Miss Pymbroke's Rules

by Rosemary Stevens

  “Pooh,” Louisa scoffed, ignoring Verity’s outstretched hands and instead studying her reflection in the glass above the satinwood dressing table. “You forget, as a widow I am allowed much more freedom than you.”

  Verity dropped her hands to her sides. “Even so, people will gossip.”

  Satisfied with her appearance, Louisa turned a speculative gaze toward her sister. “Your own reputation would be damaged far more than mine if word got out that you had appeared in Portman Square last night, so let us not speak of it again. I am going driving with Sir Ramsey—no; don’t say a word against him. Someone must amuse me today since Lady Iris has insisted on dragging us all to Lady Lexham’s dull turtle dinner tonight.”

  Louisa blew Verity a careless kiss and tripped from the room.

  Verity sighed and shrugged her shoulders. For the moment, she could not concern herself with Louisa’s behavior. It was her own mortifying actions of the night before that had served to bring hot color to her face every time she remembered them.

  And she had been able to do little that morning save recall her response to Lord Carrisworth’s disturbing kiss. Wanton! That is what she had been. And, further, there was the humiliating fact that whenever she thought of her reaction, by necessity she relived every moment of his embrace.

  As the image focused in her memory, she could see again the laughter in his green eyes before his lips came down on hers. She closed her eyes and remembered the potent sensations that had flooded her body at the warm touch of his mouth and the strong feel of his arms around her. Her lips tingled at the memory.

  Verity pressed shaking fingers to her mouth. This would not do! Ladies did not have lustful notions. She was not like her father! Verity picked up the copy of Christian Thoughts For A Lady and held it to her as if it would shield her from her own thoughts and feelings. She was foolish beyond permission for allowing the practiced charms of a rake to affect her so. Drawing a deep breath, she determined to be on full guard around the marquess, lest she end as just another of his amusements—like the twins.

  A scratching on the door preceded the entrance of a meek Betty. “Lord Davies has called to see you, miss.”

  Good Heavens! Verity thought. What on earth could he want? “Show him into the drawing room. I shall be down presently. And, Betty, there is no need to take yourself to task any longer about last night. You explained your fears to me and said you were sorry for your actions.” The maid’s tearful apology earlier had touched Verity’s heart. “Let us forget the matter.”

  Betty straightened her shoulders. “Thank you, miss.”

  Downstairs a few minutes later, ensconced in the drawing room, Lord Davies stood admiring himself in the pier glass. With his new false calves providing his legs with an athletic build, his lavender pantaloons looked very fine indeed. A pink- and lavender-striped waistcoat, topped by a plum-colored coat, nipped in at the waist and well padded at the shoulders, completed his ensemble.

  Despite his pleasure in his appearance, Lord Davies chewed his fingernail nervously. Roxanna Hollings had given him this assignment, for which she was prepared to pay him handsomely.

  The actress had summoned the baron to her house the day before, and after seeing him comfortably seated with a glass of the best canary had proposed her plan. “I have a mind to be Carrisworth’s mistress again, James. The respect I command as such pleases me. I do not view those silly French girls as any obstacle. Rather I am convinced his thoughts are taken up by that moralizing Miss Pymbroke.” Roxanna’s red lips formed a moue of distaste.

  Lord Davies had said, “Very pretty girl, Miss Pymbroke. Innocent-like and refreshing. Her Puritan airs add to her charm.”

  Roxanna’s blue eyes narrowed. “Men are contrary, and if you tell them they can’t have something, they immediately decide it is the only thing they want. The Pymbroke chit is forbidden fruit, and since there is nothing more appealing to a man of the world”—Roxanna snapped her fingers for emphasis—“his interest is captured.”

  Lord Davies’s brow furrowed, but he immediately smoothed it with his fingertips, fearing the formation of a wrinkle. “So you’ve been plotting. What do you want me to do?”

  As she considered him, Roxanna’s lips curved into a smile. “Ah, James, it is unfortunate you cannot be as perceptive at the gaming tables.”

  Ignoring the ugly flush that rose to his lordship’s face, she continued. “If Carrisworth were to see the virtuous Miss Pymbroke giving you her warmest attentions, he would believe she is just like any other female and some of her luster would fade.”

  “But she’s already rejected me once. You saw for yourself, the afternoon at the theater,” Lord Davies protested.

  “True. But you were too blunt. You must win her trust and then carry out the plan.”

  Lord Davies’s expression suddenly turned shrewd. “What’s in it for me?”

  Roxanna rose and poured out another measure of wine for her guest. “My new protector, Rupert, the Duke of Covington, is rich as Croesus. I shall supply you with money for your penchant for gaming ... and, if all goes well, perhaps even pay off your tailor as a bonus,” she ended with a chuckle.

  Lord Davies was once a wealthy man, but deep gambling, resulting in heavy losses and an obsession for clothes had finally reduced him to being purse-pinched. News of this had reached his tailor, making that merchant increasingly reluctant to extend the baron any further credit.

  At the thought of his debts being wiped away and his tailor’s willingness to supply him with whatever he desired, Lord Davies’s pulses quickened as they never had under the ministrations of any female, no matter how desirable. He licked his lips. “I’ll do it,” he told the pleased Roxanna.

  Now, in South Audley Street, Miss Pymbroke entered the drawing room, dropped him a brief curtsy and, with a coldly questioning look, settled herself in a chair. Lord Davies charged forward with his scheme to ingratiate himself with the straitlaced young girl.

  “Miss Pymbroke!” he cried in a voice full of anguish. He dropped to one knee in front of her, at the last moment adroitly placing a handkerchief on the floor so as not to soil his lavender pantaloons. “I am deeply ashamed of my boorish behavior toward you at the theater. Say you forgive me and smile upon me, else I shall shoot myself!”

  “Lord Davies!” Verity exclaimed, startled by his dramatic assertion. “Do not speak so, I pray you. Please, sit down and calm yourself.”

  “Nay!” Lord Davies declared, throwing himself into his role for all he was worth. “My life is meaningless. I have no morals to guide me and have offended a lady whose beliefs make her so high above me, I am not deserving of kissing the hem of her gown.”

  A bubble of laughter formed in Verity’s throat. With Lord Davies’s chubby cheeks and his bushy red hair, he reminded her more than ever of a red squirrel, especially in his present position, kneeling in front of her as if he were begging for a particularly tasty nut. She cast a quick look of reproach at Betty, seated in the corner of the room for propriety, who had not been able to suppress a giggle.

  Turning her attention back to Lord Davies, Verity said, “My lord, I repeat, please sit down. You may be at your ease while we discuss this. I am willing to forgive you for your actions in the Green Room if you are truly sorry.”

  Lord Davies moved to the dark blue settee. He did not notice when Empress padded into the room and soundlessly vaulted to the back of the settee.

  “Indeed, I am truly repentant, but, Miss Pymbroke, you see before you a man lost in a sea of confusion,” he said earnestly.

  Verity was only half listening to him. Her gaze was caught by Empress, whose feline face was a study in curiosity. The cat moved forward and raised a silver-colored paw above Lord Davies’s head. She patted the top of his wiry hair, perhaps in an effort to discover what it was.

  His lordship turned round sharply. “Be gone!”

  The offended cat jumped to the floor.

  “Ahem, as I was saying, Miss Pymbroke, I beg you to instru
ct me onto a more virtuous path.”

  “My lord, it is always beneficial when one sees room for improvement in one’s character, but I fail to comprehend what I can do for you.”

  Lord Davies leaned forward eagerly. “If you could but spare me a little of your time to further my education . . .”

  Again, Verity could barely concentrate on his reply because Empress, now creeping out from under the settee, was stalking the baron’s Hessian boots. With alarm, she thought the tassels might be as tempting to the cat as the beloved ribbons.

  “I plead for your guidance,” Lord Davies went on.

  Before Verity could utter a warning, one lightning quick paw reached out to the closest tassel. Sharp claws ripped it from its mooring. The delighted cat took her prize and batted it across the floor, happily engaged in a game of toss, chase, and capture.

  Lord Davies’s eyes popped at the sight. Reaching down to his scratched boot, he uttered a strangled sound and turned pale.

  “Empress! You . . . naughty . . . cat,” Verity gasped. But the situation was too much for her, and she collapsed into laughter.

  Lord Davies’s face grew as red as his hair while he choked back his fury. Then, he made a swift recovery. Seizing the moment he managed an artificial chuckle. “You see, Miss Pymbroke, what a good influence you are on me? Why, only yesterday I might have scolded that dear little kitty for such an action. While now, in your presence, I find myself tranquil in mind and able to accept the loss of my boot as no great concern. Won’t you agree to educate me so all my thoughts can be so admirable?”

  Although part of Verity’s brain viewed the dandy’s proclamation disbelievingly, her moral character could not refuse what might be a genuine plea for help. “Very well, Lord Davies. I shall assist you in any way I can. You may come to me tomorrow morning at ten.”

  Lord Davies rose and bowed low. To his credit, none of his horror at the desecration of his boot or the early hour Miss Pymbroke set for his call showed on his face as he made his way out of the house.

  Feeling a warm glow at being needed, Verity rose and straightened her skirt. On her way out of the room she glanced over to where Empress, bored already with her new toy, flicked the tassel carelessly under a chair.

  As she climbed the stairs she reflected on the turn of events with Lord Davies. Her feeling that there was good in everyone was often confirmed in the unlikeliest ways. Who would have imagined Lord Davies’s visit?

  It almost gave her hope where the Marquess of Carrisworth was concerned.

  Almost.

  * * * *

  Upon entering Lord and Lady Lexham’s townhouse in Park Lane, Verity drew in an awed breath at her grand surroundings. About thirty guests were assembled in the large gold drawing room, which blazed with candlelight and a rich display of gleaming wood, shining satins, and heavy velvets. Several ornate paintings had been mounted on top of the wall’s tapestries, a move designed to serve as further proof of the host’s great wealth. A group of musicians had been engaged for the evening and were sedately playing Mozart.

  Accompanied by Louisa and the Ladies Iris and Hyacinth, Verity felt grateful that Beecham had once again taken charge of her appearance. She was wearing a white silk gown trimmed in gold braid which repeated at the round neck, the high waist, and the hem. The gown’s tiny sleeves were puffed, and long white gloves covered her arms. White silk roses with seed pearls forming their centers had been carefully placed in her hair.

  At her side, Louisa did not bother to conceal her boredom and promptly went off in search of a glass of wine.

  Lady Hyacinth, in her usual bundle of shawls, walked beside Verity as they made their way through the room. She gently squeezed Verity’s arm and confided, “Do not be intimidated, dear child. I happen to know Lady Lexham periodically hires a certain French hairdresser to shave off a truly horrendous mustache that grows above her upper lip. Why she does not ask him to take care of her chin, I cannot conceive,” she mused.

  “Eudora,” Lady Iris was saying as Lady Lexham approached them. “Let me present Miss Verity Pymbroke. She is staying with Hyacinth and me for the Season.”

  Verity curtsied low to the formidable lady clad in a purple taffeta dress and matching turban. Upon rising, she found herself being coldly scrutinized. She tried hard not to return the stare when her gaze rested on the white hairs sprouting from the lady’s chin.

  “Pretty gel,” Lady Lexham allowed haughtily when she’d finished her inspection. “I’ll make her known to my youngest son, Lord Peter.”

  Lady Lexham signaled to a nervous-looking young man of about twenty-five years, who, in the manner of one long used to doing his mother’s bidding, immediately crossed to her side and bowed over Verity’s hand. She thought him not unattractive with his blond hair done in the Windswept and his clear blue eyes, which observed her shyly.

  The older people melted away, leaving Verity and Lord Peter standing alone. “Are you, um, making your come-out this Season, Miss Pymbroke?” Lord Peter ventured politely.

  “Well, not exactly. I mean, this is my first year of going about in Society,” Verity answered, unsure of how much to tell him. But she needn’t have worried as the young peer’s attention was not on her reply.

  “I say, who was that, um, deucedly pretty lady who arrived in your party? She is sitting, um, across the room.”

  Verity looked over to where Louisa sat petulantly sipping from a glass of champagne. Her gown of azure tissue floated around her. “My sister, Mrs. Barrington. Shall I make her known to you?”

  “Oh, yes, um, please,” Lord Peter said breathily.

  Louisa, whose tastes did not generally run to younger sons, nevertheless was bored enough to be pleased by Lord Peter’s flattering attentions.

  Verity turned away, telling herself she was glad Lord Peter had shown an interest in her sister. He was surely better for her than Sir Ramsey.

  However, she could barely cloak her dismay when moments later Mr. Cecil Sedgewick entered the room with Lady Foxworth and a simpering Lady Althea.

  “Lady Lexham appears to be remiss in the selection of her guests,” a feminine voice declared at Verity’s side. “Surely there are more ladies here tonight than gentlemen, which is really too bad.”

  Verity turned to find a beautiful lady in burgundy silk smiling at her. Blue eyes sparkled from a heart-shaped face of a flawless complexion. Masses of heavy, honey-blonde hair were pinned into a becoming style that threatened to fall down the lady’s back any moment.

  “It was rather shabby of Lady Lexham,” Verity replied, liking the lady at once and unable to repress a smile. “I am Miss Verity Pymbroke.”

  “And I am Gloria, Countess of Northbridge. I came here with my husband, but the wretch has wandered away to look for a friend of ours who was to meet us but is late. Are you an acquaintance of Lady Lexham? I have not seen you before but confess I have been out of Town much of late and am not au courant with Society.”

  “I met Lady Lexham this evening and am here with the two older ladies I live with, Lady Iris and Lady Hyacinth.”

  Lady Northbridge nodded. “I know the dears, of course.” Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, the countess asked, “Does Lady Hyacinth still tell those bouncers about her, er, past gentleman callers?”

  Verity chuckled. “Yes, indeed she does, my lady.”

  “Please, call me Gloria. I hope we can be friends.”

  Verity hoped so too. She had never had a female friend who was close to her in age. And the countess appeared kind and positively radiated happiness.

  Their burgeoning friendship was put to the test a few moments later, however, when Gloria’s husband returned with the missing guest. Verity was barely able to perform her part in the introductions that followed. Her heart was thudding painfully, and she felt sure a telltale blush colored her cheeks when she looked up into a pair of familiar, amused green eyes.

  In a lazy voice, the marquess said, “But, Gloria, Miss Pymbroke and I already know each o
ther, for she is my own sweet landlady.” He bowed low before grasping Verity’s gloved hand and bestowing a kiss upon it.

  Lest he begin caressing it in his usual manner, Verity tugged her hand away.

  Demands for an explanation of how the marquess came to be leasing a house from Miss Pymbroke resulted in Lord Carrisworth telling a sugarcoated version of the facts. During this discourse, he never once took his teasing gaze from her face.

  Missing the speculative gleam in Gloria’s eyes, Verity used the time to try to bring her emotions under control. She was surprised to see the marquess at such a genteel entertainment and in the company of Lord and Lady Northbridge, a respectable married couple obviously very much in love.

  In spite of herself, her gaze moved to the marquess’s firm mouth and memories of the previous evening flooded back.

  At that moment, Lady Lexham called her guests to the massive dining room. She had a cross look on her face, the result of her son’s flirtation with a widow and the unwelcome presence at her dinner of a known rake. In addition, her distraught butler had whispered some ridiculous tale of the cook, Mrs. Witherspoon, trying to take liberties with him.

  Lord Carrisworth offered Verity his arm, and since she could not refuse without seeming churlish, she accepted it. The dining room was every bit as ornate as the gold drawing room. The long table shone with polished silver. Three large silver epergnes brimming with hothouse fruits graced the table at carefully placed intervals.

  Verity hoped she might seat herself as far away as possible from the marquess, but these hopes were quickly dashed when she realized a liveried footman was holding out a chair for her and Lord Carrisworth immediately chose the one next to it.

  Lady Iris and Lady Hyacinth were seated across from her with an older gentleman, introduced as Lord Killigrew, between them. Lord Killigrew was obviously puffed up with his own importance, and his heavy jowls gave him the appearance of a surly old bulldog.

  Mr. Cecil Sedgewick sat on Verity’s other side, much to her delight. But, before she could begin a conversation with the cleric, who was helping Lady Althea to a seat on his other side, Lord Carrisworth addressed her. “Miss Pymbroke, you are not going to make a fuss over last night, are you?”