by Mary Blayney
Who was Sally and did ladies really act this way when they were on their own? And when were ladies on their own? Molly had never heard of such a thing.
Sally? Had her aunt ever referred to a Sally when talking about her friends. It was clear that Molly should have paid more attention to those discussions.
“Well, Marge.” Sally turned and looked at Molly’s aunt. “I am afraid that you are right. We will have to take her in hand and do the right thing by her. I did have my doubts when I heard about the agency she runs finding ladies without connections husbands, but I do see your brother in her and I always did have a soft spot for Peter.”
She was talking about Molly’s father. Molly slowly put the pieces together. She’d clearly known Lady Margaret and Lord Peter as children. Sally looked about the same age as Lady Margaret and her tone spoke of years of familiarity. If she’d known Molly’s father as well that meant it was decades and decades ago, before he’d entered the Navy and rarely mingled in society again.
Molly almost lifted her glass and drank it to the bottom. There was really only one possibility for whom Sally could be. Her Grace of Radford and Eberts, Constance Salvatoria Elizabeth Claire Towson. The woman was the daughter of one duke — although there’d been rumors that her parentage might be even higher than that — had successively married two more dukes, and her children and grandchildren held half the titles in the land. Well, that was an exaggeration, but not by as much as one might expect.
Sally could probably cause a civil war if she sneezed wrong. In fact, Molly was sure she’d heard that Lady Radford had actually caused one minor skirmish when she’d refused to allow one of her goddaughters to dance with a Polish prince because she didn’t like his mustache.
And this woman wanted to arrange Molly’s life. A moment ago she’d jokingly considered running into the night. Now it didn’t feel like a joke.
And she mustn’t forget that this woman was also Radford’s grandmother. He might be behind this whole thing.
Blast.
Her life had been so simple a few weeks ago.
After a moment, she did lift her glass and take a careful sip.
And then she waited.
And waited.
The ladies had moved to discussing a fearful orange gown that someone had worn to a musicale the week before. Molly felt as if she’d become invisible. She listened for a moment to a discussion of whether you could wear red roses in your hair if your gown was the color of a tangerine. The majority of the ladies were of the opinion that such a thing could never, should never be done, but Lady Radford held out that at a certain point, a certain age, a lady could do as she wished.
Sally supposed that was true if one was related to half the kingdom.
What would she do if she had that sort of power? Well, she’d fix all of her own ladies’ problems. She knew that none of them came to her out of a great desire for employment. They came to her from need — and she let them keep their secrets, but that did not mean she didn’t know the secrets were there.
And if she had that much power she’d arrange for tickets to the opera and the theatre every night — and the time to go. And the ability to go without feeling that she was being watched and judged by all of society. She wanted to go and lose herself in the spectacle, not go and play social games.
And she’d make it acceptable to go for a walk in the park without bringing a maid.
And she’d start a fashion that called for ladies to wear high necks and long sleeves in winter.
And she’d start an orphanage.
And she’d…
Her thoughts drifted in a thousand circles. There were so many things she would do if she didn’t feel constrained by all the rules that governed what a young woman could and couldn’t do.
“So that is decided. Lady Margaret will send her coach and you will arrive before noon on Tuesday.”
The words penetrated Molly’s brain slowly and she had to look up and meet Lady Radford’s gaze before she realized who had spoken. “What?” she mumbled.
Lady Radford turned her eyes to Lady Margaret. “You didn’t tell me she was slow. That could change everything.”
Lady Margaret let out a long sigh. Her eyes settling on Molly who squirmed beneath her aunt’s look. “No, she is not slow. Perhaps a little inattentive. Her mother did not teach her the best of manners.”
There were so many replies to that, but Molly forced them down. There were some fights that could not be won. To engage at all was to lose. She turned back to Lady Radford. “I am sorry. My dear aunt is correct. I was still debating the merits of red roses and orange silk. I was not giving you my full attention. I do apologize.”
“I am glad you recognize your fault,” Lady Radford answered.
All those hours of listening to clients and their ridiculous demands showed their value as Molly managed to hold her smile. “And would you be good enough to tell me what I missed?”
“You missed your agreement to come to my house party this coming week so that we can begin to help you find your proper position in society. It might not be a truly lofty one, but will undoubtedly be far better than you have ever experienced.”
“Your house party?” Molly hoped the sudden hollow that had opened in her belly did not actually show.
“Why, yes. Beddington Chase is particularly fine this time of year and I do enjoy sharing it my with my friends.”
Beddington Chase. Radford’s ancestral home. The hollow became a chasm.
Chapter Four
What was she doing here? The carriage wheels rattled to a stop. Molly pulled her stomach muscles tight and prepared herself. It was only a house. It might be a grand house, but it would only be a house. And Radford would not be here. Her aunt had mentioned that the duke never left London except for the occasional hunt at the end of the year. He would not be here.
He would not be here.
She ignored the slight tingle that the thought he might defy expectations and arrive caused.
Radford would not be here.
She repeated the words again and again as she allowed the coachman to hand her down.
Hell. It was not only a house. It was a castle.
She should have looked out the window instead of avoiding it all as long as she could.
The house rose at least four stories, the gray stone hung with ivy and embellished with gargoyles — gargoyles that looked ready to eat her for dinner. The one directly over the door looked suspiciously like the elder dowager duchess.
Stay calm. Stay calm. That was a far better thought. Turning her head, Molly took in the great wings that swept from the main building like arms, grasping her tight. She slowly turned until she faced past the carriage, looking down at formal lawns and a long pond — could one call something that long and that straight a pond? — until her gaze met the endless forests of the deer park and beyond. It was a vista beyond breathtaking, beyond anything she had ever imagined.
It made her feel very small and very insignificant, little more than a speck in the great lands of the duchy. How could anyone ever believe she belonged in this world?
The click of heels drew her gaze back to the house and she turned to see the dowager duchess and her aunt standing at the top of the stairs.
Was she supposed to curtsey? Never had Molly felt such a quality of near royal command. In most circumstances she was sure of herself and could respond with the proper degree of deference without feeling any the less herself.
This was different.
Shoulders straight she climbed the stairs, stopping two steps before the dowager duchess.
“Lady Radford, Lady Margaret.” She dropped into a shallow curtsey and allowed her head to bow.
“It is good to see you have arrived safely, Lady Mary.” Lady Radford said, her voice cool and formal.
Well that was warmer than she’d been afraid of. And there was no sign of Radford sneaking out of the door behind his grandmother. Molly confessed to herself that she’d been scare
d he’d somehow appear despite all promises to the contrary. And they hadn’t exactly been promises. It had been impossible for Molly to make any such demands without revealing why she cared. And of course, she didn’t really care.
Again she ignored that tingle that said perhaps she wouldn’t mind so much if he were here.
It didn’t matter to her what the duke did.
She truly was glad that he would not be here, truly.
It was only that he could be so annoying. That was the only reason she cared at all.
It was bad enough that she’d have to be on her toes all weekend guarding herself from any potential mishap.
Pulling her thoughts back together, she smiled graciously at Lady Radford. “I am so pleased to be here.” She even managed to sound sincere.
“We are both so glad that you could find the time to come. It will be so wonderful introducing you to suitable company,” her aunt replied.
That made it sound like she’d had a choice in the matter — and they all knew that was not true. She’d been managed from the moment that she arrived at her aunt’s dinner and she was being managed still.
Molly nodded without saying a word.
“I will have you shown to your room so that you can freshen up — and then I shall introduce you to some people your own age,” the dowager duchess said, her tone making it clear that Molly clearly needed to do more than freshen up.
Molly would not have been surprised to discover a hairdresser and seamstress waiting in the room ready to make her into someone new, someone more suitable. At least the Lady Radford had mentioned that there would be other young people. Molly’s first worry had been that Radford would be here. Her second worry had been that she’d be stuck in the circle of her aunt’s friends for the weekend, listening to women forty years her senior discuss what she needed to do to be a proper young lady.
With unsure feet she followed the summoned footman up the stairs leading to the North wing.
What was he doing here? Radford rolled his shoulders trying to ease the tension. The house was his. The estate was his, but he never left London except when strictly necessary. A problem with the spring plantings might bring him or perhaps rain near the harvest. He’d even come out once to inspect the rebuilding after a fire in the South wing.
Looking up at the high stonewalls, he felt an internal shudder. This place had never felt like home — and he knew his father had felt the same. They’d only visited twice during his childhood. Once for his young aunt’s funeral and then when he was older for his grandfather’s. Even after he’d succeeded to the duchy his father had avoided the place and he’d never brought his family when forced to visit. He’d made it clear to Radford that one only came to Beddington Chase for emergencies.
Unfortunately, his grandmother’s summons might count as an emergency. Bollocks. He knew there’d be a price if he failed to meet whatever demand she expressed. And, unfortunately, he rather expected that her demand would include the word matrimony and the name Lady Alyssa. He didn’t know why his grandmother had decided that the young chit was the woman of his dreams, but she had been quite expressive of her viewpoint.
It did not matter that he found the girl dull and had never been overly fond of blondes. He could hardly tell the dowager duchess that Lady Alyssa simply did not make his nether regions stir. He tried to imagine the old woman’s face if he gave any such indication in even the most polite turn of phrase.
Well actually, the old dear would probably tell him to lie back and think of God and country and do his duty.
His primary duty being to give her an heir.
Some might think his duty was to father an heir to the duchy.
Radford knew better. His job was to supply a great–grandchild. A son would be preferred, but his true responsibility was to place a baby, a legitimate baby, in her arms.
Well, it was best to face what could not be avoided. Back straight, he strode up the high stairs, nodding to the servants who lined the way, welcoming their master home. He didn’t know why he always felt uncomfortable here. He’d understood why his father did, but there was no reason that the ill feelings should remain.
“I am glad you decided to come,” his grandmother’s voice echoed through the great door. “It is about time you decided to show my wishes proper respect.
And then again, perhaps he did understand some of why his guts roiled every time he thought of Beddington Chase.
It was a lovely home — and strangely it did feel like a home despite the incredible size of the rooms and heights of the ceilings. A few of the rooms truly were palatial, an open door had revealed a bed whose posters rose four times the height of any man she’d ever known. And the bed curtains! It must have taken several lifetimes to finish even one panel of the exquisite embroidery.
Her own room though, was warm and cozy. A light yellow warmed the walls and the flowing chintz that decorated the windows and bed, while finer than any she had seen, was still welcoming. She could have curled up on the window seat for hours with her book and been quite content.
Of course, that was not an option for this afternoon. Aunt Margaret and Lady Radford were determined that she mingle with her social peers. It sounded like this involved croquet and lemonade, neither of which was a favorite of Molly’s. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. She loved lemonade when one could actually taste the lemons, but every party she’d ever been to seemed to serve sugar water which a lemon had been passed over. And as for croquet, she’d enjoyed playing the game as a child when she’d been allowed to swing the mallet as hard as she could and send her cousin’s balls flying across the lawns, but the social game of ladylike pats followed by giggles and titters was not her cup of tea and certainly not her glass of lemonade.
Still, a woman made sacrifices for family and Lady Margaret was family.
Grabbing a shawl, she headed down to meet her doom. If she was lucky the worst thing that would happen is that she’d have nothing to say to anyone and the other young women would look at her gown with only the slightest of pitying glances.
Her shawl was lovely, however. There would be no pitying glances at the heavy length of Chinese silk, the embroidered butterflies so vivid they almost flew from its length. Her father had brought it home for her mother on one of his last trips to the orient and it was one of her greatest treasures. She always felt warm and treasured when she wore it, immune from the harshness of the world about her.
As she dallied down the stairs in the great entry way she amused herself by thinking about the worst possible thing that could occur during a game of croquet. If one imagined the worst then it would never happen.
She could spill punch down her gown. That was too real to be amusing. And lemonade was unlikely to stain. Now a red wine punch could make an impression on the fragile muslin.
She could trip and rip another ladies gown — or end up grabbing a gentleman in an area no woman should touch. That thought brought a small smile to her lips. She was curious — about many things. She might be unsure of marriage, but that didn’t stop her from wondering. Not knowing more about the progression of things between ladies and gentlemen was one of her few regrets in life. It seemed grossly unfair that unmarried gentlemen were allowed to explore and ladies were not. She wondered if she could pretend to fall and use it as the occasion to explore a little anatomy.
Damn Radford. She’d not had such thoughts a month ago.
Besides what were the chances that she’d want to touch any of the gentlemen present.
Now that she could add to her list of worst things that could happen. Every gentleman present could be four inches shorter than herself and twice as wide. No three times as wide. When one was contemplating the worst, half measures were a waste of time.
And bad breath. They would all have breath that smelled of sour milk mixed with kippers — and stale cigars.
And they would all be either quite young or much too old. There was nothing like a leering man in his sixties to give a girl the s
hivers — and not the pleasant kind.
But should they show attraction or look at her with great disdain?
Now that was a difficult question. The obvious answer was that they should stare down their long, yet bulbous noses as if she were not fit to be the dirt beneath their shoes, but that was far too simple. It was more difficult to handle a man who inched too close and took any chance to touch. A man who whispered sweet nothings while a trickle of drool worked down his chin. A man who pinched you while his wife looked on and left oily hand prints on your dress. A man who …
And then Molly knew that she had not truly considered all the possible scenarios.
Radford stood in the front door, the bright sun shining from behind to cast him in silhouette. It was sin that any man should be graced with such a physique. She’d known he was broad shouldered and slim hipped, but seeing him here, standing in all his glory made her heart leap.
No. It could not be her heart. He made her stomach leap and lurch. That is what the odd feeling was — a slight case of nausea.
She was not glad to see him. She was not.
If she told herself enough times, she might even come to believe it.
What the blazes was she doing here? And when had her hair developed those extraordinary flame colored streaks? He knew it was the light flowing in behind him that lit her like an angel, but surely those streaks must have been there before if more subdued? Why did he not remember them?
He closed his eyes and counted to three, hoping Miss Watson would disappear. Dealing with his grandmother would be quite enough without adding in one disapproving spinster.
Opening his eyes he looked again. She was still here — and it was hard to see her as a disapproving spinster when her normally tightly drawn back hair was pulled in to the loosest of chignons, a creation designed to tempt a man’s fingers. And her dress was no longer the stiffest twill, instead she wore a soft muslin of some transparency. There was no padding on that body.