Lavinia laid her cheek on her sister’s shoulder. “I should like you to be friends, but I will understand if you cannot be. Gilbert is very much his own man and has his own fortune. You know how much I am counting on your coming to live with us at Harcourt. You shall never have to return to this wretched, unhappy house.”
Sophronia's heart softened at her sister’s unswerving devotion. “We have already been through this, dearest. You and Gilbert must have a decent honeymoon period. I have survived Aunt and Uncle these fifteen years.” She looked around the cold but well-appointed dressing room they shared. In truth, the thought of living with her frigid relations without Lavinia’s company was almost unbearable. But she managed a little laugh. “Another year or so will not kill me.”
The two sisters had been wards of their deceased mother’s brother and his wife most of their lives. Lavinia had only accepted Gilbert’s impassioned offer of marriage after she had determined that he would have no objections to Sophronia living with them. She and her sister had never been separated.
Now Lavinia grinned at her. “However much I love Gilbert, I would not be entirely happy away from you. Harcourt is very large, I understand. You shall have your own suite of rooms. In a tower, no less!” Her sister’s pixie-like face dimpled when she smiled and giggled. “We shall be perfectly happy to honeymoon in our own suite.” Grabbing her sister’s hands, she said, “You know Gilbert will be quite busy with the estate. He will not be dancing attendance on me as he does now.”
Getting up from her seat at the dressing table, Lavinia said, “Now sit down and let me do your hair. We will make that fusty duke sorry, if indeed he did spurn you.” She began brushing her sister’s blonde locks. “You really could make a lot more of yourself than you do, Sophronia. Yours is a fragile beauty. I have told you before you were not meant for the bold, dark colors and severe hairstyles you prefer.”
Sophronia looked at herself in the mirror. She knew her sister was telling the truth. At five-and-twenty, Sophronia had lost whatever youthful bloom her small-featured face had possessed. Her fair hair was abundant, but absolutely straight. She had often wondered how Providence could have given a woman of her strong temperament the appearance of a milk-and-water miss.
“I am no longer a debutante, Vinnie, dear.”
“I am not suggesting you wear white. That would wash you out utterly. What you need are warm, bright colors. You have such beautiful skin and eyes.” Lavinia parted her sister’s hair with a comb. “I am going to try something different. A French braid around your hairline in the front, which will swirl into a brilliant chignon in the back. I saw the style on a very fashionable woman in the park. It will display all the lovely blonde in your hair and will show your features to the best advantage.”
“You should be spending your time on yourself, Vinnie,” Sophronia said. “The ball tonight is in your honor.”
“Gilbert would not care if I wore sack cloth. He is in love with my intellect.”
This sent both young women into a gale of giggles.
“As long as it was very shapely sack cloth, possibly,” said Sophronia when she could speak.
At the dinner hour, the two sisters appeared in the drawing room to greet the intimate party that was dining with the Reynolds household before the ball. Lavinia had coaxed Sophronia into wearing one of her own new gowns—a blue-green silk shot with silver threads that matched the unusual blue of her eyes. She admitted it was an improvement over the midnight blue she had been intending to wear. Even as Sophronia protested, Lavinia had dusted the very slightest blush of coral rouge over her cheekbones.
Sipping Madeira, Sophronia made stilted conversation with her aunt and uncle’s bosom friends, most of whom were curious about the duke, who had not yet put in an appearance.
“Is it true that he is driving a curricle in the London to Brighton race?” Lady Tenby asked breathlessly, her little red nose twitching.
“I am afraid I do not know about his sporting habits,” Sophronia answered.
Lord Tenby assumed his lecturing stance, feet wide apart, belly forward. “He owns the most beautiful pair of blacks in London. Of course he races them.”
“Ohh,” Lady Tenby sighed. “I find that thrilling! Absolutely thrilling!”
“Only fault I can find with His Grace is that he’s a Whig. Belongs to Brooks’s,” Tenby said.
Contrarily, this was the first thing Sophronia found to be said in the man’s favor. She was a champion of reform, and the Whigs were far more inclined in that direction than the Tories.
At that moment, Williams, the butler, announced the Duke of Mayfield. The peer entered the room, taking a glass of sherry from a tray as he passed, and went straight to his hostess. Sophronia's aunt, Lady Reynolds, was tall and angular, a severe woman not given to smiles. But she had a smile for the duke.
“Your Grace,” she said as she curtseyed. “Good evening. I trust you are well.”
“I am, thank you. And you?”
“I am, also. Come, I should like you to meet my sister, Countess of Falwell.”
“I am acquainted with her ladyship and shall be pleased to see her again.”
The duke offered his arm, and they walked to where the countess was ensconced on a settee surrounded by admirers. Sophronia had to admit that the auburn-haired widow was a very beautiful woman, though she was well over thirty. She was rumored to have lovers. Was the duke one of them?
Standing alone by the fireplace, Sophronia watched an interesting scene play out. Her aunt’s sister rose from the settee as the duke approached and extended both her hands, her face wreathed in smiles, her color high. “Your Grace! How lovely to see you! It has been an age. I am delighted that we are to become relations of a sort.”
As he took her hands, the duke’s face was transformed. Sophronia had never seen him smile before. The act changed his entire countenance—instead of a man of stone, he now looked to be an out-and-out rogue. His smile was one-sided, and, of all things, he had a dimple.
“Lady Falwell, you look enchanting as ever.”
They exchanged a few words Sophronia could not hear, and then the duke withdrew and joined a small group of gentlemen who were discussing sport. A short time later, the dinner gong sounded, and Sophronia put a determined smile on her face. She knew her aunt had placed her next to the duke at dinner.
“You must take this opportunity to fix his interest on you, Sophronia,” she had told her niece. “You may never have another opportunity like this one.”
When once they were seated, the duke addressed her coolly, “Good evening, Lady Sophronia.”
She tilted her head slightly in acknowledgement. “Your Grace.”
Lavinia’s efforts with her sister’s toilette were rewarded when he spared Sophronia a second glance.
Determined not to be cowed by his lofty air, she said, “I understand you are to take part in the race to Brighton this year, and that you have the best pair of blacks in London. But what interests me far more is the knowledge that you are a Whig.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You take an interest in politics?”
“I take an interest in reform, generally.”
She was rewarded by his half smile. “Is there any particular way you express that interest?”
“I belong to a charity promoting literacy among the poor. As it stands, society women, especially unmarried women, can really do very little.”
Boredom lowered his features. “A follower of Miss Wollstonecraft, I might have known.”
Sophronia bristled. “And exactly what do you mean by that?”
The eyebrow rose once more. “A temperamental feminist. This just gets better.”
Lowering her voice, she said, “It is unfortunate, indeed, that we are to be so much in each other’s company this next while. If you can manage to curb your prejudices, I will try my best to be civil, and perhaps things may be more tolerable for both of us.”
His eyes sparked. “You are very forthright. There are a nu
mber of replies I might deliver to that speech, all of which would only inflame you further, so I will, in the interests of peace, refrain.”
Sophronia decided to throw him off completely by smiling broadly. “I appreciate your restraint, Your Grace. Now, perhaps you would like to speak about the curricle race?”
The covers were removed, and the fish course placed before them. The duke sat, his knife and fork poised above his food, as he stared at her seemingly transfixed. “I would rather hear about your charities. Do you know Lady Clarice Manton and her companion, Miss Braithwaite?”
“Yes, I know them very well. You cannot tell me that you do not find them charming!”
“Eccentric, certainly. I am beginning to suspect that you would be very at home in their strange household.”
“Well, I rather draw the line at Miss Braithwaite’s beetle collection, but I confess to a fondness for her tortoise.”
He gave a short bark of a laugh. “Ah, yes, Henry Five. I never would have credited Devonshire with such imagination. A tortoise as a courting gift.”
“I find it rather sweet. The duke obviously gave it a lot of thought. And look how many more years Henry Five has lasted than a bouquet of flowers would do.”
“There is that.”
“The fact of the matter is, Your Grace, that those two ladies do a great deal of good, in spite of their eccentricities. Among other things, they have a very well-organized charity to benefit literacy for the poor. It is that to which I belong.”
“Ah, yes, the poor are always with us.”
“You sound as though you resent them.”
“I might as well own up, Lady Sophronia. I inherited my seat in the Lords. I do not fully embrace the Whig stance on political issues. In fact, I bother myself as little as possible with them.”
Sophronia was always unsuccessful at masking her thoughts. “I know you are just saying that to shock me.”
“Why would I care enough to shock you?”
“Gentlemen usually take care not to shock young ladies. It is not considered polite.”
“To what conclusion does that lead us, then?”
Sophronia raised an eyebrow, a facial expression she had cultivated while looking in the mirror. The duke merely looked amused. She decided not to state the obvious. “You have been told, perhaps, that you are insufferable?” she asked.
“Many times. But never by a lady such as yourself.” His dimple was in evidence.
“And what kind of lady might that be?”
“A young woman who is clearly not in awe of me whatsoever.”
Sophronia struggled not to evidence surprise at his perspicacity. “You are correct about that. Perhaps now you would like to speak to my aunt. I am sorry to have monopolized your conversation for so long.”
He gave his roguish smile. “Ah, you have no further use for me, then?”
“I refuse to be put in the wrong by you,” she said, turning to speak to her left-hand neighbor, her aunt’s brother, a dull cleric from Tunbridge Wells. She took care to be engaged with him throughout the rest of the meal.
Her aunt, for all her frostiness, was socially adept and did know how to put together a ball. The ballroom was festooned with swaths of silver cloth, and there was a veritable greenhouse of potted white orchids, ferns, and palms, as well as standing silver candelabrum with honeycomb candles to augment the many chandeliers. The orchestra was excellent, and the champagne flowed in abundance.
As Sophronia stood in the receiving line next to the duke, she was relieved that there was little opportunity for speech. He was at his most lofty, but she refused to be intimidated by him. Her impression of him after their conversation at dinner remained low.
Once the receiving line was disbanded and they began to mix with the guests, that impression of him did not change. He stood in the corner chatting with his racing cronies, making no effort to be civil to anyone else. At least she was no longer obliged to make conversation with him.
Chapter Two
His Grace, the Duke of Mayfield, was not at all used to being dismissed by anyone, even on the occasions when he was rude. While he had to admit that he had been rude to Lady Sophronia, her actions had surprised him. He had been certain the woman would take advantage of her sister’s engagement to his brother to try to ensnare him. To the contrary, she appeared to hold him in contempt. This rankled.
He watched her covertly as he stood at the edge of the ballroom speaking about the coming curricle race with his friends. For a while, she visited with some of the more elderly guests, eventually going to sit among the chaperones. She danced only once, and that was with Gilbert, though other men, both old and young, approached her.
Mayfield had dismissed her at their first meeting as a plain woman destined for spinsterhood. Now he wondered if she actively encouraged that impression. Studying her as they dined, he saw that her features were actually quite pleasing, though her face was small and a little too pale. He toyed with the idea of asking her to dance, but gave it up. He had no desire to be dismissed by her twice in one evening.
After the ball, he waited up for Gilbert in his library as he usually did. When his brother came in, he poured them both a whiskey.
“So. All goes well with Lady Lavinia?” he asked.
“By Jove, yes. I am in a fair way to being in love with her, brother. She is enchanting. I have never known another like her.”
“So her fortune is no longer the draw?”
“I didn’t say that! I can’t forget that I am only a few weeks away from that lovely inheritance.” His brother’s features lit with anticipation. Unlike the duke, he was fair, but they shared the same square jaw, cleft chin, and deep blue eyes. Gil had always been admired by the ladies.
“You are a devil, brother,” the duke said. “Are you certain that uncle of hers will not reveal to her the real state of your affairs?”
“He won’t. He’s too anxious to get her off his hands. A very cold man, her uncle.”
“And Lady Sophronia? You are still intending to take her to live with you?”
“She doesn’t have the gumption to say boo to a ghost. We won’t even know she is around.”
“I wouldn’t be too certain of that, Gil.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The kitten, or should I say tiger, has claws.”
“Tiger? You’ve had too much champagne, old boy.”
“Ignore me at your peril.” Mayfield finished off his whiskey and poured another. “She is not at all what she seems on first impression.”
His brother laughed. “How is that?”
“She has a sharp tongue and wit that bites. Believe it or not, she stands not the least bit in awe of me. If you spend much time around her before your marriage, there is danger that she will see straight through you.”
Gilbert swirled his whiskey as he contemplated this. “Then I guess I will have to spend as little time as possible in the woman’s company.” He brooded a moment, then sighed. “I do love Lavinia.”
“I don’t know why you weren’t straightforward with the woman. It is certainly not unheard of these days to marry a woman for her fortune.”
His brother shrugged. “She despises fortune hunters. No one knows the true state of my affairs except her uncle and my man of business. I want to keep it that way.”
“You can count on me to settle your debts, Gil. You know that.”
His brother grinned. “The woman really got to you, didn’t she? You’re having second thoughts about this marriage of mine. Don’t worry. I will treat Lavinia like the veriest queen. Harcourt just won’t be the haven she thinks it is until I’ve used her dowry to bring it up to snuff.”
Mayfield was uneasy. Always in favor of putting all his cards on the table, he disliked subterfuge of any kind.
The duke was still unsettled when he woke the next morning. This was such an unusual state of affairs that he cast about for the reason before he even got out of bed.
Ah, yes. Gil’
s marriage. He had an unpleasant feeling that things were not going to go as planned. Particularly with Lady Sophronia in the picture. He guessed that however malleable her sister may be, Lady Sophronia would not tolerate duplicity. She would undoubtedly prove a very uncomfortable person to live with.
He was torn. His brother needed money. However, by misrepresenting himself in the present manner, he might be dooming himself to an intolerable union once his bride learned of his dishonesty. Without doubt, Gil was being short-sighted.
Mayfield shook off his presentiment. It was really none of his business. Since when had he fancied himself to be an expert on matters of marriage? The only thing he knew well was horses, and right now he had a team to train.
Once he had dressed in his buckskins and eaten a sparse breakfast of a boiled egg and toast, he went around to the stable. He carried apples for his team of blacks—Daphne and Chloe. Stroking their necks with affection, he fed them the apples and talked to them in soothing tones.
“Ready for a run to Richmond this morning? Show me what you’ve got? I’ve bought you a new racing harness. We’ll see how you like it, shall we?”
Signaling to the groom to help, he soon had the mares bridled, harnessed, and hitched to his racing curricle. They danced in their traces, eager to be off.
By Jove, they are beauties!
As he guided the pair through the streets of Mayfair, he caught sight of Lady Sophronia and her sister walking toward the park. He raised his hat. Lady Lavinia smiled at him. Lady Sophronia merely nodded, and that bothered him.
Driving to Richmond, he found himself thinking not of his driving technique, but of the puzzle of Lady Sophronia. As his blacks galloped their hearts out, he pictured the small face that didn’t go at all with her very decided opinions. It was really not a bit surprising that she had never married.
In spite of his preoccupation, the duke beat his fastest time to Richmond. Daphne and Chloe had done well with the new harness. Ducking into the Elizabethan pub, The Crown, he met friends and shared luncheon and a game of whist. By the time he galloped his pair back to London, Lady Sophronia was far from his mind.
Spring in Hyde Park Page 9