“Lord Mandeville?” Lucy’s heart began to race. She reached for Jane’s arm. “We must go find Susanna right now—”
“Lucy, whatever is the matter with you?” Jane pulled her arm from Lucy’s grasp with a questioning scowl.
“Miss Rosemoor, Miss Abbington,” Lord Mandeville interrupted, thwarting Lucy’s attempt to flee with a polite bow. “I trust you are having a pleasant evening?”
“Yes, my lord,” Jane said. “Quite pleasant. Her Grace is a delightful hostess. I expect it won’t be long before she convinces some unsuspecting miss to entertain us on the pianoforte.”
“Yes, well, you’d best be thinking of an excuse because I hear she’s relentless,” he said with an easy smile.
Lucy’s first instinct was to turn and walk away, but that was certain to further pique Jane’s curiosity. She could not let Jane see her distress. She would simply feign polite indifference. “I suppose I’m safe, then, because I’m inept at the pianoforte,” she said with a shrug, refusing to meet Lord Mandeville’s eyes. “Perhaps my reputation precedes me.”
“Don’t be so sure, Miss Abbington. I think our hostess takes great pleasure in inflicting those with the least abilities upon her guests.” Lord Mandeville and Jane laughed, and Lucy forced herself to join in.
“Miss Abbington, I meant to inquire about Phantom. How is the tendon?”
“Much better. I’m still applying a poultice, but I do think he can safely return to Covington Hall, so long as he is kept at a walk. Your groom should be able to handle his care from here.”
“I’m much relieved to hear it. I shall send MacLaren tomorrow to retrieve him. And have you thought of a name for the filly yet?” he asked.
“The filly? Oh yes, the foal.” She assumed that after...well, that she would not be choosing the name after all. “No, I’m afraid I have not.”
“Well, then, the poor horse remains nameless for now. The responsibility remains yours.”
“And how is she doing?” Jane asked politely. “The nameless filly? I heard her delivery was most dramatic. No problems, I hope?”
“No, none at all, Miss Rosemoor. Healthy and strong. I’m afraid I didn’t thank Miss Abbington properly for her assistance.” He turned to Lucy. “I’m a great deal indebted to you, and I owe you an apology, as well.”
“An apology?” Jane asked.
Lucy’s cheeks burned. He certainly did owe her an apology, but not here.
A movement across the room caught Lucy’s eye, and she was grateful for the timely distraction. “Oh dear, Her Grace is leading Susanna to the pianoforte.”
“Poor Susanna,” Jane said with a frown. “Well, at least she plays beautifully. I don’t know where she got the courage, though.”
For the next forty-five minutes, Lucy sat as a procession of reluctant young ladies entertained with varying degrees of competency. Susanna was among the most talented. The worst was Miss Rathbone, a jolly looking girl who hit the wrong notes more often than the right ones with great aplomb. At least she was not embarrassed—it made witnessing it so much more bearable.
Dramatic Delivery. The name popped into Lucy’s head as Miss Rathbone plunked her final notes. It was perfect. She would have to thank Jane for the inspiration.
“Miss Rosemoor, Miss Abbington, won’t you lend your talents to the evening?” Lucy jumped at the sound of her hostess’ voice.
“I’m afraid, Your Grace, that we must both demur your kind offer. You see, my friend and I took a chill this afternoon and I fear our voices would not do justice to the lovely evening.” Jane coughed feebly, and Lucy joined in with an exaggerated clearing of her throat.
“Very well,” the dowager said with a disbelieving scowl. “Perhaps Miss Holt, then?”
Lucy sighed with relief as the woman moved on.
It seemed Her Grace could no longer find any willing volunteers. The pianoforte was closed and everyone returned to their tea with evident relief.
“There is Susanna with Miss Ellsworth,” Jane said. “Come, I’d like to introduce you.”
Before replying, Lucy quickly scanned the room, her eyes seeking Lord Mandeville. She found him, standing alone with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing up at a landscape on the wall. “Go on ahead,” she said. “I’ll refresh my tea and join you presently.” Lucy sighed in exasperation as her friend looked to Lord Mandeville and smiled knowingly before hurrying off.
Lucy was anxious to tell him the name she had settled upon and be done with it. She set down her cup and strode purposefully across the room to his side.
“Lord Mandeville,” she said, “might I have a word with you?”
He turned and smiled. “Yes, Miss Abbington, of course. I meant what I said. I do owe you an apology.”
“You certainly do, but not in the presence of Miss Rosemoor.” She hoped he would be quick about it.
“I’ve no idea why I behaved so abominably, but I sincerely hope you’ll forgive me. I was anything but a gentleman.” He winced at the words.
Lucy cleared her throat uncomfortably. He did look truly repentant, and she supposed she should be gracious. She was to act the proper lady, after all. Not that he deserved it. “Your apology is accepted, my lord.”
“Thank you.” He nodded and reached for her hand. She hesitated for a moment before allowing him to take it. He placed a very formal kiss on her knuckles, his eyes never leaving her face. When he released her, Lucy clasped her hands in front of herself, hoping to quell their trembling.
“I do hope we can be friends,” he said at last. “Helping you deliver the foal...well, I am grateful—”
“Oh, the foal,” she interrupted. She was surely letting him off too easily but she was anxious to change the subject. “That is what I wished to speak to you about. I thought of the perfect name for the filly.”
He leaned toward her, a warm smile softening those bottomless indigo eyes of his. “Really?” he said. “Tell me.”
“Dramatic Delivery,” she said with a flourish. “Something Jane just said inspired it.”
“Dramatic Delivery.” He tested the name. “Hmmm, I shall call her Drama.”
“Drama,” she repeated, her head tilted to one side. “It’s perfect, Henry.”
Lucy heard an audible gasp, and Lady Charlotte, who had sidled up to the marquess’ side, turned sharply to face her.
“How dare you!” Lady Charlotte hissed, her cheeks flushed. “How dare you address him so informally. He is ‘Lord Mandeville’ to you.” There was stone silence as several pairs of eyes turned toward Lucy.
Her heart skipped a beat. Had she called him ‘Henry’? However did she make such a blunder? Yes, in a moment of camaraderie he had asked her to call him by his given name but she had not presumed to do so. It just wasn’t done. No, even in her innermost thoughts she referred to him as ‘Lord Mandeville’. Her stunned gaze traveled from Lady Charlotte’s stormy countenance to Lord Mandeville’s shocked one.
“I...I apologize, Lord Mandeville,” Lucy sputtered. “I did not realize...I do not know why...” She stumbled back, tears of humiliation threatening her eyes.
Lord Mandeville stood motionless, mute as a statue.
Seeing Lucy’s distress from across the room, Jane hurried to her friend’s side, inadvertently blocking her escape.
“Lucy, whatever is the matter?”
She looked to Jane, too stunned to move or speak.
”My goodness,” Lady Charlotte said with a sneer. “Quite above oneself, isn’t she?” She turned toward her companions and added, “I hear she is nothing but a physician’s daughter from the midlands who fancies herself an animal healer.”
Lord Mandeville turned to Lucy and mercifully found his voice. “Miss Abbington, you owe me no apology.” His face was blank, unreadable. “When we last met, I asked you to address me as such, did I not?”
Lucy could only nod.
“Lord Mandeville,” Lady Charlotte said sweetly, her face pinched, “I am ready to leave and I do not see Pap
a. Could you escort me to my carriage?” She reached for his arm, but he sidestepped her grasp.
Ignoring Lady Charlotte’s request, he turned to her companions and bowed. “Miss Rhodes, Mr. Spencer.” Returning his attention to Lucy and Jane, he offered a tight smile. “Ladies, might I offer you some refreshments?”
Lucy heard Lady Charlotte’s sharp intake of breath as Jane wordlessly nodded acceptance. She reached for Jane’s elbow and allowed her to steer her away from the gaping group.
“I cannot believe it,” Jane whispered breathlessly as they reached the far side of the room. “He gave her the cut-direct.”
Lucy rubbed her temples. She was shaking terribly.
“Whatever did you do to incur such wrath from Lady Charlotte?” Jane asked. “What was Mandeville speaking of, ‘you addressing him such?’”
“Jane, you wouldn’t believe it. I’m ever so humiliated. I...” She swallowed convulsively. “I called him ‘Henry’,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“You did what?” Jane’s eyes grew round as saucers.
“I called him ‘Henry’. I addressed Lord Mandeville by his given name.” Lucy pressed a hand to her mouth.
“Oh my.” For once, Jane was nearly speechless.
Just then Lord Mandeville returned proffering two glasses of sherry. “I thought perhaps you might need something stronger than tea.”
Lucy cleared her throat and found her voice, however small. “Lord Mandeville, I truly must apologize. I had no right—”
“You had every right,” he said levelly. “It was Lady Charlotte who had no right to speak as she did.”
The blood rose in Lucy’s face, but she wasn’t sure if it was from anger or humiliation. She wasn’t sure of any of her emotions when she was in Lord Mandeville’s presence.
Susanna appeared at Lucy’s side, practically panting. The news was surely spreading fast.
“Lucy, dearest, I heard what happened. Oh, that girl is despicable,” Susanna said, casting a scowl in Lady Charlotte’s direction. She clasped Lucy’s hand and turned to the marquess, her pale eyes shining. “Lord Mandeville, what you did was nothing short of heroic.”
“There is nothing heroic about doing what is right, Miss Susanna. By the way, your turn at the pianoforte was lovely. Your voice is extraordinary.” Susanna beamed in response. “Now if you will excuse me, I must bid you all a good night.” He bowed and turned to leave. He took no more than three steps before he stopped short and turned toward them once more. “Oh, and Miss Abbington, thank you for the name.”
“The...the what?” Lucy stuttered.
“Dramatic Delivery. I like it.” With a broad smile, he turned and strode out.
Chapter 5
Rosemoor House, London
Lucy set down her quill and glanced out the window at the bright moon. She shivered as a light breeze rippled the curtains, and she reached down to tighten the belt of her dressing gown. Moving the candle closer to the page, she read the letter she’d just finished to Papa and Nicholas. She was having a difficult time putting into words her impressions of London thus far, but she knew Nicholas would relish her descriptions so she tried her best to capture the atmosphere of the bustling city.
Yet the past two weeks were nothing but a blur in her mind, making accurate description difficult. The first few afternoons were filled with rounds of calls to leave crisp, white cards on shining silver salvers. Lucy was amazed at the number of cards they collected themselves in Rosemoor House’s own front hall those first hectic days. She had underestimated her hosts’ popularity.
She had written her papa that her first fortnight in Town passed quite pleasantly, and it was unexpectedly true. Rosemoor House, situated in the fashionable St. James district, was comfortable and charming. Her own bedchamber, done in tranquil shades of sage and rose, overlooked the small, square garden out back. Each night Lucy drifted to sleep breathing in warm air redolent with the heady fragrance of the blossoms below. She glanced around at her pleasing surroundings, the bedchamber aglow with the flickering light of her candle, and thought with a shrug how surprising it was that, given their long acquaintance, she’d never before visited the Rosemoors in London.
She had to admit she was enjoying her stay. She had settled into a comfortable routine since her arrival. Before breakfast each day she enjoyed a brisk morning ride in Hyde Park down the Ladies’ Mile, and she was surprised to find that she actually took pleasure in accompanying Jane and Susanna on shopping trips to Bond and Regent Streets. It was amazing what a variety of goods could be had for a shilling or two, and Lucy was grateful for the generous pin money supplied by her papa. New ribbons and gloves, brooches and shawls, bits of lace and lavender water—all amassed in such a short time. She glanced guiltily at the stack of novels sitting neatly upon her bedside table. She could barely wait to delve in.
Hastily, she folded the letter and sealed it. She would ask Penwick to post it for her later.
Yes, perhaps she had done too much shopping, but it was best to escape the hectic frenzy of preparations for the Rosemoors’ ball. Lady Rosemoor was in a dither, holed up with the housekeeper most of the time worrying over flowers and decorations, the menu, and entertainments.
Tomorrow she and Susanna would go to St. James’s Palace and be presented to the aging queen, but the prospect of her formal introduction to the crown worried her far less than the ball being held in her honor the following night. Her stomach lurched every time she imagined the scrutiny she would be under. She spent hours with Lady Rosemoor going over the prescribed etiquette a proper young lady of the ton was expected to follow at all times. There were so many rules to remember. She would lie in bed at night, ticking them off mentally. Never dance more than three dances with the same partner; never remain in the company of a man without a proper chaperone; always acknowledge a gentleman of acquaintance with a nod before he may address you; and her personal favorite, never wear diamonds or pearls in the morning—as if she even owned such jewels! The bothersome list went on and on.
Worse yet, Lord Mandeville might be at the ball. She did not dare ask Lady Rosemoor how he had responded to the invitation, no matter how curious she was. She would find out soon enough. She was vaguely aware that his accommodations were perhaps a quarter mile at most from Rosemoor House, but mercifully she had managed to avoid him thus far. Her mind was involuntarily drawn to the memory of his kiss. I must forget that kiss, she reminded herself with a scowl. Forget the kiss and all the intoxicating feelings it stirred in her. It hadn’t meant anything, couldn’t mean anything. Her spine straightened as her wavering resolve strengthened.
If only she could settle on what to wear. She knew she was meant to wear white, perhaps a pastel, but she was past her twentieth birthday—debutante or not—and she was much better suited to a richer hue. She threw open the doors to her wardrobe and idly fingered the neatly hanging gowns, grateful for the Rosemoors’ modiste. The woman worked wonders in a short time, and with such limited funds. The emerald-green silk, perhaps, or the lilac trimmed with gold? She would ask Jane. Jane would know what was appropriate. Everything must be perfect for the ball, after all. Perfect. Lucy’s heart fluttered nervously.
She dropped her gaze to the floor and saw a crumpled pile at the foot of the wardrobe. Curious, she bent to retrieve the bundle. It was Nicholas’s breeches and tunic, the riding clothes she’d snuck into her trunks before leaving home. A smile slowly spread across her face. She’d near enough forgotten these. Suddenly she thought of Mr. Wilton. This whole debutante business would be worth it if only Mr. Wilton would come through for her.
It was all so unfair. Lucy’s hands balled into fists. It was bad enough she couldn’t study veterinary arts at the college herself. She was as smart as Mr. Wilton, and just as skilled. But no—all they expected from her was marriage and children, nothing more. If only she could remain at home with Papa and Nicholas and continue doing what she loved best. But someday Nicholas would marry and inherit Ludlow House, and th
en where would she be? The only respectable occupation for a spinster was that of governess, and being a governess was about as bad as being a gentleman’s wife.
But with some formal training in veterinary arts, she could start her own practice, as unconventional as that would be, and begin accepting payment for her services. She could set up her own modest household. An ambitious plan, yes, but she knew she could do it. She’d been so busy these past weeks, shopping and preparing for her debut, that she’d lost sight of her true goal.
Perhaps once the faculty saw how natural her abilities were and how serious and earnest she was...well, that was likely too much to hope for, after all. But then again, maybe it was not.
Now it was time to put her plan into action. She padded barefoot across the floorboards of her bedchamber, back to the escritoire, and again took out quill and paper. She began a letter to Mr. Wilton, directed to the Veterinary College, Camden Town, London. She scribbled hastily, fearing interruption at every creak and shuffle outside her door. With a triumphant smile, she folded the paper, sealed it, and pulled the cord by her bed. No use putting it off. She would get both letters to Penwick now, before she lost her courage.
Minutes later, she handed the letters over with a trembling hand. She could only hope that Mr. Wilton would be able to aid her cause. If not, these months here would be nothing short of time wasted.
She yawned, stretching her arms up to the ceiling. She was tired, and there was much to do in the next two days. She blew out her candle and hurried to bed, guided by the light of the moon. As she settled herself under the crisp, cool bedclothes, she said a silent, hopeful prayer.
***
Henry wielded his paperboard sword with as much ferocity as he could muster, one eye covered by a makeshift eye patch made from a folded napkin and a tied handkerchief. “Aaarghh, matey. Give me your gold or walk the plank!”
“Never, you rogue,” young Katherine replied boldly, jabbing him in the shoulder with her own pretend sword.
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