by Brenda Hiatt
Though clearly longing to tell him to go to the devil and storm off, Miss Turpin looked again at her maid. Her internal struggle was evident, but compassion for the servant finally triumphed over her fit of pique. Grudgingly capitulating, she motioned her maid to allow Rush to help her into the rear seat of the phaeton. She then climbed up herself, spurning his assistance, to sit stiff as a poker beside him.
“Very well,” she said just as stiffly. “You may drive us to my aunt’s house, though I still maintain this entire encounter was both unnecessary and ill-timed.”
“Do you think so?” Rush whipped up his pair. “I thought it remarkably well-timed, myself. It can do your reputation no good, you know, to be seen with a man like Bigsby.”
She glared at him. “I cannot think why, when I find his manners far superior to yours. My aunt approves of him, as well. Perhaps you forget that I have known him since I was quite a girl. He was very kind to me then and has been equally kind since my arrival in London.”
“Kind?” Rush raised a skeptical brow. “Not a word I would associate with Bigsby, though no doubt he can appear so when it serves his purpose.”
“Why are you so determined to malign him?” she demanded. “You scarcely know him.”
He sent a considering glance her way. “I’ve had little contact with him of late, ’tis true. But in my experience a man’s character, once fixed, changes little as he grows older.”
As a youth, Bigsby had frequently threatened and bullied smaller boys at school, something he and Thor had done their best to put a stop to. The summer Bigsby visited Lincolnshire, they had similarly discouraged his attentions toward Thor’s little sister, who was no more than thirteen or fourteen at the time.
On learning he was also dallying with a farmer’s daughter and more than one young serving wench in the village, they had stepped up their efforts. A minor thrashing had been sufficient to effectively convey their message.
“Lord Rushford,” Miss Turpin broke into his ruminations, “if one did not know better, one might almost believe you jealous of Julian. Which would be most ungallant, as you are already betrothed to Miss Simpson.”
Startled, Rush frowned. It was bad enough that Killer and his mother knew of the unofficial engagement, but apparently Lady Simpson was spreading the word as well. Not surprising, he supposed, but damned inconvenient, given his current feelings.
Keeping his eyes trained on his pair, he said, “I assure you, I have no reason whatsoever to be jealous of the likes of Bigsby, quite apart from the reason you stated. My only concern is for your welfare, and that only at the behest of your brother.”
Beside him, she gave a tiny gasp and he realized he had spoken more coldly than he had intended.
“If you are at a loss for acceptable activities,” he continued more gently, “why do you not go riding? Has Lady Puttercroft nothing suitable in her stables?”
“No, nothing at all. Only a pair of carriage horses scarcely fit even for that, from what I have seen.”
He could not say he was surprised. “What of Lady Simpson? Your aunt said that you will be staying at her house for the next fortnight, that she may visit Brighton as she’d originally intended.”
That news had both relieved and concerned him. Relieved because he could not but think Lady Simpson would do a better job of supervising Miss Turpin than her aunt had done. Witness Lady Puttercroft’s approval of Bigsby. But concern because he foresaw a good bit of awkwardness given his engagement to Miss Simpson and his attraction to Miss Turpin.
“I know nothing of Lady Simpson’s stables,” she confessed, “but I cannot think she will have an extra riding horse for my use. While in Leicestershire, Lady Anthony mentioned writing to her brother-in-law, Lord Marcus Northrup, about the use of a particular mount, but I’ve no idea whether she has done so.”
“I see.” He knew Lord Marcus only in passing, but could approach his brother, Lord Peter, about the matter. Riding seemed more likely than anything else to distract Miss Turpin from seeking other, more objectionable, sources of amusement.
When he drew the phaeton to a halt before Lady Puttercroft’s house, Miss Turpin leapt lightly to the ground, again without waiting for him to assist her.
“Politeness obliges me to thank you for conveying me here, my lord, though you did so against my wishes,” she said, reaching up to help her maid.
Forestalling her, he handed the girl down himself. “Pray do not trouble yourself to speak sentiments you do not feel,” he replied. “I suppose I should come in to explain the means of your return to your aunt.”
“Pray do not trouble yourself, my lord,” she threw back at him. “I have surely taken enough of your valuable time today. You may go about your business secure in the knowledge that you have successfully meddled in my affairs yet again.”
With that, she turned and marched up the steps to the house without a backward glance. Rush waited until she and her maid were inside before chuckling to himself. She certainly had spirit, no mistake about that.
That her spirit attracted him so powerfully was damned inconvenient, however. The more time he spent in Miss Turpin’s company, the less content he was with his choice of Miss Simpson. Every fresh encounter, with either lady, only confirmed how much he preferred Miss Turpin’s barbed banter to the shy insipidity of his intended bride.
The fact remained, however, that as attractive as he found Miss Turpin’s spirit—and person—she was hardly the proper person to take over where his mother had left off. She was far too impulsive for such a role, with a decided penchant for putting amusement over responsibility. Both that and honor dictated that his original choice would have to stand.
Meanwhile, the sooner he found a better outlet for Miss Turpin’s misplaced energies, the better. Whipping up his pair, he directed them toward Lord Peter Northrup’s house in Curzon Street.
Chapter Ten
Violet’s temper was still simmering when Lady Simpson’s carriage arrived that afternoon to transport her to Cavendish Square.
Apparently it hadn’t been enough for Lord Rushford to dash her hopes of enjoying London in relative freedom. Now he’d also frustrated her dream of assisting the Saint of Seven Dials. Julian, she was sure, had been on the point of telling her everything before his lordship ran him off. Suppose he now refused to do so?
To add even more insult to injury, Lord Rushford had essentially told her outright that she was nothing to him beyond an obligation to her brother. Though she knew she should not care, that hurt most of all. If he remembered that kiss at Ivy Lodge at all, it was merely as a reminder of her flaws. She, alas, would never forget it—nor could she seem to prevent her heart from fluttering every time he was near.
Aunt Philomena, preoccupied with her own impending journey, kept her farewell uncharacteristically brief. “I shall see you again in a fortnight or so.” She distractedly tucked a fan into a side pocket of her portmanteau. “With luck, you may well receive an eligible offer before then, for I’ve no doubt Lady Simpson will bring you along to every function they attend. Mind you be a good girl and do nothing to make her regret her kindness.”
Violet promised, and was allowed to depart.
Mary greeted her eagerly on her arrival in Cavendish Square. “I am so happy that Mama agreed to my suggestion to have you stay with us. The next fortnight is sure to be far more fun now.”
“I’m sure it will.” Violet tried not to let her amusement show, thinking that her friend’s idea of fun was likely much tamer than her own. Mary then led Violet upstairs to the room she would occupy during her stay.
“Mine is just next door, so if we are quiet, we can share confidences without Mama knowing.”
“Confidences?” Violet could think of little she could truthfully tell Mary, given her own conflicted feelings. She was curious about her friend’s, however. “About…your engagement, for example?”
In reply, Mary blushed. “I know I should feel extremely honored by Lord Rushford’s offer, but…”
“But you still find him intimidating?”
Mary nodded. “I can’t think why he ever took notice of me at all, when women of far higher rank than I, and beautiful besides, continually sought him out last Season.”
“Perhaps he appreciated that you did not fling yourself at his head, as they did?”
As Violet herself had done.
“Perhaps. Goodness knows, I have never learned the art of flirtation.” Not surprising, as Mary had not a coquettish bone in her body.
“Once married, that will not matter,” Violet pointed out as lightly as she could manage. “Gentlemen do not expect their wives to flirt with them.”
“But they do have other…expectations.” Mary pinkened further.
They were now straying into territory that Violet very much preferred not to think about, but she forced herself to ask, “Is that…what worries you about marrying him?”
To her surprise, Mary shook her head. “Not nearly so much as the thought of how much responsibility I will have as his wife. Mama says that with his mother deceased, I will be expected to manage his household, something I know nothing about. I fear I shall make a botch of everything.”
That, Violet had to admit, was a valid concern. Still, she felt compelled to reassure her friend. “I cannot imagine he expects you to take over his mother’s responsibilities all at once. No doubt you will be given ample time to learn whatever is needful for you to know.”
Though Mary looked cautiously hopeful at her words, Violet was not sorry to have their discussion cut short by the dressing bell.
* * *
Unfortunately, when she joined Mary and her mother in the drawing room half an hour later, Lord Rushford was again the first topic of conversation.
“I trust you are settling in, Miss Turpin?” Lady Simpson asked as she moved to a chair.
Violet nodded. “I thank you again for your kind invitation, my lady. My aunt wished me to convey her thanks, also.”
“Pray do not mention it,” Lady Simpson responded with a thin smile. “But what is this I hear about you going out driving with Lord Rushford this morning? Lady Mountheath stopped in for the express purpose of informing me about it.”
Though startled, Violet answered readily enough. “It was my aunt’s doing. She sent him to find me, worried that the walk back from the park might be too taxing, though of course it would not have been.” Remembered anger at Lord Rushford made her flush—a flush Lady Simpson apparently misinterpreted.
“I trust you have not forgotten that he is promised to my daughter,” her hostess reminded her severely.
“Of course not, my lady. As it happens, I was out walking with another gentleman when Lord Rushford insisted on fulfilling his promise to my aunt.” She was about to elaborate on his rude behavior when she realized doing so might increase Mary’s misgivings about him.
Fortunately, Lady Simpson seemed mollified.
“Very well. Knowing what a gossipmonger Lady Mountheath can be, I suspected there was less to the story than she implied. I am happy to learn that was indeed the case.”
She rose then, to lead them into the dining room. “Perhaps you can persuade Mary to be less shy around Lord Rushford at tonight’s musicale,” she suggested as they went. “I begin to fear he will think she has taken him in aversion.”
Violet forced a smile. “I will do everything I can to further Mary’s future happiness, my lady. ’Tis the least I can do in return for your hospitality.”
She chose her words carefully, for after their conversation upstairs, she was by no means convinced that Lord Rushford would make Mary happy.
Nor, truth be told, had she reconciled her own heart to the idea of their marriage, however irritating Lord Rushford might be.
Rush and Killer were among the first to arrive at the Plumfield house that evening, but discovered Lady Simpson and her two charges there before them.
“Give you good evening, ladies,” Rush said, sweeping them a collective bow.
Miss Turpin merely arched an eyebrow and turned away, but Lady Simpson was all smiles.
“Ah, here you are, Lord Rushford, and in good time, too,” she exclaimed. “Did I not tell you, Mary, that he would not be late?”
Miss Simpson nodded and dipped a quick curtsey, then glanced over her shoulder at the generously-proportioned apartment that had been fitted up as a music room for the evening.
“My daughter is anxious to claim a seat near the musicians,” her mother explained, “for she dearly loves music. She is most proficient at it herself, you no doubt recall.”
Rush blinked. “Ah, yes,” he said with a somewhat belated smile. “Miss Simpson plays the harp, does she not?”
Lady Simpson nodded. “The pianoforte, as well. Her final performance last Season was particularly praised, though I believe you had already left Town by then.”
“Er, perhaps so. In any event, Lord Killerby has also expressed a desire to sit in the front row, so I propose we all do so.”
“The entertainment tonight will likely be first rate,” said Killer as they moved toward the chairs, Miss Turpin trailing somewhat behind the others. “Lady Plumfield and m’mother were musical rivals in their younger days, you know, in both singing and the pianoforte.”
Killer took a seat directly before the small dais, upon which were ranged a pianoforte, a harp and a few smaller instruments. The others followed, and Rush found himself seated between Killer and Miss Simpson, with Lady Simpson and Miss Turpin further along the row. As conversation seemed called for, he asked Miss Simpson whether she had previously heard any of the performers.
“Oh! Yes,” she replied somewhat breathlessly. “All of them, I believe. Mr. Trent is quite renowned for his proficiency at the pianoforte, and Signora Bellonini may well be without equal on the harp.”
“I did not know that La Bellonini was to be here tonight,” Killer exclaimed from Rush’s other side. “I’ve only had the pleasure of hearing her once, years back, before she became so celebrated. She has no doubt improved since then, though that scarcely seemed possible.”
Miss Simpson’s pretty face lit up with the most genuine smile Rush had ever seen on her lips. “Indeed she has, my lord. I attended two of her public performances last Season and both experiences were sublime. I very much wished to sit near her instrument tonight, something that is only possible at a private gathering such as this one.”
She and Lord Killerby continued to talk about the upcoming performance while the first musicians tuned their instruments. Rush meanwhile held his tongue to avoid displaying his ignorance. He clearly needed to learn more of music, for the topic gave his bride-to-be more animation than he had ever before witnessed in her.
When the performance began, all conversation in the front row ceased. Though he could hear discreet murmuring from those seated behind them, both Killer and Miss Simpson were completely engaged in listening to the music. Rush tried to be likewise absorbed, but by the third song his attention began to wander.
In gazing about, he saw Miss Turpin’s hand go to her mouth to cover a yawn. Apparently he was not the only one in the front row who might have been more comfortable toward the back of the room. With a spurt of amusement, he recalled her telling him that she was more proficient at billiards than the pianoforte.
He then recalled what had occurred shortly thereafter and hastily returned his gaze to the pair of violinists currently holding forth.
Violet stifled a yawn as one musical piece gave way to another, now by a harpist accompanied by a foppish man on the clarinet. While the performances were no doubt first rate, sitting to listen was by no means her preferred way to enjoy music. She would far rather be dancing.
Seeking any distraction that might prevent her rudely nodding off, she turned her head slightly to observe the other occupants of the first row. Lady Simpson also looked as though she were on the point of dozing, but Mary and Lord Killerby were rapt, both fully caught up in the performance. Lord Rushford, however, looked n
igh as bored as she was herself.
Though not yet ready to forgive his high-handed meddling in her affairs, she could not deny that Lord Rushford was exceedingly handsome. He had also proved he could be interesting to talk to…when he was not condemning her. She looked away, telling herself that Julian surely surpassed Lord Rushford on both counts.
When the music finally concluded, the guests repaired to an adjoining room set out with a buffet and small tables to discuss the relative merits of the performances—or, for those less musically inclined, the latest gossip.
“Miss Turpin?” came a voice at Violet’s shoulder as she followed the others to a table. Turning, she saw a young man whose acquaintance she had made last Season regarding her with a hopeful smile. “Dare I hope you remember me?”
“Of course, Sir Lawrence. How nice to see you again.” She smiled back. Though nowhere near so handsome as Julian, or even Lord Rushford, Sir Lawrence had been flatteringly attentive last spring. “I trust you have been well?”
“Far better now I know you are in Town again. I was quite bereft when you left us so suddenly last year. Please tell me you mean to grace us for more than a mere week or two this Season?”
She could not help but smile at his eagerness. “That is certainly my intention. The family emergency that called me away was unavoidable, but it is now happily past.”
As they talked, she stole a glance at Lord Rushford to see whether he was witnessing this proof that not all gentlemen held her in the contempt he did. He was occupied, however, in helping Mary to a chair, after which he immediately went to procure a plate for her.
Somewhat disgruntled, she bade Sir Lawrence a friendly adieu and went to join her party, whereupon Lord Killerby offered to supply her with refreshment.
“Rush is already getting food and drink for Lady Simpson and her daughter and likely felt three plates would be rather too much to carry back,” he explained when she was unable to keep her eyes from straying toward the buffet table, where Lord Rushford had his back to her.