Love's Folly

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  “Miss Penthorne,” he said.

  “Yes, milord?”

  “I quite realize that you are angry,” he said evenly, his dark eyes regarding her coolly.

  “How extremely astute of you!” Emily heard Sarah’s gasp of dismay, but she was past the point of caring. This man was not only a tyrant, he had shattered the dream that she had been nourishing in her breast all winter. She could never think of marrying such a man—and certainly he would never imagine the possibility, seeing her as he did, as a sort of wayward child.

  “Miss Penthorne,” he began again, while she clenched her fists to keep back the tears. “I know that you are angry. I do hope that you understand. I do not harass you as a mere pastime. I am simply endeavoring to fulfill my duties to the best of my capacity. Surely you can understand that?”

  There was a tone of almost pleading in his voice that touched Emily momentarily. But when Sarah nodded and said, “Of course, milord,” some demon possessed Emily and she cried angrily, “I do not understand. I see only that you insist on treating me as a child—and a half-witted one, at that It’s-it’s insulting, that’s what it is!”

  “Emily, you mustn’t—”

  The viscount silenced Sarah’s remonstrance with an upraised hand. He looked at Emily sternly. “I treat you like a child,” he said, “because you behave like one. Always angry and petulant.”

  Emily bristled up even more at this, but he continued. “However, you are young yet. Given time you will mature into a decent young woman, I’ve no doubt.”

  “And all because of your great guidance,” flared Emily.

  The viscount smiled slightly, the lazy laconic smile that the rakes affected. “I hope to have some part in the shaping of your character.”

  This was quite beyond the line and for a moment Emily was left speechless. Then she drew herself up and spoke with all the icy dignity she could muster. “I believe my character is quite sufficiently formed already. And until now I have heard no criticisms of it.”

  Dunstan eyed her for a minute and something in his look took her back to that first time—when she had noticed the stranger watching her from across the room. She felt herself color at the memory and wondered if the viscount remembered that evening. Surely he could not, for the look he had given her then had been frankly appreciative, the look of a man for a woman, not for a child.

  His lordship turned to Sarah. “I am truly sorry to have so offended your charge. I have never before been responsible for—” He glanced quickly at Emily. “A young woman. To be entirely truthful, I suppose I should add that I find the responsibility rather galling.”

  “Milord.” Emily, hearing the placating note in her companion’s voice, ground her teeth in anger. “Milord,” Sarah went on. “I believe you. Emily has not had the care of a really concerned guardian —not that her Uncle Cyril does not care, but his illness …; She will eventually see that you are doing the best for her.”

  Emily forced herself to remain silent. She knew her anger had made her lose control of herself in a way she never had before. She had behaved childishly; she conceded that to herself. But she couldn’t help it. Every word he said to her, every insulting, condescending, patronizing word seemed specifically designed to infuriate her. Reason told her that he did not intend that, but emotion insisted that she felt as though he did.

  The viscount gave her once more quick glance and then left the room.

  “Emily, my dear,” began Sarah as the door closed behind him.

  “Oh, Sarah, not now! I simply cannot bear another word. Please, please, just leave me be for a while.” And Emily, the tears finally released, threw herself through the curtains onto the great bed and began to sob and pound the pillow.

  * * * *

  Sometime later there came a knock on the door. “Dinner,” said Jeffers.

  “Fine,” replied Sarah. “We’ll be right there.”

  Emily sat up and sniffled. “I do not care to eat,” she told Sarah stiffly. “I am not hungry.”

  “But the viscount,” Sarah began. “And your uncle.”

  “I do not care a pin how the viscount feels about it,” replied Emily. “I am not hungry and I do not intend to go down to dinner. I shall see Uncle Cyril later—alone.”

  Sarah, in spite of her pleadings, was forced to go down to dinner alone. “I shall tell him you have a headache,” she said at the door.

  From her place on the bed Emily scowled. “I don’t care what you tell him. I never want to think of that odious man again.”

  With a sigh Sarah closed the door behind her. Emily pounded the pillow again.

  How she had looked forward to this trip. When the news of Napoleon’s defeat and the coming Victory Celebration had arrived, more than half her joy had come from the knowledge that the sooner she returned to the city the sooner she would be able to begin the search for the man who possessed her heart. And now—now everything was utterly ruined. The wonderful, handsome man she had so longed for was an unspeakable tyrant who treated her abominably and who insisted on regarding her as a child. Not only were her dreams of him shattered, but the chances of having any fun in the city were also ruined. She had thought Sarah stick-in-the-muddish. But this man ... He was downright old-fashioned— and with the smuggest and most irritating belief that he knew everything.

  Emily threw herself back against the pillows. How she hated it when he looked at her as he had. He made her feel that she was still in leading strings. It was unconscionable!

  And to think how rude she had been to several perfectly nice young men last season, just because beside that romantic stranger they had seemed callow striplings. Well, she told herself sharply, if this was the behavior one could expect from a dark, romantic stranger, a stripling was much to be preferred.

  Yet she had to admit that her memory of him had been quite accurate. His face was darkly handsome. There was something special about the way his hair curled over his collar. His shoulders were strong and broad and his inexpressibles, though not of the latest cut, showed a perfect leg. No, she decided. There had been no mistake in her picture of him. The mistake lay in not considering his character. That was it. How was she to know that the man who looked at her with such interest in his eyes would turn out to be a bully?

  What if he had offered for her? Emily thought. What if he had offered last season and she had accepted? She would now be leg-shackled to a petty tyrant! She breathed a sigh of relief at her escape and was dismayed to find that her mind went on presenting her with pleasing pictures of herself and the viscount in an alliance.

  How wonderful it would be to walk with her arm through his, to have him smile and say pleasant things to her as those young men had last year. But now—now it was highly unlikely that he would ever be more than polite to her.

  She thumped the pillow once more. If only she could have known he was in that carriage. If only she had not looked at him for so long. But none of these “if onlys” were of any value. The deed was done. He thought of her as a wayward child.

  She threw the pillow against the far wall. In spite of the fact that that she had been slightly rude, his behavior had been insufferable!

  CHAPTER 4

  The next morning Emily said good-bye to her Uncle Cyril with as much grace as possible. The poor man was quite ill and needed to go to Bath. She would simply have to deal with Dunstan herself.

  For the next several days Emily and the viscount did not meet. He was usually gone from the house by the time she and Sarah rose, and he dined out. On the morning of the, third day the new gowns arrived. Emily had Jeffers carry them up and then she indulged herself by trying them on, one after the other.

  “They fit very well, don’t they?” she asked Sarah as she eyed herself m the looking glass.

  “Very well,” agreed Sarah, her eyes on the neckline of an evening dress of deep blue silk.

  “I just love this color. Don’t you think it looks well on me?”

  “It does indeed,” replied Sarah. “It
brings out the blueness of your eyes. But the v—”

  “Sarah.” Emily’s expression grew pained. “Don’t spoil my fun by mentioning that odious man.”

  Sarah smiled gently. “Viscount Dunstan is your guardian and whether you like it or not you must face that fact. From now on, his wishes must be considered. I don’t think he’s going to like the neckline on that dress. I don’t think he’s going to like it at all.”

  Emily glanced downward. The dress was cut rather low, but perversely she did not admit it. “I saw gowns last season cut much lower—and on ladies of the ton.”

  Sarah sighed and shook her head. “You heard the viscount, Emily. He does not care about the ladies of the ton—or fashion either. He will simply go by his opinion. If I gamed at all, I would wager a pretty sum that he will not approve of this gown.”

  “But—” began Emily, when there came a smart tap on the door.

  “Come in,” called Sarah.

  The door opened to reveal the viscount. “Ah,” he said. “I was right. I just returned and Parks informed me that the gowns had arrived. So I hurried up to get a look.”

  He smiled pleasantly at them both, almost as though, he expected a smile in return, thought Emily angrily.

  He strode across the room as though he owned it and stretched out his long form on a delicate lyre-back chair. “Please proceed,” he said.

  Emily pushed down her anger. Perhaps if she were nice to him ... “This gown is for evening wear,” she said, even managing a small smile. “Sarah says it brings out the blue in my eyes.”

  The viscount viewed her critically and nodded. “It does that, all right.” Then his eyes fell on the neckline and he frowned. Emily felt herself redden as his gaze lingered there. For long moments there was silence and then he said, “The gown must go back.”

  “But milord-”

  “There is no sense in trying to cozen me with smiles,” replied Dunstan. “I cannot be swayed by such female machinations. The color is quite becoming, but the style is too old for you. The neckline ...” His eyebrows drew together in a frown.

  Emily felt the tears coming and Sarah intervened smoothly. “If it’s only the neckline, milord, there are things that can be done. The gown is quite becoming. Why, I can sew in some lace. I have some in my sewing basket now. Let me show you.”

  Emily was forced to stand while Sarah tucked and pinned until his lordship decided that she was sufficiently covered. She knew she should be grateful to Sarah. Without her timely suggestion the gown would surely have been returned. But it was so infuriating to be treated like this that she could barely keep from screaming.

  Finally his lordship nodded. “That should do. Let me see the others.”

  He pronounced the blue-sprigged muslin with little puffed sleeves and trailing blue ribbons all right. The green-sprigged, though cut differently, also earned his approval; so did the rose-spotted cambric and the green-striped sarcenet. Then Emily held her breath, for he had reached for the sky-blue muslin that she had intended to wear with a damped petticoat. The muslin was sheer, so sheer that she could see her hand through it.

  He looked first at the neckline, but it seemed to be all right. Then he held up a piece of the material between them and the window. “This is a gown?”

  “Yes, milord.” Emily did her best to keep her tone conciliatory. Maybe, just maybe, he would let her keep it.

  He cast her a suspicious glance. “This stuff is not dress material.”

  “Milord.” Emily fought to keep calm. “The dressmaker said that every lady has at least one.”

  Dunstan snorted. “The dressmaker is like all modistes. She makes her living by fashion. She would sell you anything that lined her pocket.”

  “When the gown is on, milord . . . over a petticoat . . .” Emily hated the pleading note in her voice, but she wanted that gown. Everything else about her trip to London was spoiled. It seemed vitally important to her to be able to keep this gown.

  He frowned.

  “Milord,” said Sarah softly. “Emily does have a point. I mean, at least give her a chance to show you.”

  The viscount smiled pleasantly and something inside Emily lurched. Why could he never smile at her like that?

  “Very well,” he conceded. “Let her wear it for me.” One eyebrow rose wickedly. “Perhaps I should have inspected her chemises,” he said dryly. “With a gown like that, they will hardly be covered.”

  Sarah did not smile. “If you will step out into the hall, milord, I will help Emily change.”

  “I could just turn my back.”

  “Milord!” Sarah’s plain face registered shock. “This is a young lady’s bed chamber, not that of a- a-”

  “Lightskirt,” finished the viscount, not at all perturbed. “You must forgive my breach of etiquette. My years on the town and my years at the front have ill prepared me for dealing with young ladies. I much appreciate your calling me to task.”

  The viscount’s voice was entirely serious, but Emily, glancing at Sarah, saw that she, too, was unsure that he meant it. Evidently the viscount realized this. “I mean what I say, Miss Sarah. I intend to do everything I can to fulfill my duties as well as possible. Any assistance you can give me will be much appreciated.”

  “I will give you every assistance I can,” said Sarah soberly. “Emily is quite dear to me.”

  His lordship nodded. “That is evident. I shall wait in the hall till you summon me.” He shook his head. “Though I must tell you that your efforts will probably be futile. That material . . .”

  He shut the door.

  “Quick, Sarah, my heaviest petticoat.”

  Sarah eyed her charge skeptically. “Only if you give me your word that you will wear the gown with that petticoat and no other. I do not intend to help you bamboozle his lordship.”

  “Yes, Sarah, yes. I promise. But I want this gown. You know I do. Now help me, please.”

  Sarah gave her charge a quick smile. “Of course I’ll help you, my dear.” Her hands reached for the hooks on the back of Emily’s dress.

  In a matter of minutes they had found the heavy petticoat and Emily had slipped it on. “Oh, Sarah, it’s such a lovely gown.”

  ‘Yes, it is,” agreed Sarah. “But the stuff is very fine.”

  “Sarah!”

  Sarah patted Emily’s hand. “Now, Emily, calm down. You must hold to your ladylike deportment. You see his lordship can be amenable.”

  Emily nodded. “Yes, yes, Sarah, I see. But, oh, I do want this gown.”

  “Yes, dear.” Sarah’s hands sped over the gown, smoothing here, tucking there. “It does look lovely. Are you ready?”

  Emily nodded, but as Sarah turned to open the door her charge moved quickly so that his lordship would be between her and the light. She held her breath as he entered. Except for the sheerness of the muslin the gown was quite demure. Its rounded neck exposed nothing. Its sleeves, emerging from little puffs at the shoulders, clung closely to the wrists, where they were edged in self-ruffles. The high-gathered bodice was banded underneath by a long sash of the same material which tied in the back and flared out behind.

  The viscount resumed his chair and regarded her closely. “Walk around a little,” he said.

  She felt the color rising as she complied. Every time he looked at her like this, with that speculative look in his eye, she felt the quickening of her breath as she had that night at Lady Cholmondoley’s ball.

  When he was angry it was different. Then she felt like a little girl who had been extremely bad— in some way she did not quite understand.

  But now when he wasn’t angry, when he looked at her as a man looks at a woman, her heart fluttered, her breath quickened, and she felt grown up and exciting in a way she had never felt with those callow young striplings who were so fond of paying her extravagant and unoriginal compliments. She had barely refrained from laughing in their faces when they repeated the same old stuff about skin like lilies and lips like roses.

  But with Duns
tan it was very different. If he had ever told her either of those things, she would have been thrilled.

  When he had agreed before that blue was becoming to her, she had forgotten that she was angry with him, forgotten that he was a bully and a tyrant, forgotten everything except that wonderful, exciting feeling she had first experienced when she found his eyes upon her that night at the ball

  The viscount continued to regard her critically and she felt the heated blood fill her cheeks.

  “I cannot decide,” he said. “Stand over there by the window. The light is better there.”

  Emily obeyed, but her heart fell. In the sunlight the sheer, filmy material would be almost transparent. Still, there was little else to do. If Dunstan wanted to see the dress in the sunlight, he would. She could be quite sure of that

  Finally he shook his head. “This one must go back.”

  “Milord ...” Emily’s voice was a wail.

  “I am truly sorry,” he said, and his face seemed to indicate it. “But the gown is too old for you.” He raised a hand to still her protest. “There is no use in complaining. I considered it from every angle. I have been quite fair. But it just will not do. I’ll see that your account is credited. Order yourself another gown.”

  Emily blinked rapidly to keep back the tears. She refused to cry in front of him. Nor would she beg anymore. She was through trying to please him. She turned her back on him and looked out the window. She would not cry, she told herself severely. There were flowers out there; she tried to count the kinds to keep her mind on something besides her anger and her hurt.

  “Send the gown to me,” she heard him tell Sarah. “And the direction of the modiste.” His tone sobered. “I wish to have a talk with her.”

  “Yes, milord,” said Sarah.

  Emily continued to stare out the window until she heard the door close behind him. Then she turned, her eyes blinded with tears. Without a word, Sarah helped her out of the gown. Emily did not trust herself to speak until the gown was safely off. Then, still wearing the petticoat, she stamped her foot. “He’s a beast, Sarah, a terrible beast!”