by Anne O'Brien
I know that it will be no surprise to you if I suggest that matrimony should play a significant part in your planning. You are young, well set up with your own income and property, both of which are substantial, and I do not hesitate to say that you are not unattractive to the opposite sex. It is time that you took a wife—indeed, I consider it to be your duty. Now that Henry and Eleanor are settled in New York—although why that should be I cannot imagine—it behoves you to consider setting up your own nursery. I am sure that you take my meaning. I believe that life can be considered cheap Across the Sea.
How can you expect to meet anyone suitable if you are buried at Burford Hall? Not that it is not a delightful place—I remember exceptional house parties there in your dear mother’s day—but not in April when you should be in London for the Season.
I cannot insist that you come to town, of course—
Really! Nicholas’s lips curled in appreciation of his aunt’s forthright style, against which few members of the family were ever prepared to take a stand.
and I am sure that you can find any number of excuses why your time at Burford is invaluable, but it would please me if you would present yourself in Berkeley Square for my own ball in three weeks. I will take the opportunity to introduce you to this year’s crop of débutantes. Some very pretty well-bred girls, who would be valuable additions to the Faringdon family.
There is no need to reply to this letter. Merely arrive!
Your loving aunt
Beatrice
He cast the letter on to the desk to pour a glass of claret from the decanter, which the footman had brought in whilst he read.
Merely arrive!
Well, he had thought of going, had he not? But not if he was to be an object of Beatrice’s interest. Like a rare insect under a magnifying lens.
Marriage. Of course she would interest herself. Her advice in the letter was nothing new. But Beatrice—damn her!—had pricked at his sense of duty and he could not but acknowledge the weight of her argument. Even so, the prospect of dancing attendance on any number of young girls at Almack’s and other fashionable squeezes filled him with something akin to horror. Eyed, assessed, gossiped over by their avaricious mamas, his income, rank and future prospects a matter for public speculation. The daughters hanging on his every word, hoping for a declaration of undying love or at least the invitation to accept his hand in marriage and take up residence at Aymestry Manor. Or, even more enticingly, at Burford Hall in the absence of the Marquis. Thomas, with considerable aplomb and good humour, would have laughed it off and enjoyed the flirtation and the female fluttering for his attention. Hal would have simply made himself scarce. He, Nicholas, in the circumstances, could do neither. The bonds around him, the silken ties of family responsibility and duty, tightened around him even more. Unbreakable, even though constructed from love and care.
Nicholas poured another glass of claret and frowned into it. Hal had the right of it when he took himself off to New York. But, of course, he had Nell with him now, the love of his life.
He supposed he could simply stay buried here, as Aunt Beatrice had so tactfully phrased it. Offer for the hand of Amelia Hawkes, daughter of the hard-riding, hard-drinking baronet whose land marched with the Faringdon estate in the west. She would like nothing better than to be Lady Nicholas Faringdon, and many would see it as a good match. An excellent rider to hounds, well connected locally, Amelia would take over the running of Aymestry Manor with the same style as she had run her father’s establishment since her mother’s death. She had probably been waiting for an offer from him for the past half-dozen years, he decided, with more than a touch of guilt. Not that he had ever encouraged her to believe that marriage was in his mind—but neither had he discouraged her. With some discomfort he saw the situation from Miss Hawkes’s perspective. They met frequently in the hunting season. He stood up with her at local assemblies in Ludlow and at private parties. Her father, Sir William, certainly would have no objection to such a match. Why not offer for the girl and tell Beatrice that she need dabble no longer—it would be comfortable, easy, familiar?
No, he could not do it. He put down the neglected wineglass with a sharp snap. Poor Amelia. He had not been fair with her. The plain truth was that he no longer wanted comfortable, easy and familiar. She was an attractive girl and would no doubt make some man an excellent wife. He liked her well enough. But love? Amelia never caused his blood to run hot or his eyes to spark with the possessive emotion that he had seen in Hal’s when he turned his gaze on Nell. Nor was the lady blessed with a well-informed mind. They could exchange views on horses and hunting, the desirability of pheasant at the end of the season when stringy could be something of a compliment. But if he ever took the conversation into any other channels—the new ideas on farming—or, God preserve him, the political situation—her eyes glazed over and she had no opinion or knowledge to volunteer. And, he realised as the image of Miss Amelia formed in his mind, she had absolutely no interest in clothes and her appearance, spending most of her days in a riding habit. Nicholas, he discovered with some surprise, since it had never crossed his mind before, was sufficiently fastidious that his future wife must look and play her part with style, whether it be in a fashionable drawing room or on the hunting field.
No. Miss Amelia Hawkes would never be mistress of Aymestry Manor. He supposed it would have to be Aunt Beatrice and the débutantes. He hoped to God that since it was undoubtedly his duty to marry and his heart was clearly not engaged elsewhere, he could meet someone suitable, someone intelligent, stylish and conventional, within a few weeks of his arrival and get it over with. As long as he did not repeat the experience he’d had with Georgiana Fitzgerald. He’d thought he had been in love. The lovely Georgiana Fitzgerald had flirted and smiled, had led him to believe that she would look for more than a light friendship—indeed, a deeper, lasting relationship. For his part he had been entranced by a lively and confiding manner and lovely face. And then, when he had been on the point of declaring himself, she had thrown him over to become the object of interest to an extremely wealthy Viscount on the trawl for a wife. She had wanted a title and fortune, not the heart and devotion of a younger son with a mere easy competence. Nicholas, distinctly disillusioned, had been left to consider the folly of allowing his heart to become engaged when considering matrimony. But that did not make Miss Amelia Hawkes any more acceptable!
On which negative note, Lord Nicholas tossed off the remainder of the claret and left the haven of his library to give instructions for his visit to town. With perhaps, in spite of everything, a lightening of his heart.
Chapter Two
Judith, Countess of Painscastle, sat alone in the supremely elegant withdrawing room of the Painscastle town house in Grosvenor Square. Thoroughly bored. she leafed through a recent edition of La Belle Assemblée, but the delicious fashions for once left her unmoved. She closed the pages and frowned down at the fair and innocent beauty who graced the front cover. There was absolutely no reason for her lack of spirits! There were so many possible demands on her time, and all of them designed to please and entertain. A soirée at the home of Lady Beech that very night. Lady Aston’s drum later in the week. A luncheon party. An essential visit to the dressmaker. What more could she require in life? She was truly, deliriously happy. But her husband Simon had found a need to visit Newmarket. He would return before the end of the week. But she missed him more than she would ever admit.
Now a married lady of almost seven years, Judith had changed little from the flighty, gossip-loving débutante who had stolen Painscastle’s heart. Her hair was as wildly red and vibrant as ever, her green eyes as sparkling and full of life. Only the previous year she had fulfilled her duty and presented her lord with a son and heir. She was inordinately proud and loved the boy beyond measure. But she could not devote all day and every day to her child. She needed something, or someone, to entertain her.
She sighed again, flicked through the pages again, tutted over an illustr
ation of an unattractive and certainly unflattering walking dress with heavy embroidered trim around the hem and cuffs when, on a polite knock, the door opened. Matthews, her butler, entered and presented a silver tray with a bow.
‘Forgive me, my lady. A morning visitor.’
She cast aside the magazine at once and sprang to her feet. A diversion!
‘A visitor!’
‘A young lady. She says that she is unknown to you, but was advised to call by Lady Beatrice Faringdon.’
‘Mama told her to come? Did she, now? She did not tell me.’ Judith picked up the visiting card from the tray. ‘I do not recognise this name. But if Mama sent her … Pray show the lady in, Matthews.’
‘Yes, my lady.’ There was a stern expression on his face as he retreated from the room to usher forward the lady in question.
‘Miss Wooton-Devereux, my lady.’
‘Thank you, Matthews. Would you be so kind as to bring ratafia?’
‘Of course, my lady.’ With a distinct frown, the butler retired.
The lady curtsied. Judith did likewise.
‘Forgive me, my lady.’ The lady spoke with confident assurance in a low, rather husky voice. ‘I know that it is not usual to pay a morning call on someone to whom one has not been formally introduced, but my mama and Lady Beatrice have exchanged some correspondence of late. Lady Beatrice suggested that it would be of advantage to me to make your acquaintance as we are to be here in London for a little time. Being of a similar age, you understand.’ She saw the lack of comprehension in Judith’s face. ‘I gather that your mama has not told you of this.’
‘No. Nothing.’
‘Forgive me. Perhaps I should not have presumed.’
‘No, no—I am delighted that you did.’ Judith thought that the lady did not look particularly sorry. ‘Come and sit.’ She waved an expansive hand towards a chair. ‘I was only a moment ago thinking that I was in need of a distraction.’ And this, she thought, after an equally brief moment of being in the lady’s company, might be exactly the diversion she needed.
As the lady settled herself on the cream-and-gold striped chair, shaking out her skirts and removing her gloves, Judith took stock of her visitor.
‘I am Theodora Wooton-Devereux. We—my parents and I—have just arrived in town. My mother is set to launch me into society, you should understand.’ The lady’s opinion of this intent was signalled by the faintest of curls to her beautiful lips.
‘Indeed.’
The lady who sat before Judith in her withdrawing room, and somehow seemed to fill it with her personality was, well, striking, Judith supposed. Perhaps not classically beautiful exactly. Stunning might be a better word. She would certainly draw all eyes when she entered a room. She did not wear a bonnet. Her fair hair shone and—oh, my—it was cut quite short into the neck with curls that lay softly, without artifice, against her cheeks and forehead. When it was all the rage to wear ringlets falling to the shoulder from a high crown, Judith could not but stare. It was quite outrageous. But quite—charming, if one had the courage to wear it so. Judith knew that she would never dare. As Miss Wooton-Devereux turned her head, there was a touch of burnished copper amongst the gold where the sun caressed it. And those dark lashes and brows—an interesting combination with the deep blue of her eyes. Were her lashes actually dyed? And was there just a hint, the faintest brush of cosmetics on that flawless skin? Judith feared so—and was entranced. Her gown was both expensive and tasteful, but definitely not that of a débutante, shimmering as it did in pure silk of deepest amethyst, trimmed with knots of ribbon and a profusion of tiny silk flowers, in the same hue, around the hem and low-cut neckline.
Definitely not a débutante! Judith decided.
Nor did she wear the single strand of pearls so appropriate to a young girl on the brink of her presentation to society. Instead, a golden necklace of tiny entwined flowers and leaves lay against her throat, coloured stones winking in their depths, and matching earrings dripped exotically from her delicate ears. A stole was draped in artistic folds over her arms, of distinctly eastern pattern with just the hint of sparkle in the weave and the long fringes. Her hands, now revealed as she placed her gloves and reticule on the occasional table beside her, were long-fingered, slender, with a number of intricately worked rings that gleamed gold and silver in the sunlight.
The vision immediately stirred Judith’s jaded appetite. It was as if some exotic butterfly had taken it into its head to land in her withdrawing room and bring it to life.
‘You said that your name was Theodora?’ Judith enquired when she had completed her survey as tactfully as she might.
‘Yes. My mama, Lady Drusilla, called me for the Empress of the Roman Empire, the wife of the Emperor Justinian. She admired her, I believe. But do call me Thea.’
‘Thea. Yes, of course. An unusual name.’
‘Unfortunately. We do not choose our own and my mama has eclectic tastes.’ A glinting smile touched Thea’s face. ‘I have to be grateful that she did not name me Cleopatra. Or Dido.’
‘No, indeed! That would be most unfortunate!’ The Countess of Painscastle had no idea who Dido might be but decided that it did not matter. Ah—you must call me Judith. You say that you are to have a London Season?’
‘Yes.’
‘Forgive me, but …’
‘I know what you are thinking.’ Thea smiled with cheerful composure. ‘You think that I am too old to be a débutante. My mama warned me that it must be so.’
‘Well … That is to say … You are very forthright!’
‘I was brought up to be so. And your comment is certainly accurate. It is not my choice to have a Season at all. I wish to go to Russia instead. But my mother insists. She wants an Earl for me, you see.’
‘Really.’ Judith blinked. ‘Well—that is to say … I expect she might …’
‘Yes. So my father has taken a house in Upper Brook Street and we are set to entertain. Your mama is acquainted with mine—and so suggested that you might give me some advice—how to go on here. I know the protocol in Paris and Constantinople. Even Vienna. But I have never lived in London before.’
‘I see.’ Judith didn’t, but she was sure that this fascinating creature would soon explain.
‘And so I thought I should come and see if you are willing—or if you would rather not. I hope that you would tell me what you truly feel. Parents can be so thoughtless and inconsiderate when they compromise their offspring—particularly when that offspring has no inclination for it at all!’
‘Very true.’ Judith found herself returning the smile in astonishment—and total agreement.
‘Perhaps I should have not come here before we were introduced. Perhaps it is not comme il faut?’
Judith found herself sitting on the very edge of her seat. ‘Perhaps not—well, no, it is definitely not the done thing, but I am delighted that you did. I was suffering from such a megrim before you arrived.’
‘I have never suffered from a megrim in my life, but it pleases me that I can restore your spirits.’ Miss Wooton-Devereux laughed gently, showing perfect teeth, her eyes gleaming with amusement. What an odd creature she was, to be sure.
‘Tell me—’ Judith had to satisfy her curiosity and decided that she felt no compunction in asking ‘—why have you not been presented before?’
Thea was perfectly willing to explain. ‘My father, Sir Hector, is in the diplomatic service. He has been Ambassador to the Court of Constantinople of late. And we have travelled extensively so I have never had the opportunity to stay long in London or enjoy a Season. But now he is between posts. He expects to be sent to St Petersburg later in the year, but for the present we are to remain in London.’
The simple explanation was interrupted by Matthews, who brought in a tray bearing a decanter of ratafia, two glasses and a plate of little biscuits. He arranged them on the table beside Judith’s chair and left, but not before directing another disapproving glance in the direction of their guest.
<
br /> ‘I can not think what is wrong with Matthews.’ Judith watched him as he left the room, shoulders rigid.
Thea laughed again, an infectious low chuckle that instantly encouraged Judith to smile in response. ‘I believe that I have the answer. I am the cause of your butler’s disapproval.’
‘Why? What can you have done?’
‘I came unchaperoned. Without my maid. He appears to disapprove.’
‘Yes. I imagine that he would.’
‘But it is only a step,’ Thea explained. ‘Hardly a stroll. Why should I need a maid with me? I am hardly likely to be set on by footpads in Mayfair in broad daylight, I presume.’
‘No. Of course not. But it is most unconventional. It is not considered … seemly for an unmarried lady to venture on the streets unaccompanied.’
‘I do not see—’ She broke off as Judith handed her a glass of ratafia. She sipped it reluctantly, but with a practised pretence at enjoyment.
‘It would not be good for you to be seen as fast,’ Judith explained after taking a sip from her own glass, ‘if you are to be accepted by the haut ton. You are not in Constantinople now—or Vienna.’
‘I suppose not. I think your mama had the right of it. I need advice. Are you indeed willing to give me your support, Judith?’
‘I think it would be the most delightful thing.’ Judith put down her glass and all but clapped her hands with pleasure. ‘It is just that you must be careful not to offend. You will wish to acquire tickets for Almack’s, I suppose. And the patronesses are so strict, unpleasant even. The slightest whiff of scandal and they could refuse—and that would be fatal for anyone wishing to cut a dash in London.’
‘Oh, there is no problem there.’ Thea wafted away the problem with an elegant sweep of her hand. ‘My mother is thick as thieves with Princess Esterhazy. They have known each other for ever—in diplomatic circles, you understand.’
‘Oh dear. I did not mean to imply …’ Instant colour rose in Judith’s cheeks to clash with her hair.