ he admitted and her mouth twitched despite everything. ‘Or one where all the files have been overstuffed and have burst. I am still, even after three months at sea, having to remember to think in English all the time. There are all the rules of etiquette that are different enough to European society in Calcutta to be decidedly confusing and so removed from my great-uncle’s court where I have spent the past few years that they might be from a different planet.
‘Then there is all the family stuff to learn, the estate, the… But never mind that, it sounds as though I am excusing myself after all and that was not my intention.’
‘You did not want to come back, did you?’ Phyllida asked. It was not a lack of intellectual capacity to cope with all those things that she heard in his voice, but the irritation of a man who did not want to be bothered by them, yet was making himself care. How interesting. Most of London society assumed that there was no greater delight and privilege than to be part of it and absorbed in every petty detail.
‘The only one for whom England is back is my father. For my mother and sister it is as strange as it is for me. But I offended you and I apologise.’
‘You are forgiven.’ And he was, she realised. It had not just been good manners that made her say it. Why? Because you have beautiful green eyes? Because you have been honest with me? Because I am deluding myself? ‘So, what do you intend to do with yourself now, Lord Clere?’
‘We will stay in London for the Season and see my sister launched. We all need to outfit ourselves, the town house must be resurrected from fifteen years of neglect. I must learn to be a viscount, the heir and an English gentleman. Dancing lessons,’ he added grimly, surprising a laugh from her.
At some point they had veered from the path towards the Queen’s House. Phyllida looked round and found they had reached the edge of the park close to the point where Constitution Hill met the Knightsbridge Road. ‘You cross here to Hyde Park.’ She pointed. ‘That is the Knightsbridge Turnpike.’
‘Then Tattersalls is near here. I was intending to find it after I had ridden.’ He whistled. The big crow flapped up and perched on the fence, eyeing her bonnet trimmings with malevolent intent.
‘That is not something a young lady knows about, my lord.’ She attempted to look demure. ‘But, yes, it is just around the corner behind St George’s Hospital.’
‘Thank you.’ Ashe swung himself up into the saddle, all long legs, tight breeches, exquisite control. ‘I hope we will meet again, Miss Hurst. Now we know each other better.’
The stuff of every maiden’s dreams. Phyllida suppressed a wince at her choice of words and lifted a hand in farewell as he took the horse out into the traffic and across to the other park. Ashe had been surprised and taken aback at what he had discovered about her and confessed as much, she thought as she made her way back to Anna. It was honest of him to admit it so freely.
And yet, thinking about it without his distracting presence looming over her, she had the uneasy feeling there was more than that in the blank look he had sent her last night, if only she could put her finger on it. He had apologised with disarming frankness, but he had not told her the whole truth. It would be as well to be wary of Lord Clere, however decorative and amusing he might be. Now we know each other better.
That had been a stroke of luck. Ashe turned his hired hack’s head towards what he guessed was the famous Rotten Row and pressed the horse into a canter. He had not wanted to enquire about the Hursts’ address and risk drawing attention to his interest in Phyllida, nor had he wanted to disconcert her by turning up in her shop. This encounter had been ideal, without even a passer-by as witness if she had done what he deserved and cut him dead in her turn.
But she had not. She had been gracious, ladylike with an edge of acid humour that he enjoyed. She had poise, intelligence, looks and enough maturity not to be expecting hearts and flowers and hypocritical protestations of love. Damn it, she is perfect. He liked her, he was attracted to her and she bore not the slightest resemblance to Reshmi, his dead love. In fact, he would have no objection to marrying her tomorrow and cutting short this tiresome search for a wife.
Except that Phyllida Hurst was baseborn and, as if that was not enough, had a secret life that would ruin her if it was exposed and a brother who was, apparently, no catch as a relative. That old harridan Lady Malling had made it quite clear how ineligible she was.
Phyllida would not be received at court and she was not the sister-in-law for a young lady making her come-out and who deserved to be launched into the highest echelons of society.
Ashe guided his mount on to a smaller track, away from a group of riders in the distance, and gave it its head. She was twenty-six, he had discovered last night. Unmarried, ineligible, old enough to have forgotten girlish fantasies about love. Might she find the prospect of a liaison interesting? His body tightened at the thought and he knew it had been in the back of his mind, unacknowledged, since he had discovered the truth about her.
He explored the idea. For three years he had been in an environment where encounters with respectable women were formalised, distant and impersonal. The women one knew, in all senses of the word, were not respectable, they were courtesans like Reshmi. He had no model for a sexual relationship with a lady in this world. How did one manage a liaison in this chilly, alien, new society? He had no wish to ruin her in its eyes, but he could be very, very discreet and with her two secret identities she had already proved she could be, too.
He would think about it. But first, before anything, he had to get a decent horse because this slug was useless. Tattersalls, his objective this morning, might be open by now and there, at least, he could get what he wanted, simply by exercising good taste and expending money. Horses were much less trouble than women.
‘I’ve been talking to that Indian chap.’ Gregory strolled into the sitting room and collapsed on to the sofa with his usual indolence.
‘Ashe… I mean, Lord Clere?’ Phyllida dropped a handful of paste jewellery she had bought from a dealer in Seven Dials back into its box and hoped she was not blushing.
It seemed her brother did not possess the instincts of a natural chaperon. ‘Oh, you know him, do you? Interesting fellow. Great eye for a horse and the money to back his judgement.’
‘You haven’t been betting again?’ Her heart sank. Had Gregory’s virtuous resolutions been too good to last after all?
‘No!’ He looked wounded. ‘I was round at Tatts, just looking, blowing a cloud, chatting. You know. Clere bought two riding horses for himself, a pretty little mare for his sister and a carriage pair.’
‘Good lord.’ She pushed away the jewellery and tried some mental arithmetic. ‘That is a huge amount of money, all in one go.’
‘I know. And they were all good buys. No gulling him. They’ve got that pair of greys that Feldshore had to sell to meet his gaming debts, you remember them? Showy as they come. Clere just walked round them, had them trotted out and said, “Weak pasterns.” What do you think of that?’
‘Amazing,’ Phyllida agreed, trying to recall what a pastern was. ‘I hope he can pay for all this.’ She could just see Ashe surveying the bloodstock down that straight nose of his, rejecting the inadequate with a word. It took no leap of imagination to see him as a raja in his palace, waving a dismissive hand as slave girls were paraded in front of him, or crooking a long finger in summons if one pleased him.
‘Grandfather was a nabob. Father’s a marquess, he’s the only son. Must be rolling in it,’ Gregory said with amiable envy.
‘And his grandmother was an Indian princess,’ Phyllida could not resist adding.
‘You’ve really b
een talking to him by the sound of it.’
‘Mmm.’ Phyllida tried to focus on the clasp of a rather pretty necklace of polished Scottish pebbles.
‘You’ll be pleased that I’ve invited him for dinner, then.’
‘What?’ The necklace ran through her suddenly nerveless fingers and back into the box with a rattle.
‘You’re not pleased?’ Gregory’s normally cheerful expression became a scowl. ‘Has he acted in some way you did not like? Or said something out of turn? Because if so…’
‘No, nothing like that.’ The last thing she wanted was her brother charging off issuing a challenge. ‘He did not realise about our parents’ marriage and then, when he did find out, he allowed his… surprise to show. That was all. He apologised.’
The scowl was still in place. ‘You liked him, didn’t you, Phyll?’
She managed a rueful smile and a shrug. ‘He is intelligent and attractive. I found him amusing to talk to.’
‘He’ll be looking for a wife,’ Gregory said cautiously.
‘I know, that is only to be expected.’ Her stomach took a sickening swoop. That was what he was skirting around when he apologised. He had mentally assigned her to the ranks of eligible young women—despite what he had seen of her business—and he was inclined to like her. And then he had discovered that she was completely unsuitable…
‘And if he liked you he might have been interested and then he discovered—’ Gregory ploughed on, in unwitting echo of her thoughts.
‘That I am baseborn. Quite. Don’t look so tragic, Gregory. Lord Clere and I had a conversation, that is all. It is not as though we had been meeting for weeks and formed an attraction and then he found out. He is no different from all the rest of the gentlemen we socialise with. I really do not regard it.’
But I do, she realised, even as she spoke. Everyone was perfectly civilised about her status, she was invited to many events, received by all but the highest sticklers. She would never get vouchers for Almack’s, of course, never be presented at court. Her marriage prospects were non-existent, at least amongst the ton, who would object to her birth in an alliance with one of their sons, or amongst the rich middle class families who wanted impeccable bloodlines for their money.
It had never mattered so much before, Phyllida realised. She could not recall the time when she was ignorant of her status, of the oddity of her parents’ marriage and what it meant for her. She had her own interests, her business, her friends and her ambitions for Gregory and that was enough. It had to be. There were daydreams, of course, moments of sadness. Of more than sadness when she had held friends’ babies in her arms, but she had learned to control those foolish hopes.
But Ashe Herriard had shaken her. She liked him and she was attracted to him. It would always have been impossible, of course. The consequences of the choice she had made when she was seventeen meant marriage was out of the question anyway.
Yet somehow, with this man, it hurt. They had only just met and she might yet come to find she only felt mild attraction to him, or she might discover something to dislike in him. He could well have paid her no more attention after the ball. But it was as though someone had just told her for the very first time that she was unmarriageable: shock, a sense of loss, a dull pain somewhere under her breastbone.
Foolishness, she scolded herself. A kiss, a pair of green eyes, a sense of strength and virility, that is all it takes to fill you full of pointless yearnings. It was useless to repine and wish that things were different. They were not and that was that.
The thoughts had run through her mind in seconds and Gregory was still watching her with trouble in his brown eyes. ‘I will tell him we’ve a crisis in the kitchen or something and take him to White’s,’ he offered.
‘No, don’t be silly.’ Where the bright smile came from she had no idea. ‘We will have a dinner party, it will be a pleasure. Now, who else can we invite? I think we must stick at eight of us, otherwise we will be uncomfortably cramped. Shall I see if Miss Millington’s parents will allow her to come? If we invite a married couple, then I cannot see they will have any objection. Lucy and Cousin Peter would be ideal—I am sure Mrs Millington would find a baronet who is a Member of Parliament respectable company for her daughter.’
‘That’s six, including us. I’ll invite the Hardinges as well, shall I?’
‘Mrs Millington will be in a second heaven! An earl, a baronet, a viscount and a baron. I cannot believe she can refuse to allow Harriet to come. I will call tomorrow. What day did you tell Lord Clere?’
‘I said I must check dates with you and would get back to him. He seemed pleased.’ Gregory frowned again. ‘He had better not be trifling with you, Phyll.’
‘No, of course he is not. No one trifles with me. Now, shall we see if Wednesday will suit everyone?’
‘A letter for you, my lord.’ Herring proffered a silver salver.
Ashe ran his finger under the red-wax seal and scanned the single page. ‘My first dinner invitation,’ he remarked to his father who was seated in the chair opposite him, long legs outstretched as he studied the surveyor’s account of the state of Eldonstone, the Hertfordshire country house.
‘Bachelor affair?’
‘Apparently not. It’s from Fransham. I met him at Tattersalls today. He says he’s invited Lord and Lady Hardinge—he was at the ball yesterday—and a Sir Peter Blackett who is an MP, with his wife, and a Miss Millington, whoever she is.’
‘Your mother is threatening a dinner party.’ Lord Eldonstone made a note against a column of figures and tossed the bundle on to a side table. ‘I suspect we won’t get away with only seven sitting down to eat.’
‘Eight, if Fransham’s sister is acting as hostess.’
Ashe could have sworn he kept his voice neutral, but his father arched an eyebrow. ‘Miss Hurst? She looked an intelligent and refined young woman. Unfortunate for the poor girl to have had such a careless father.’
‘Yes,’ Ashe agreed. And she is mysterious, and smells of jasmine and has an edge to her tongue. And I cannot get her out of my head. ‘Is that report making depressing reading?’
His father grimaced. ‘About what I expected. You neglect a place that size for as long as my father did, and screw every penny out of the land while you are at it, and the results are never going to be good.’
‘Sounds expensive. Should I have taken more care with the amount I have just spent on horseflesh?’
The marquess shook his head. ‘We can cope easily enough with this, and when we get the estate turned around and the income recovers it will look after itself. I was thinking of going down there next week for a few days—do you want to come?’
They had agreed on board ship that Tompkins would organise the essential cleaning and restocking of the house, engage more servants and generally get it habitable before the family visited. Establishing themselves in society, launching Sara and holding endless meetings with lawyers and bankers had to take priority over the country estate.
‘So soon?’ Ashe acknowledged to himself that he was ambivalent about the Hertfordshire house. London was a city and he felt comfortable in cities. But rural England was a foreign country. Green and lush as though there was a monsoon every day of the year, foxes to hunt, not tigers. Tenants to get to know, not hundreds of subsistence peasants totally at their raja’s beck and call. And part of him knew that it was the country estates that defined the English nobleman: the unknown house was his fate and his responsibility.
Ashe smiled grimly to himself. He had been trained to fight—this was simply another battlefield, a more subtle one that would require all his diplomatic skills.
‘Just a flying visit. We’ll leave your mother and sister here.’
‘I’ll come, with pleasure.’ His father wanted his support, although he would never admit it, and the sooner they got this over with, the better. ‘After all, there is no waltzing in the countryside.’ And no distracting Miss Hurst, either.
Chapter Six
By the time Wednesday came around Ashe, like the rest of his family, had an array of gilt-edged cards to sift through and they were all keeping Edwards, the marquess’s new secretary, busy with acceptances and the occasional regret.
But this dinner party would be a modest beginning to his London social life, he supposed, eyeing the narrow house in Great Ryder Street. When he mounted the steps and knocked, only to have the door answered by a maid, he realised just how modest. Male staff only above stairs in the afternoon and evening was the rule, Perrott had explained, although to find female staff anywhere but in the ladies’ bedchambers was a novelty to Ashe.
Inside there was none of the oppressive splendour of the Herriard town house, for which he envied them. But it was elegantly, if simply, decorated and furnished and he suspected Phyllida’s eye for style and her nose for a bargain had contributed to that.
‘Clere! Glad you could come. Welcome.’ Fransham came forwards with outstretched hand and began to introduce him. Hardinge greeted him as an old acquaintance and Ashe liked the direct friendliness of his wife. The Parliamentary baronet, Blackett, was thin and serious, but his wife made up for it with plump joviality and then there was a Miss Millington, who was introduced as ‘My sister’s friend.’ From the shy glance she directed at Fransham, Ashe suspected there was something more to her presence than that.
Phyllida came in as he was agreeing with Miss Millington that the sunshine that morning had been very pleasant. ‘Lord Clere will consider it the depths of winter, I imagine,’ she said as she smiled in greeting. ‘Good evening, Lord Clere. Confess, you do not consider our feeble spring sunshine worthy of the name.’
‘I will admit to not having been warm since about Gibraltar,’ he countered. ‘But I have high hopes that the summer may reach the temperature of an Indian winter, Miss Hurst. Meanwhile, I am thawing in the kind welcome I have received in London.’