The Heiress In His Bed

by Tamara Lejeune

  “Don’t you want to choose it?” he said sharply.

  “Surprise me.”

  “Julian,” his mother said shrilly, “you will go at once and buy this dear child her engagement ring. I insist.”

  “Really, Dev,” Viola said gently. “We’re just going to talk about the latest fashions. You’d be bored as wood. I’m afraid if you stay,” she continued ominously, “you will be forced to know more about ladies’ hats, shoes, and dresses than is strictly good for a man.”

  Faced with the ultimate threat to masculinity, Julian began to waver. If there was anything more excruciatingly dull than listening to a group of ladies discuss their frills and furbe-lows, he, mercifully, had never discovered it. “Heaven forbid,” he murmured. “But I don’t like leaving you. Are you quite sure you’ll be all right?” he asked, searching her face for some secret signal begging him to stay at her side and defend her from these two scaly dragons.

  “I shall be perfectly all right,” she assured him with a brilliant smile. “I always find the society of my own sex quite invigorating. When one talks to a man one scarcely exercises the brain at all.”

  “Take my card to Mr Grey in Bond Street,” the duchess said decisively. Whipping out her silver pencil, she scrawled a brief message on the back of her card. “He will wait on you personally and work within your budget,” she added.

  Julian felt as though he were throwing an innocent lamb to the wolves, but, with all three ladies determined to be rid of him, he could not contrive a way to stay without creating embarrassment. “I shall be back as soon as I possibly can,” he assured Viola.

  “Darling!” she said, caressing him with her voice. “If you bring me back a perfect, emerald-cut, six-carat diamond, I won’t even know you’re gone.”

  As he paused in the doorway, she kissed her fingertips and waved.

  Immediately upon his departure, the baroness opened the hostilities. “I am not accustomed to sharing my table with dogs, Miss Andrews,” she said severely.

  “I find it hard to believe,” Viola replied sweetly, arranging the little white dog on her lap, “that this is your first bitch. However, if it is so, what can I say? I am honored.” Bijou wagged her curly white plume of a tail, radiating unconditional love to everyone in the room, whether they deserved it or not. Viola scratched her gently under her diamond collar as the baroness slowly turned a dangerous shade of reddish purple.

  “I believe we are ready to order,” the duchess said to the waiter, who had been standing at the ready for quite some time. “Miss Andrews?”

  In a gesture borrowed from Julian, Viola kept her eyes on the menu while lifting an index finger. “I’ll have a small crème de menthe,” she told the waiter at length. “And you, Duchess?”

  The duchess looked sour. She had wanted to order the crème de menthe, but now, of course, she could not. “One small black currant,” she snapped.

  “And you, Baroness?” Viola inquired, mediating quite unnecessarily.

  “One small licorice,” said Julian’s mother. “And you will kindly stop addressing me as ‘Baroness,’ Miss Andrews. I am properly addressed as ‘my lady.’ And, for your information, the Duchess of Berkshire is properly addressed as ‘Your Grace.’ I suppose such niceties are not in play in the wilds of Yorkshire, but you are in civilization now.”

  “If I were a duchess, I should want to be called Duchess as much as possible,” Viola replied. “Do unto others, and all that sort of thing. That’s in the Bible, Baroness.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Lady Devize said sweetly. “My father was not a vicar.”

  “Your son nearly was,” Viola pointed out calmly. “You must have been so relieved when Julian refused to take holy orders.”

  The baroness stiffened. “That was his father’s idea. I wanted Julian to make a brilliant marriage. But that’s all ruined now, so you might as well take him, my dear.”

  “I’m so pleased to have your blessing, Baroness,” Viola laughed. “I was beginning to think you did not approve of me!”

  “You should have put your younger son in the army,” interrupted the duchess. “That is what I did with mine.” Her green eyes drilled into Viola. “Simon looks very handsome in his uniform, too. He’s a lieutenant-colonel in the Royal Horse Guards, you know.”

  “Never heard of it,” Viola sniffed.

  “But you have not been in Town long, Miss Andrews,” the baroness pointed out. “That much is obvious by the way that you dress.”

  “Thank you for the compliment,” Viola replied.

  “Oh? You do not think much of our London fashions?” the duchess demanded.

  “Are you qualified to judge?” the baroness wanted to know.

  “I know what I like,” Viola replied, “and I know what I don’t like. In this room there is a great deal of the latter and very little of the former. Take the lady over my left shoulder. Could she not benefit from a well-constructed foundation garment?”

  The duchess gave a startled laugh, which she quickly disguised as a violent cough. The lady over Viola’s left shoulder let out an indignant squawk.

  “I vow, it’s like the sand without the hourglass,” Viola went on loudly.

  “Lady Jersey is one of my oldest and dearest friends,” the duchess said severely.

  “Yes, I see you trying not to laugh. For myself, I never laugh at a tragedy.”

  The baroness glared at Viola. “Lady Jersey is one of the Patronesses of Almack’s. She is…Lady Jersey is Society!”

  Viola snorted. “In that case, Society needs a corset. Now, what are those lines from Shelley?” she continued, oblivious to the gasps from every corner of the room. “I never quote poetry, but I’m afraid I can’t resist. ‘Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away.’” Bijou yapped appreciatively, but Viola wrinkled her nose. “No, that doesn’t quite fit, does it? Those sands are not level. They are shifting sands, and, when she walks—Oh! a sandstorm.”

  The duchess’s face was almost as purple as the black-currant ice the waiter placed before her. The baroness was ashen. “Miss Andrews, she is sitting right behind you!”

  “Someone should tell the poor thing she looks like an anatomy lesson.” Viola shrugged. “Nobody wants to see a lady’s bosom go for a walk without her. I vow, the waist of her dress is directly under her armpits!”

  The baroness sneered. “That happens to be the very latest fashion from Paris, Miss Andrews. But I don’t suppose you see much of Parisian sophistication in the wilds of Yorkshire.”

  Viola laughed gently. “I want my waist where God put it, not Paris. We won the war, ladies. Of course the French are bitter. Of course they want us to look as ridiculous as possible. There is a place for chaos, ladies, but it is not between a woman’s neck and knees.”

  “Is your figure as bad as that, Miss Andrews?” the Baroness inquired solicitously.

  Viola smiled. “How is your ice, baroness?”

  “Delicious,” said the baroness, and, to the duchess’s acute disappointment, the young woman seemed content to leave it at that.

  “You are a young woman of decided opinion, I see,” she said. “You do not like this Season’s silhouette. What do you think of the hats?”

  “One can only assume they must be ugly by design,” Viola replied carelessly. “There can’t be so many unhappy accidents in one place at one time.”

  “Young woman, I am known for my hats,” the duchess said coldly.

  Viola studied the older woman’s bonnet with a grave expression. “This one just misses the mark for me, I’m afraid.”

  The duchess bristled. “What is the matter with my hat, Miss Andrews? Do tell.”

  “It’s a very minor flaw, Duchess,” Viola assured her. “Hardly worth mentioning. But since you ask, I would not have lined your bonnet in the same fabric as your dress. I’m afraid it looks as though you scrimped a little leftover fabric from your seamstress, waste not, want not.”

  The
duchess noisily set down her spoon. “I have lost my appetite,” she announced.

  “Who can eat with this mongrel staring at us with its greedy little eyes,” the baroness agreed.

  Viola hugged her dog protectively. “You’re not a mongrel, are you, Bijou?”

  “Well, it’s not a poodle or a Pomeranian,” the duchess said grumpily. “What is it?”

  “She’s a bichon, of course,” Viola said. “Isn’t she adorable? Julian gave her to me.”

  The baroness sniffed. “No one carries a bichon anymore, Miss Andrews. I’m sorry to inform you, but that breed fell out favor around the time of the French Revolution. Nowadays, they run wild in the gutters of Europe. Though I understand they are becoming quite popular in circuses and county fairs. You are sadly passé, my dear.”

  Shocked, Viola could do nothing more than raise a brow. In any civilized discussion, one’s dogs and one’s children were understood to be off-limits.

  The baroness smiled. “Miss Andrews, you are not eating your ice,” she said smugly. “Is it not to your liking? Shall I call the waiter for you?”

  “I’ll do it myself,” said Viola.

  Viola spoke gently, so as not to hurt the waiter. He was, after all, an innocent bystander. “I’m sure it’s my fault for having such a sensitive palate,” she apologized, “but I’m afraid this is not what I ordered. Why, my bichon wouldn’t touch it, and she absolutely adores crème de menthe. This,” she went on, nudging her glass toward the waiter, “has a flavor one doesn’t care to describe. Would you be good enough to taste it?”

  The waiter did so, and his face flushed with mortification. “I beg your pardon, madam!” he cried. “It seems you have received the licorice by mistake. It is also green, you understand.”

  “It nearly made me green,” said Viola. “Please take it away.”

  “Good heavens, Baroness,” the duchess said contemptuously. “Can’t you tell the difference between licorice and crème de menthe? The dog can.”

  Viola gasped. “Oh! You mean the baroness got my crème de menthe, and I got her licorice? How awkward!”

  “Nonsense,” said the baroness, turning bright pink. “I thoroughly enjoyed my licorice!”

  Impatiently, the duchess tasted the dish. “Crème de menthe,” she declared. “Baroness, you owe this young lady an apology. You ate her ice.”

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Andrews,” the baroness spat through her teeth.

  “I will return immediately with madam’s crème de menthe,” the waiter said.

  “Never mind,” said Viola, a smile spreading across her face. “Here is Julian with my diamond. Lord, isn’t he handsome!” she couldn’t help adding.

  Julian approached the table with caution. His mother looked as though she had a lemon permanently wedged between her lips, but Mary was smiling, and that was all he cared about.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked her.

  “If I were a cat, I’d purr,” Viola assured him. “May I see my ring, please?”

  Julian was quite pleased with himself as he place the beautiful emerald ring on her finger, but nothing could exceed Viola’s pleasure upon seeing that unquestionably green stone. “Julian! I absolutely adore it!” she cried, hiding her hand behind her back.

  Julian smiled at her fondly. “Quite reasonably priced, too.”

  “Do let us see,” said the duchess. “Ah! An emerald. How charming.”

  “Yes. Dev! How did you secretly know what I wanted?” Viola marveled.

  “You told me to get you an emerald, my heart, and I got you an emerald,” he replied. “Have you quite finished your ice, my love? It’s time I got you home. Er…Lady Viola will think you’ve been kidnapped.”

  Viola instantly handed him the dog and quickly put on her gloves.

  When they had departed, the duchess turned to the baroness and said imperiously, “That is a perfectly insufferable young woman. Rarely have I ever encountered so much arrogance and conceit, so much insolence, so much disdain for the opinions of others. Not in a female, anyway. I shall never forget what she said about poor Lady Jersey—and poor Sally within earshot, too!”

  “The audacity!” the baroness agreed vehemently. “I shall never forgive her for criticizing your excellent hat, Duchess.”

  The duchess bristled. “She did not even mention your hat, Alexandra,” she reminded the other woman. “And what she did not say spoke volumes.”

  “As you say, she is insufferable, Your Grace.”

  “Under no circumstances are you to allow your son to marry that vixen,” the duchess commanded. “I forbid it. I don’t care if he has been disowned. If he marries that girl, I shall be extremely angry with you.”

  “Let me assure Your Grace,” cried the baroness, “Julian will never marry that impudent female! You have my word.”

  “If I am not mistaken,” sniffed the duchess, “they will need a special license if they are to wed. You had better take steps to see that they do not get one, and, as I do not expect that young man to drag his feet, you had better take those steps sooner rather than later. Now, in fact.”

  The baroness jumped to her feet. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  The duchess left Gunter’s at a pace more befitting a woman of her rank, and was fortunate enough to meet Lady Jersey on the way out. “What interesting company you keep, Olivia,” sneered the countess. “And what an economical hat.”

  “I wish you could have joined me at my empty table, my dear,” replied the duchess. “Were you able to follow the conversation at all?”

  Two bright spots of color appeared in Lady Jersey’s cheeks. “Certainly not,” she snapped.

  “Pity,” said the duchess.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lord Simon Ascot did not often entertain women overnight in his rooms at the Albany, but Miss Rogers was an extremely talented young actress; for her he set aside his principles and made an exception. It was simply sheer bad luck that his mother should choose to visit him on this particular morning. Neither his lordship nor Miss Rogers stirred when the bed curtains were unceremoniously swept aside, but when the windows were laid bare, and white April light shot into the room, the desired effect was achieved.

  Simon sat up and roared, his hair in disarray. “Hawkins!” he bawled at his manservant. “What the devil are you about?”

  “Is that any way to greet your mother?” the duchess said in her dry voice.

  As wise as she was talented, Miss Rogers unobtrusively seized the bedsheet and silently crawled out of the room. Naturally, the duchess chose not to see the actress; her grace had seated herself decorously near the fire and was busily arranging the skirts of her smartly striped costume.

  Hawkins, meanwhile, had brought his lordship’s dressing gown, and all Simon had to do was slip into it. “Mother,” he said genially, coming to kiss her powdered cheek. “You look absolutely radiant. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “I have met the girl you are going to marry,” the duchess replied without preamble. “I thought you’d like to know.”

  Simon frowned as he leaned against the mantelpiece. “The Arbogast is too presumptuous. I have not proposed to her pretty little daughter, nor is a trick like this likely to compel me.”

  “I do not refer to the Arbogast,” his mother retorted. “I never take your flirtations seriously. I am talking about the girl who will lead you to the altar and make a man of you.”

  “Am I not a man?” Simon wondered.

  “You are a child,” said his mother. “A spoiled, wilful child. You lack ambition, Simon. The British Empire doesn’t run itself, you know. We need men to run it. The old breed are dying off. There are places of power opening up every day. I want you to sell out and stand for Parliament. Your brother can give you one of his pocket boroughs.”

  “Politics?” Simon shook his head mockingly. “You know I faint at the sight of blood.”

  “That must have made Waterloo very tiresome for you!” the duchess snapped, then instantly
apologized. “I’m sorry, Simon. I know you don’t like to talk about the war. But if you marry this girl, you will be Prime Minister within five years. I give you my word.”

  “I’d rather be a dentist. Less gruesome.”

  The duchess sighed. “When you meet her, you will understand. She’s beautiful, of course, but I wouldn’t waste your time if she were only that. By this time next year, with or without you, she will be running Society. She will set the fashions. She will choose the entertainments. She will determine who is in and who is out. The plays and assemblies she goes to will be counted as successes—all the rest will fail. As for her assemblies, the competition for invitations will be as bloodbaths. I am talking revolution, Simon. A complete regime change!”

  “She sounds like a story to frighten small children,” Simon observed, shuddering.

  “You are not a child,” she told him, inexplicably reversing her former position.

  “I’m your child,” he insisted.

  “Have I ever asked you to marry anyone?” his mother said, exasperated. “Have I?”

  “No,” he admitted. “But it sets a very worrying precedent! Besides, I’m half-engaged to the Arbogast. She adores me. It’s very comforting.”

  “You don’t need or deserve adoration,” his mother told him brutally. “You need discipline. You need a woman who will not put up with any nonsense.”

  “I already have one of those,” he countered, grinning. “I call her Mother.”

  To his astonishment, the duchess’s face suddenly crumpled. “I’m lonely, Simon,” she confessed. “I need a companion.”

  “You have a companion,” he reminded her. “How is good old Shrimpy?”

  “Hortensia Shrimpton is a crashing bore,” his mother scoffed. “I want this girl, Simon. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. I’ll double your allowance if you marry her.”

  Simon scratched his unshaven chin. “You have my attention,” he said dryly. “Would the house in Green Park be out of the question?”