by Amanda Scott
Cicely repressed a grin as she realized that Meg Hardy ought to welcome her forthcoming marriage with enthusiasm, since, in the nature of things, she might expect to reach the heady title “Miss Hardy” before Fortescue had entirely departed the scene. She would even, as the dresser of a reigning duchess, take precedence in the servants’ hall over the dowager duchess’s tirewoman. Oh yes, Meg Hardy would surely cheer the duke’s arrangements!
When she entered the main saloon an hour later, Cicely looked serene and beautiful. Meg Hardy had combed her hair smoothly away from an arrow-straight center part into two plaits that began just behind her ears and then twisted intricately into each other at the nape of her neck. Then the two narrow lavender ribbons had been braided right along with her hair and tied in tiny bows just behind her ears. The style was simple, yet very effective. The gentleman lounging at his leisure in a Kent wing chair near the cheerfully crackling fire looked up, then lifted his gold-rimmed quizzing glass to peer at her with undisguised admiration.
“Dear me,” he drawled, getting gracefully to his feet and executing an exaggerated bow, “it is the famous Ice Princess in the flesh. Your servant, ma’am.” Except for the telltale bruise on the left side of his firm chin, he looked perfectly splendid himself, she noted. It had surely taken at least two men to get him into the form-fitting dark blue coat that he wore over tight cream-colored knee breeches. His exquisite, rose-colored, watered-silk waistcoat sported a watch chain with numerous gold fobs and seals, and his neckcloth—trimmed, like his shirt cuffs, with expensive Brussels lace—was tied in an intricate knot, with a large, dark sapphire sparkling from its folds. He wore no other jewelry, however, except for the large gold signet ring on the third finger of his right hand.
“Do behave yourself, Ravenwood,” she said, her air of cool serenity firmly in place, despite the fact that her gaze, seemingly of its own accord, kept drifting to that bruise. “I did not think you would be down yet, or I’d have sought out my mother and sister before coming into this room.”
“I protest, my lady. ’Twould have been a crime to delay this meeting. But why so certain I’d be elsewhere?”
She hesitated only briefly before deciding to tell him. “Because my abigail said your valet was delayed, and I couldn’t imagine how you might achieve that”—her gesture took in his splendid appearance—“without him.”
“Good God!” he exclaimed, looking down at himself in astonishment. “I say, I am seriously affronted, ma’am. Can it possibly be that you credit this splendor to the unworthy Pavenham?” He shook his dark head, though gently, so as not to disarrange the carefully windswept hair. “No, no, you could not be so insensitive to the labors I expend toward sartorial perfection.”
Cicely regarded him narrowly. His indignation certainly seemed to be perfectly sincere. For a moment she hovered on the brink of an apology, before she noted that lurking twinkle.
“You’re bamming me, sir. Just as I expect you were this afternoon when you insisted upon leaving the highwayman in the dust. You cannot think your appearance so important as all that.”
“On the contrary, ma’am,” he corrected blandly. “One’s appearance is of the utmost importance. Sets the whole tone of one’s personality, don’t you know.”
“No, I don’t know!” she snapped, her serenity all but forgotten. “The only time one’s appearance is of any import is the moment one is deciding what dress to wear or what to do with one’s hair. After that it must be of no consequence, or one will be taken for a conceited popinjay.” She glared at him, wondering how he would respond to direct attack.
“You know,” he drawled musingly as he withdrew a lace-trimmed handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and dabbed gently at his lips, “I cannot but think you had those very words from George Brummell. No doubt he crossed your path once or twice before his fall from grace.”
“I knew Mr. Brummell,” she retorted. “I did not approve of his manners, but he dressed like a sensible man.”
“No flair,” pronounced his lordship with a headshake, thus in two simple words dismissing the reputation of the famous beau who had ruled fashionable London for so many years before an accumulation of unpaid gaming debts had forced his retirement, in disgrace, to the Continent. “Dull waistcoats, a sad lack of variety in his choice of colors, and nothing to set his taste apart from his fellows’ except his infernal sameness. But don’t be so fusty about his manners, my girl. I’d wager he said nothing more than what you’d have loved to have the courage to say yourself. A girl who uses words like ‘bamming’ is not entirely nice in her ways, I’m afraid. Coming it too strong, Cilly.”
Her hands clenched, and her precarious hold upon her temper snapped. “Don’t call me that, you ass-earred ape! You’ve not the slightest right to—”
“Cicely! Dearest, you mustn’t speak so to his lordship. Apologize at once. Such language!” The duchess swept in, trailing apricot chiffon skirts and a lacy shawl, and holding her cut-crystal vinaigrette poised for immediate use. Acknowledging Ravenwood’s bow with a small nod, she turned back to her crimson-faced daughter. “Cicely?”
Cicely was still recovering from the shock of her mother’s interruption and congratulating herself that it had not been the duke instead. The very thought brought with it a clear vision of the incidents just prior to her cousin’s departure the last time he had visited Malmesbury. Ravenwood had always managed, with seemingly no effort, to goad her to extremes. She would have to watch herself. Taking firm control, she turned to face the duchess, dropping a small, contrite curtsy.
“I beg your pardon, Mama. I should not have spoken so to his lordship.”
“You must tell him, my dear, not me.”
Gritting her teeth, Cicely turned to face him. His features were as controlled as her own, but she could not fail to note the damned twinkle in those hooded eyes. Ravenwood was enjoying himself.
“Forgive me, my lord,” she grated. As an apology it was insufficient to meet the duchess’s standard, but Cicely knew she could manage no more. She could but pray that her grace would reserve further reproval for the privacy of her boudoir.
After a brief silence, however, help came from an unexpected source when Ravenwood said smoothly, “Not at all, my lady. There is nothing to forgive. Truly, your grace,” he added, turning back to the duchess with a charming smile, “it is I who should beg pardon, for I confess I reverted almost on the instant of renewing acquaintance with the Lady Cicely to my old habit of provoking her.”
“’Tis kind of you to share the blame, Ravenwood,” the duchess said with a doubtful look at her daughter, who was striving now to conceal astonishment. Never before had he apologized for leading her into the briars. “Nevertheless,” her grace continued, recalling her daughter’s attention, “’tis most unseemly for a young lady of quality to speak in such vulgar terms.”
“Yes, Mama, you’re perfectly right,” Cicely said hastily. “I shan’t do so again, I assure you.”
“Very well, my dear, then we shall say no more about it. Won’t you sit down, Ravenwood?”
“With pleasure, ma’am.” He waited, however, until she had made herself comfortable on a green velvet lion’s-paw settee, and when Cicely chanced to look at him, it was only to find his eyes dancing with a spark of unholy mischief that quickly led her to think he hadn’t finished with her, but meant to prove she couldn’t hold her tongue when he was about. Well, she would show him. Two Seasons of practicing icy control ought to be worth something, she told herself firmly.
A welcome diversion occurred a few moments later with the entrance of the duke and Lady Brittany. The duke wore his customary dark coat, neatly tied neckcloth, and knee breeches. But it was not the sight of the duke that lifted Ravenwood to his feet with a nearly awestricken look. He rose, Cicely thought with wry amusement, a good deal more rapidly than he had done upon her entrance, though she could scarcely blame him. Brittany looked wonderful.
She wore a pale yellow muslin gown, nipped in just below
her full breasts with a sapphire silk sash, and knots of matching ribbon decked the gown’s scalloped hemline. Her golden curls had been confined artfully atop her head with a bandeau of the same blue silk, though one slim curl had been allowed to droop enticingly in front of her right ear. Her darker brows and lashes and the vivid coloring in her lips and cheeks owed nothing to artifice, and Brittany’s nearly violet eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. It occurred to Cicely, watching her fondly, that the same London wags who had nicknamed her the Ice Princess might well dub her sister the Golden Goddess. It also occurred to her that if the men in London reacted to Brittany in the same fashion as Ravenwood was reacting, it was as well that she, Cicely, would be safely married and not in competition with her on the Marriage Mart.
Ravenwood let his quizzing glass fall at last. “’Tis an honor to greet you, Lady Brittany. May I take the liberty of saying that you will take London by storm. Indeed, you will take the beau monde’s collective breath away. Why, I can scarcely credit you to be the same chit whose plaits I pulled, whose ribs I tickled till she screamed for mercy, and—”
“And whose bed you sabotaged,” Cicely put in tartly without thinking. She had meant only to bring the long encomium to an end, but her father’s outraged exclamation and the viscount’s expression of amused reproach brought her quickly to her senses. She turned toward the duke, hoping to explain, but once again it was Ravenwood who smoothed things over.
“’Twas not the dastardly deed she makes it sound, your grace, I promise you. I did but turn the Lady Brittany’s bedsheet back upon itself. A trick I scarcely need confess I learned at Eton. Reprehensible, perhaps, but not unforgivable, I believe.”
“No, of course not,” grumbled the duke. “I should have remembered your taste for a joke, sir.” He glanced up to find his butler at the door. “Dinner, Pinchbeck?”
“Dinner is served, your grace.”
4
IT WAS STILL LIGHT outside, but even in the country the duke preferred to dine by candlelight, so the heavy crimson velvet curtains had been drawn, and candles glowed in the massive chandelier suspended low over the dark walnut table. Their glow was softly reflected in the highly polished wood because her grace had long since introduced the Regent’s fashion of dining off the wood, although upon occasion she still brought forth the elegant damask and linen tablecloths of yore.
The atmosphere was intimate, for all the leaves had been removed so that the diners need not sit at any great distance from one another. Also, the huge silver epergne that customarily formed the centerpiece for large dinners had been relegated to the sideboard, and a low, cheerful arrangement of early spring flowers had been set in its place.
Malmesbury took his place at the head of the table, where he was flanked by his two daughters, and Ravenwood sat to the right of the duchess, next to Cicely. She was grateful not to have to sit across from him, where she would have been forced to meet that mischievous gaze from time to time, but she was physically much more conscious of his nearness than she might have been, had he been seated next to Brittany instead. The small group made it possible for general conversation, so she was not expected to keep him entertained, as she would be if the occasion were more formal. And thankfully the telltale bruise was on the opposite side, which meant not only that she herself need not bear with its constant reminder of her earlier behavior, but also that the duke would not notice it and ask whence it had come.
In her opinion Ravenwood behaved very nearly like a sensible man throughout the meal. By the introduction of the second course, she was able to concentrate on her dressed crab with no fear that he might suddenly introduce an embarrassing topic of conversation. Since he had recently been in London, he was able to respond to her grace’s request for the latest information regarding her cronies of the beau monde.
“’Tis very thin of company in Town these days,” he said, politely dismissing a footman’s attempt to serve him some fresh asparagus. “Prinny is still at Brighton, of course, and will no doubt remain there until just before the wedding. They say he is suffering as usual from the gout, but I have it on excellent authority that he has recently ridden his horse.” His eyes twinkled. “In order to get him on the horse, they say it was necessary to construct an inclined plane. Then his royal highness was pushed in a chair on rollers up to a platform, which was then raised by some means or other so the horse could stand beneath. His royal highness was then let gently down into the saddle and thus allowed to receive the benefit of gentle exercise in good fresh air.”
When the laughter that greeted this tale had died away, Brittany asked if the Princess Charlotte was still at Windsor.
“Yes, indeed, my lady. The Queen is choosing her trousseau, you know, and the princess is still in such alt over her forthcoming nuptials that she is behaving herself for once. In the meantime, her handsome Prince Leopold is displaying the tact for which he is justly famous by staying in Brighton until his future father-in-law shall have recovered the use of his legs.”
“It is indeed kind of him,” agreed the duchess. “I must say, the Season is going to open in fine style, what with the wedding one day and the opening of Almack’s the next, not to mention our own ball, which is planned for the week following.”
“What’s going on in the House these days?” demanded his grace. “From what I read in the papers, it seems as if young Henry Grey Bennet’s stirring up a hornet’s nest. Daresay you’ll have taken your seat by now.”
“Mr. Bennet has organized a select committee to look into the possibility of reforming the London police system. There have been an extraordinary number of robberies this year, and the authorities are worried that it will get worse when everyone comes back to Town.” He smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid, however, sir, that I have not yet taken my seat. Not quite my line of country.”
“’Tis your duty, sir,” replied his grace sternly. “You young folks take duty much too lightly these days.”
“Papa,” Brittany put in, speaking in mild protest, “Lord Ravenwood was at Waterloo, was he not?”
“He was,” the duke agreed gruffly, “and I am sure we are all very grateful for his efforts there and grateful as well that he was spared to us when so many were taken.” He paused, frowning as though he had somehow lost himself.
Ravenwood smiled at Brittany. “The one fact scarcely affects the other, my lady. I fear your respected father is in the right of things, as it is his usual habit to be. Military life provided much in the way of entertainment and excitement for those of us who followed Wellington across the Peninsula. We scarcely ever thought of it as duty, I’m afraid.”
“But so many were killed or crippled!” Cicely protested.
He turned toward her, and in the candlelight there seemed to be a strange glitter in his eyes that she could not interpret. “An unanswerable point, ma’am, but I fear ’tis one that we rarely allowed to distress us. Nearly all was fun and gig, I assure you.”
“But battle must have been terrifying!” she exclaimed.
“I daresay one’s first battle must always be a trifle unnerving,” he responded, his drawl more pronounced than ever, “but one grew accustomed, don’t you know. One does not expect the gentle sex to comprehend such masculine idiosyncrasies, of course, and I fear the subject is not a suitable one for lengthy discourse at her grace’s dining table. Suppose we agree to disagree, for the moment, at least.”
He smiled blandly at her, and Cicely found herself staring blankly back. It was with profound relief, therefore, that she heard the duchess, who had little interest in matters either parliamentary or military, state that she certainly hoped the good weather would hold for the duration of Ravenwood’s visit.
“I daresay you might even have a day of hunting, provided the ground don’t harden again,” she said wisely.
Ravenwood responded suitably, and Cicely took advantage of what immediately became generalized conversation again to sit silently while she attempted to take his measure.
That he had cha
nged a good deal in six years’ time was obvious. At times he still seemed affected to the point of foppishness, and much as she was beginning to suspect an overactive sense of humor, there could be no denying that he still cared a great deal for his appearance. He treated her parents with a marked degree of deference, yet there was none of the near obsequiousness she had seen displayed by other fops she had met. Or indeed by many others who seemed to greet her parents’ rank with a respect bordering upon awe. Ravenwood did not. His was much more the attitude shown by a well-bred young man toward his elders. Now, though his tone was lazy and his eyelids half shut, he still managed to direct the conversation so that everyone took part. It was he who consistently encouraged comments from Brittany, who otherwise would undoubtedly have held her tongue. No doubt it was his diplomatic training that stood him in such good stead, but whatever it was, she could not fault his manners.
“And you, Lady Cicely, what do you think of these changing styles?” he inquired amiably.
Cicely felt the color rush to her cheeks. “Forgive me, sir,” she said, forcing calm. “I fear I was not attending.”
“Ravenwood was merely asking your opinion of the newer fashions, my dear,” said the duchess. “Really, Cicely, where have your manners gone begging?”
“Sorry, Mama, I’m afraid I was in a brown study. The fashions, Ravenwood? I think you must be a far superior judge of such things than I. I merely wear the stuff, and mostly Mama or my dressmaker determines whether something is suitable, while ’tis the gentlemen who declare whether ’tis becoming or not.”