“Close your mouth,” Luke Appleton hissed, before the steps of the dance parted them once again. Mandy struggled to keep the pace, even as she searched her mind for any past encounters with Mrs. Isabelle Honeycutt. Or had Papa kept his encounters with the Widow Honeycutt a deep, dark secret?
Was it possible . . .?
Surely not.
Luke kept Mandy from disaster by gripping her arm, firmly guiding her through a parade down the middle of the line. Almost done, she thought. A final curtsey, and she would be free to consider the problem of Papa and Mrs. Honeycutt.
Idiot! her common sense scoffed. Why should he not dance? There are men on the floor ten years your father’s senior.
It was just . . . she’d had him to herself for so long. If there had been women, she’d never had an inkling. But now, when she was being presented to society, when he expected her to marry, when he might find himself alone . . .
Mandy hid a grimace as she lowered her head in the curtsey that marked the end of the dance. But time to think was denied her, for when Mr. Appleton returned her to Aunt Tynsdale, Lord Jeremy was waiting to claim a second dance. Mandy drew a deep breath, schooled her features into a smile, and accepted his hand. It was perhaps fortunate the next dance was a stately quadrille, requiring every ounce of her attention to get through the steps without making a fool of herself. But when she and Papa were once again in Laura Place . . .
No. She had no right to quiz him. It was but one dance. One dance. If she could harbor a tendre for the Marquess of Montsale for close on to eight years, then Papa was entitled to partialities of his own.
But the thought of anything more . . . Papa and Mrs. Honeycutt?
Heaven forfend!
“Did you see the dark looks Lady Christabel and her horrid friend cast our way last night?” Hetty Oglethorpe inquired as she and Mandy found a corner of the Pump Room in which they could be private.
“Lady Olympia Betancourt? I did indeed. Her mother is Lady Silverdale. Aunt Tynsdale tells me she and Lady Pontesbury are thick as thieves.”
“And quite as nasty,” Hetty concurred. “They positively seethed when Lord Jeremy and Mr. Farnborough danced with us.”
“Delightful, was it not?” Mandy said, a slow smile spreading across her face, as the colors, sound, and movement of the previous evening whirled through her head. “We did not sit out a single dance—except for the one you spent with Captain Dunstan. And,” she added, eyes sparkling, “I am sure those were the best moments of your entire evening.”
Miss Oglethorpe blushed and ventured, “We are blessed you are acquainted with so many charming gentlemen, though I admit I was most surprised when your aunt’s solicitor asked me to stand up with him. I think she must have given him a hint.”
“Silly. Of course she did. But I thought Mr. Rutherford a dab hand with the bon mot, even if he is nearly as old as Mr. Tharp. Though I should not, of course, be surprised a solicitor has a gift for words.”
“Mr. Tharp is not old,” Hetty protested. “He cannot be long past thirty.”
Mandy regarded her friend with considerable surprise. “You do not think that old?”
“Indeed not, but I suppose I have seen more of the world when making parish visits with Mama. One hears such remarkable things.” Hetty broke off, color staining her cheeks. “That is one advantage I have, I suppose. You, my dear Mandy, are much wiser than I in the ways of men, but I have a far more extensive acquaintance among women and have learned a good deal about how our elders think. I believe most would agree Mr. Tharp to be a fine figure of a man, eligible for a lady of any age, as long as she is not out for a title.”
Mandy stared. “But you have feelings for Captain Dunstan.”
Hetty chortled, shaking her head. “We have barely begun our come-outs, and surely we are entitled to look about as much as we like. When else shall we ever have such an opportunity? I, for one, find it delightful.”
“Ah, there you are.” Lord Jeremy proffered a bow, followed by a smile so like his brother’s Mandy’s breath caught in her throat. “May I join you while I wait for Farnborough to appear?” Upon receiving their assent, he seated himself beside Mandy.
“You looked quite splendid last night, Miss Merriwether,” he declared. “Even grandmère commented on the style of your gown, wondering if you’d had it made up here or in London.” Coloring slightly as he realized his faux pas, the young man transferred his gaze to Mandy’s companion. “Your gown was also very fine, Miss Oglethorpe, a fine shade of pink to match your cheeks.”
“My compliments, Lord Jeremy,” Mandy said. “You are well on your way to being as silver-tongued as your brother.” She managed a teasing smile, even as memories of Bourne Challenor flooded back, squeezing her heart tight.
For a moment Lord Jeremy seemed startled but recovered quickly to say, “But of course, Miss Merriwether. I fear I had forgotten you are acquainted with my brother.”
How that could be when it must have been a most juicy topic of conversation among his grandmère and her equally high-in-the-instep friends, Mandy could not imagine. “It was a long time ago,” she murmured, “and quite forgotten by me as well. Tell me, my lord, does your brother spend the winter in London or—ah, here is Mr. Farnborough.” Mandy, grateful for an interruption that saved her from making a fool of herself by inquiring too closely after the activities of the Marquess of Montsale, subsided into her chair, inclining her head in response to Mr. Farnborough’s bow.
They had not indulged in five minutes of reminiscences of the previous night’s dance when a voice as sharp as the cutting edge of a sword rose above their conversation. “Lord Jeremy, the duchess wishes to speak to you. She is quite shocked you failed to pay your respects.”
“Lady Christabel, Lady Olympia,” Mandy replied coolly as both young men jumped to their feet. “I bid you good afternoon.” She could only suppose Lady Christabel’s shocking manners were deliberate, but this was undoubtedly one of those occasions Aunt Tynsdale had warned her about. Hetty would agree, she suspected, citing this moment as a time to turn the other cheek. “I am quite certain Lord Jeremy came straight to our side only because he failed to see his grandmother,” Mandy returned graciously. “We shall relinquish him to his duty with our good will, for never would we wish to be in duchess’s black books.”
“I feared you would box her ears,” Hetty confessed as the quartet walked away.
“How I should have loved to do exactly that,” Mandy muttered. “How dare they treat us so?”
“Do you suppose the duchess truly sent them, or was it Lady Pontesbury? ’Tis clear she knows of Montsale’s interest in you.”
“And I have told you that was long ago and quite, quite over.”
“Then why, my dear Mandy, did you look so sad when you told me of it?”
Mandy fingered her reticule, adjusted a fold of her soft blue woolen gown. “Some dreams are difficult to suppress, even when they are eminently foolish. Such impossible dreams should be fragile, easily banished, but I have found they are not. I am ashamed to say this one is stuck in my mind and will not let go.”
Hetty covered her friend’s hand with her own. “I am so very sorry, and seeing Lord Jeremy daily—indeed, having him follow you about like a lost sheep looking for his mama—must be most disconcerting.”
Disconcerting? More like rubbing salt on a wound, but Mandy would never say so. “Come, ask your mama if we may visit the book shop next door. I feel much in need of a diverting novel or two.”
As they passed the Dowager Duchess of Carewe and her coterie of admirers, Mandy held her head high, her back and shoulders stiff as a plank. Lord Jeremy caught sight of her and poked Mr. Farnborough in the ribs, prompting both gentlemen to turn and offer bows. Mandy felt only the slightest twinge of guilt as she savored the fierce scowl on Lady Christabel’s face as they did so.
Two and a half more months in Bath. Clearly, not all the sparks flying through the winter season would be romantical.
Chapte
r Eight
Castle Carewe, Oxfordshire
Bourne paused in the bookroom doorway, breathing in the scent of a thousand leather bindings, interspersed with the musty odor of the ancient hand-written and elaborately decorated tomes in his father’s vast collection. The duke’s tastes were eclectic. The rows of highly polished wooden shelves contained a multitude of works in a dozen languages, from first editions by great men of letters to ancient manuscripts almost as finely illustrated as the Book of Kells; from pages of meticulously delineated flowers from around the globe to—as Bourne could attest—far too many dry treatises on farming, sheep, and cattle. And far up on the top shelves—as Bourne had known since he made his first surreptitious climb up the bookroom ladder at age ten—was as fine a collection of erotic literature as could be found anywhere. There was a time when he had thought the men in the illustrations could actually juggle that many females at once. Alas, experience had proved him wrong, or perhaps Englishmen simply didn’t have the endurance of their Indian and Asian counterparts. A lowering thought. One the Marquess of Montsale would never accept.
For a moment Bourne’s lips curled in derision. The erotic drawings were as much fiction as the novels in the duke’s collection—entertaining but impossible for all but a contortionist. And who would truly wish to—
Bourne’s handsome features snapped back to their customary cool indifference. He should, he supposed, associate this room with all the scoldings he’d endured here, while never allowing his father to discover he was almost as much of a bibliophile as the duke himself. Truthfully, he had been sneaking books out of this library since he was seven, continuing the practice long after he had become a young man about town. But he doubted today’s command appearance before the duke was for a long-belated scold about his reading habits. In fact, after searching every nook and cranny of his recent memory, he could not find a single reason for today’s summons. He had been such a dutiful son for the past twenty-some months that he was long overdue for rebellion. He had even accepted the presence of Lady Christabel and her poisonous mother over the holidays with no more than an inward sigh—
Devil a bit! Surely that’s not why Carewe wished to see him! He was only twenty-three, with no thought to a leg-shackle for years to come. And besides he didn’t like the girl above half. Though a classic English beauty, anyone with a discerning eye could see Lady Christabel would someday be as much of a witch as her mama. Pray God today’s interview was not to be an order to marry forthwith!
“Going to stand there all day, Montsale?” the duke snapped.
“My apologies, Your Grace, I was indulging in childhood memories of the library.”
“Still reading, are you?” The duke, evidently realizing he had revealed more knowledge of his son’s habits than he intended, harrumphed and added, “Come, come, Montsale. Sit down. You tower over me quite enough while seated without looming above me like a curtain wall.”
Bourne sat, steeling himself for whatever calumny his father might wish to heap upon him.
“Your mother is concerned about letters she has received from Bath,” the duke said, obviously choosing his words with care. “Letters from your brother, from the Dowager Duchess, and from ah–acquaintances.” The Duke of Carewe, usually decisive in all his dealings, paused, drumming his long, slim fingers against his desktop. “It would seem,” he said at last, “your brother is following in your footsteps, totally enamored by the charms of a certain Miss Merriwether.”
“You jest!” Bourne’s spine snapped straight. His jaw dropped, his eyes glittered, completely shattering his mask of ennui.
“Not in the least. Discounting the venomous remarks from Malvinia Pontesbury, I am inclined to believe every word. The boy is besotted. Even speaks of making the chit an offer.”
“Impossible!”
“Indeed. Which is why I am sending you to Bath to put a stop to it.”
Bourne swallowed hard, staring, mouth agape, at his father. “You wish me to do what?”
“Bring the boy home, hie him off to London, whatever it takes. Pay the girl off if you must, though Merriwether’s a proud one. Bridgewater’s by-blow, don’t you know? Money’s more likely to set his back up.”
“I can see it now,” the marquess drawled with considerable sarcasm. “I will return to High Meadows to discover my hillside blown to bits. That, or pistols at dawn.” He paused, his flint-gray eyes suddenly fixed on the duke. “What was that you said about Bridgewater?”
The Duke of Carewe affected a negligent wave of his hand, his signet ring catching the glint of the morning sun. “An open secret, my boy. I’m surprised you didn’t know. Merriwether was bred to his trade by the old canal master himself.”
“Making Miss Merriwether the granddaughter of a duke.”
“Challenors do not accept by-blows on their family tree.”
“The girl’s as legitimate as you or I.”
“Enough!” The duke’s hand hit the desk with a resounding thump. “You will go to Bath and take care of this matter. At once.”
Bourne, eyes narrowed, leaned back in the barrel chair in front of his father’s desk. “It doesn’t occur to you, you might be sending the fox to guard the hens.”
“A poor analogy, Montsale, and, no, it does not. You have proved yourself sensible, worthy of my trust. Now, go, order your man to pack.”
It needed only that. If Carewe had said anything else . . .
Hell and the devil! His papa trusted him.
Bourne pushed back his chair, stood up. “I’ll be gone in an hour, Your Grace.” His face might be blank as he left the bookroom, but his mind screamed with rage.
“Papa, no!” Mandy cried, her fine features puckering into a pout more associated with a nine-year-old than a young lady of eighteen.
“I spend my life outdoors, Miss Argumentative,” John Merriwether declared with a scowl to match her own. “I know snow clouds when I see them. I have no desire to be forced from the comfort of a roaring fire and a good book to come to your rescue. No Pump Room today.”
A moment of silence greeted this no-nonsense statement before Mandy ventured, “Then may I visit Hetty? ’Tis but a one street away, and I promise to return at the first snowflake.”
“Ah, yes, Henrietta Street,” he murmured, a twinkle lighting his blue eyes. “No doubt it was the name that drew the Oglethorpes to a lease within a stone’s throw of Laura Place.”
Her good humor restored, Mandy offered a mischievous smile. “I believe it might have been more than the coincidence of the name, Papa.”
“A most efficacious choice, I’m sure, with the two of you thick as thieves.”
“Papa,” Mandy chided, “you know quite well Hetty is my very first friend. Having her close is . . . perfectly delightful.” She paused, eyeing her father’s back as he abruptly turned away, his gaze fixed on the steel-gray clouds descending on Bath. “Papa, I was not complaining, truly not. It is simply that I have never before encountered someone with whom I could feel so comfortable—”
“You have never before had an opportunity to encounter a young lady your own age,” her father returned, his voice harsh. “We travel constantly, strangers in counties where you must be resident for a generation before you are considered anything but a newcomer. Even in London you live in a world of men. Yet I have kept you with me, never sent you to a proper academy for young la—”
“But I did not wish to go away. I love our life!”
John Merriwether sighed. “It is the life to which you are accustomed, Amanda. That does not mean it has been the right life, and I am heartily sorry for it.”
Mandy, who was already attired in her woolen pelisse and sturdy winter bonnet, rushed to her father, hugging him tight. “I would not have exchanged the life I’ve had for a hundred friends, even if they were all as kind and sweet as Hetty. The canal is my life, and as much as I’m enjoying being frivolous for a few weeks, I have no intention of settling on a husband until the K&A is well and truly finished.” She
directed an anxious glance straight up, green eyes to blue. “I’ve known nothing but the canal since I was born. I will not abandon it for the first handsome face that comes along!”
“Amanda.” His voice choked, John Merriwether set his daughter at arm’s length, their eyes still locked. “Nearly every female of my acquaintance has scolded me these two years past for my neglect of you: ‘She must have a season.’ ‘She must meet someone besides engineers.’ And now you tell me you are not ready?”
Mandy firmed her chin, even as she dropped her gaze. “I am ready, Papa. I want a home of my own, a family. And, yes, I did fear being firmly on the shelf by the time the canal was finished. But now . . . as much as I am enjoying myself, I find I am restless. I see how shallow society is, the constant chatter, the maneuvering, the sharp competition. And it’s only Bath. I cannot imagine how cut-throat a London Season must be.”
John Merriwether studied his daughter as if she were a new species, freshly hatched. “Every time I look at you and Miss Oglethorpe—whether in the Pump Room, at a concert or an assembly—you are surrounded by an entire coterie of admirers. Is there none among them who has caught your fancy?”
“You are implying that the right man could change my mind?”
“I am.”
Mandy heaved a sigh that came straight from her soul. “Would you rather have Mrs. Honeycutt as your secretary?”
“Amanda Grace, you are not too old for a sound spanking!” Glaring, John Merriwether folded his arms across his chest.
She should apologize. Instantly. But the words stuck in her throat. Papa had every right to a life of his own, but . . .
Mandy turned and ran out of the drawing room, down the stairs, out into the street. As her quick, angry steps took her toward Henrietta Street, the first fat white snowflakes drifted toward the pavement.
Ten minutes later, having begged a comfortable coze in her friend’s bedchamber, Mandy managed to say around her sobs, “I was perfectly horrid, the most ungrateful child in all the world. All Papa has done for me and . . .” Tears overwhelmed her.
Lady of the Lock Page 7