by Olivia Drake
The Duke of Savoy was the catch of the season. Although stuffy and a bit patronizing, he seemed to be a pleasant enough man, and she had confidence in her ability to breach his reserve in time.
So why was she put off today by her mother’s maneuvering? Perhaps it seemed crass because James stood there at attention. She didn’t like to appear cold and covetous, not even to a servant.
“Now where was I?” Mrs. Crompton said. “Oh, yes. ‘Please convey my deepest regards to Lady Davina. Yours very truly, etc.’”
Blythe completed the note, although toning down the gushy bit about treasuring their dance together and expecting him to call on her. Then she sprinkled a bit of sand over it to soak up any excess ink. After tapping off the fine grains into a waste bin, she folded the paper before her mother could check it for accuracy.
She was reaching for the small gold knob embossed with her initials when James appeared at her side. “Allow me,” he murmured.
He held a lighted candle which he used to melt a little blob of red sealing wax onto the paper. Blythe impressed the oval of her stamp to close the note. She was far too conscious of him standing only inches from her. Schooling her features into an impassive mask, she glanced up to give him instructions as to where to deliver the letter.
But his attention was focused on the door.
A plump Hindu woman waddled into the bedchamber. Her thin gray hair was scraped in a knob atop her head, and she wore a purple sari edged in orange silk.
In India, Kasi had been ayah, or nursemaid, to Blythe and her sisters, a substitute mother during those carefree childhood years when Mama had been busy with the local English society or resting in her chamber from the effects of the heat. Three years ago, Kasi had been the only Indian servant to make the long journey to England with them.
The old woman placed her leathery palms together and bent at the waist in a deep salaam to Mrs. Crompton. In her sing-song voice, she said, “Memsahib, I bring you message. Missy Portia come to London tomorrow.”
Springing up from the desk, Blythe uttered a happy cry. “Oh, Kasi, that’s marvelous news. I’m so very glad to hear it.”
* * *
James stood riveted by the glow of pleasure on Blythe Crompton’s face. It transformed her from the aloof, wary girl he had observed upon entering the bedchamber. The sight gripped him in an involuntary fist of heat. He wanted to see that joyous expression on her face as she gazed up at him in bed.
James buried the fantasy, though he could not fault himself for his lust. Clad in a pale dressing gown with a rich mass of coppery hair flowing loose to her waist, she looked absolutely delectable, every man’s dream.
But Miss Blythe Crompton wasn’t destined for just any man. She would be the bride of a duke—if she and her mother could coax Savoy into making an offer.
“Well!” Mrs. Crompton said with a sniff. “It’s a pity she and Ratcliffe had to miss our ball last night. I do believe they could have made more of an effort to arrive sooner.”
Blythe’s face portrayed exasperation with her mother. “You know precisely why they couldn’t come any earlier,” she said. “Little Arthur developed an unfortunate case of the sniffles. Thank heavens, he must be much improved now.” To Kasi, she added, “They are bringing my nephew, aren’t they?”
Beaming, Kasi bobbed her head. “Yes, I fix nursery.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Mrs. Crompton countered. “It is best they stay with Lindsey and Mansfield. The house on Park Lane has ample room in the nursery. Besides, Portia will appreciate the chance to meet her new niece.”
They were speaking of Blythe’s older sisters, James gathered. From downstairs gossip, he’d learned that Portia, the eldest Crompton daughter, had a young son and had recently announced she was pregnant with a second child. Lindsey had given birth to her first daughter only a fortnight ago. Now, he found it telling to note Edith Crompton’s seeming lack of interest in her grandchildren.
Was it evidence of a cold-hearted woman capable of committing fraud and thievery on a grand scale?
He observed Edith closely as she stood in the sunlight streaming through the windows. There were surface similarities between her and the woman he remembered visiting when he’d been a boy of ten. They both had reddish hair and hazel-brown eyes. Both were slim and feminine.
But there were also differences. The Edith he remembered had been more quiet and shy while this woman was clearly a social butterfly. The old Edith also had exhibited a natural warmth of manner, giving him a kiss before sending him outdoors to play with her pet spaniels.
James’s memory grew hazy beyond that. The facial features of his cousin’s wife remained indistinct in his mind, no matter how hard he strained to call forth the image of her. He cursed the fact that he couldn’t make a definitive judgment on her identity.
“I was so looking forward to seeing Portia,” Blythe was saying to her mother. “They always stay with us.”
“I’m sorry, darling, but a young child will cause entirely too much disruption in the household. We cannot afford any distractions while you’re seeking a husband.”
“But Mama—”
“Enough. You will have ample opportunity to visit your sisters at Lindsey’s home. Meanwhile, you must concentrate on enticing the Duke of Savoy into making you an offer. Your future depends upon it.”
Mrs. Crompton glided toward the desk and retrieved the note that Blythe had written. She handed it to James and made a dismissing motion with her fingers. “Deliver that to His Grace at once.”
“Yes, Madam.”
She had scarcely cast a glance at him. He might as well have been invisible.
So much the better because it gave him the opportunity to take one final quick scrutiny of her. The hair color was similar, but there was no gray. If this woman really was his cousin’s wife, she must be nearing her fiftieth year. Yet the few fine wrinkles around her eyes and mouth seemed to suggest a somewhat younger age than that.
Was there a portrait of her hanging in the Cromptons’ manor house in Lancashire? Damn it, he ought to have had the foresight to make the two-day journey there before taking this post as footman.
But he had believed his memories of Edith and George Crompton to be clear and distinct. He hadn’t anticipated having trouble identifying them.
Now James was trapped here. Even if he were to concoct a grievous tale about a dying relative, he surely would lose his position if he were to beg a few days’ leave. After all, it wasn’t as though he was a valued retainer who had worked for the family for a long time. He was new and thus expendable.
A prickly sense of disquiet raised the hairs at the back of his neck. The Indian woman named Kasi stood silently to the side, her dark currant eyes fixed on him.
Realizing he’d tarried too long, he gripped the note and started toward the door. He had one last glimpse of Miss Blythe Crompton in that form-fitting dressing gown. She was watching him, too; then she blushed and glanced away. A pity they hadn’t been alone so that he could have charmed her into revealing information about her parents.
But there would be other opportunities. When the moment was ripe, he fully intended to exploit her interest in him.
Chapter 6
That evening, Blythe had the opportunity to advance her hopes with the Duke of Savoy when she and her parents attended a musicale given by an acquaintance of her mother’s, the Marchioness of Wargrave.
The Cromptons arrived to find the guests milling in the reception hall. From inside the drawing room came the sounds of a string orchestra tuning their instruments. Slowly wending their way through the crowd, Blythe and her parents chatted with several acquaintances. Whenever an unmarried gentleman approached, however, her mother deftly steered Blythe in another direction. All the while, Mrs. Crompton strained to see over the multitude of people.
“You’re taller than I,” she said to Blythe’s father. “Do you see the duke?”
“There,” Mr. Crompton murmured, nodding toward the d
oorway of the drawing room. “But he’s surrounded by ambitious mothers with marriageable daughters. I will not permit you to behave so badly as to push your way through that crush.”
Blythe stood on tiptoe to see that her father was correct. The throng milling around the duke appeared to be comprised of ladies vying for his attention. “I quite agree, Papa. I don’t relish the notion of appearing overly eager.”
Mrs. Crompton guided her family to an alcove filled with statuary and ferns. “Wait here,” she said. “I must have a word with Lady Wargrave. Perhaps she can secure a seat for Blythe beside His Grace.”
With that, she vanished into the colorful swarm of ladies and gentlemen, leaving Blythe alone with her father.
He looked at Blythe, and a wry grin deepened the lines on his weathered face. “Your mother is forever scheming,” he said, patting Blythe’s hand, which was tucked in the crook of his arm. “I don’t know what she’ll do once you’re married and there are no more daughters to manage.”
“She’ll start choosing future spouses for her grandchildren among the babies of society.”
They shared a laugh, and Blythe reflected on how safe and happy she felt with her father. Papa was stout and solid and had a faint, ever-present scent of pipe smoke. Although he often was busy with his shipping business, he had always been her hero, the man she admired above all others.
She treasured the rare occasions like this when she had him all to herself, if only for a few moments. The twinkle in his blue eyes brought back memories of the times in India when he had taken her for a Sunday drive in the palka-ghari or taught her the rules of kabaddi, a fast-paced game played by the natives.
The humor faded from her father’s face, and he gave her a keen look. “So you are quite settled on Savoy, are you? I must say, I am well pleased by the notion. It would be an excellent marriage for you.”
Blythe shifted her eyes as if to scan the crowd. She didn’t want him to guess that she longed for love. Papa so seldom asked anything of her and if he wished for her to wed the duke, then she would do so gladly. Besides, who was to say that she and the duke wouldn’t fall in love? She needed only to have the chance to be in his company.
“I like His Grace very much.” She spoke confidently, reminding herself of all the reasons the Duke of Savoy would make a splendid husband. “He’s refined and well-mannered and respectful. As his wife, I shall be quite happy to be a grand hostess of the ton.”
“My only concern is that he’s a bit old for you,” her father said. “You’re a spirited girl, but you know little of the world.”
“Oh pooh,” she said airily, striving to erase the hint of concern on his face. “I’ve watched my sisters. And I’ve lived abroad and traveled halfway around the world. I’m sure to know my own mind more so than any other girl my age.”
Mr. Crompton studied her pensively for another moment; then a smile tilted the corners of his mouth. “You are indeed an original, my dear. My fondest wish is for you to be happy.”
His heartfelt declaration brought the sting of tears to her eyes, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. She did love her father so. If only she could have a husband who was every bit as wonderful as him.
For no reason at all, she thought of James. A man of his station would marry a maidservant or a shopgirl, while she herself would take a husband from the highest ranks of the ton. That was the natural way of the world. She had observed it here in London and also in India, where the caste system was even more rigorous than in England.
But it served no purpose to dwell upon her attraction to a footman.
A chime sounded, signaling the imminent commencement of the concert. The aristocratic guests began moving en masse into the drawing room to find seats among the rows of chairs.
Mama came scurrying out of the flock of ladies and gentlemen. From the brittleness of her smile, it was clear that her mission to secure Blythe a place beside the duke had been less than successful.
“No luck, my dear?” Mr. Crompton asked.
“Hmph. These past three years I’ve nurtured a friendship with Lady Wargrave and it’s all for naught. I should have known she would be a stickler for precedence.”
It hurt Blythe’s heart to see her mother looking so disappointed. “It’s quite all right, Mama. I’ll have a chance to see him later when refreshments are served.”
“Indeed you shall. I will make certain of it.”
Mrs. Crompton took her husband’s arm and with Blythe on his other side, they joined the guests already in the drawing room. There, people were settling into the rows of gilt chairs that faced the musicians’ dais. Blythe caught a glimpse of Lady Davina and her father making their way toward a place of honor in the front.
When the duke’s daughter glanced back toward the Cromptons, Blythe lifted her hand in a friendly wave, but the girl gave no acknowledgment of having noticed. Her gaze passed over Blythe as if she was invisible.
As the Duke of Savoy took his seat in between two young ladies, Davina remained standing to speak to someone else in their party. Blythe recognized him at once. The dandified gentleman in the leaf-green coat was Viscount Kitchener, who had partnered her in a dance the previous evening.
All of a sudden, the two of them turned to look straight at Blythe.
She stiffened, resisting the urge to self-consciously straighten her pale yellow gown. So Davina had seen her, after all. Were they gossiping about the wealthy interloper who had invaded their exalted ranks?
Let them talk. A bit of tittle-tattle would not deter Blythe. It only made her all the more determined to be gracious. Perhaps after the concert there would be an opportunity to soften that haughty manner of Davina’s. After all, Blythe had never met anyone who could withstand an assault of relentless charm.
As commoners, the Cromptons were relegated to the back row. Blythe didn’t mind because it would allow her the freedom to observe the guests during the concert. If she had to sit for an hour without fidgeting, she might as well enjoy herself by studying the hairstyles and gowns of the other ladies, and deciding which of the gentlemen was the most dashing and handsome. Having only been out for the past fortnight, she found such events new and exciting. It was certainly a vast improvement over being confined to the schoolroom, taking endless lessons in dancing and drawing and deportment.
“May I join you, Miss Crompton?”
She looked up to see one of her suitors towering over her. He had an attractive thatch of reddish hair with the most unfortunate rash of freckles marring his face. The hopefulness in his brown eyes touched her heart. “Mr. Mainwaring, how good to see you again. I would be happy to—”
“I’m afraid Lord Kitchener already has a claim to Miss Crompton.”
Lady Davina appeared beside the hapless young man, who took one look at her cool patrician face and scuttled away before Blythe could even form a protest. Davina had Viscount Kitchener in tow, and she aimed a frosty smile at Blythe’s parents.
“Mr. and Mrs. Crompton,” she said by way of greeting. “We appear to be one chair short in the front row. I do hope you don’t mind if Lord Kitchener sits back here with you.”
Mrs. Crompton wore a look of dazzled enthusiasm. “Why, of course, my lady, we’re more than happy to accommodate him. Perhaps after the concert, you and your father could join us, too?”
“Perhaps for a moment. Although I’m afraid we are leaving directly afterward to attend another engagement.” Her voice held a hint of icy incivility as she gave Kitchener a nudge. “Now, do be a good fellow and sit down. The music is about to begin.”
As she turned to go, a smirk played about her lips. Davina’s words at the ball echoed in Blythe’s mind. I would never permit my father to marry so vastly far beneath him.
She could only surmise that the girl must be hoping Kitchener would distract Blythe from pursuing Davina’s father.
What a ridiculously transparent ploy!
The viscount plopped down in the adjoining chair without taking his usual
fastidious care to avoid wrinkling the tails of his coat. On the handful of occasions when they had met, Blythe had observed his self-absorbed nature. Kitchener cultivated the image of a romantic poet with a tumbled mass of golden-brown curls and an affectation for staring into the distance as if he were contemplating some deep philosophical conundrum. He was also a slave to the latest style, as evidenced by the leaf-green coat, yellow breeches, and the intricate white cravat that must have taken the better part of an hour for his valet to tie.
His dandified appearance came at a price, however. Kitchener was rumored to be in dire need of a fortune in order to pay off his tailor bills.
Her fortune.
“Hullo,” he said to Blythe in a rather loud voice. “You are truly an angel to behold! Your beauty shines as bright and clear as the moon against a black velvet sky.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
His syrupy compliment held no sway over her. She was too busy puzzling over his glassy-eyed stare and overly ebullient manner.
Was he foxed?
He had to be. Now it became clearer why Lady Davina had directed him to sit back here. She knew he’d been drinking. And she must be hoping he would humiliate Blythe by embroiling her in some sort of scene.
Blythe controlled a surge of temper. Davina had played a nasty trick, but that didn’t mean Blythe had to fall blindly into the trap.
As the musicians began to play, the viscount continued to chatter. “What a divine harmony of sound,” he said without making any effort to lower his voice. “I do believe such a melody must have been given to mankind by the gods on Mount Olympus. Do you not agree, Miss Crompton?”
Several guests turned around to scowl at him. A gray-haired matron tut-tutted while shaking her head.
Catching the viscount’s eye, Blythe put a finger to her lips. “Shh,” she whispered. “You must be quiet now.”