Fran Baker

by Miss Roseand the Rakehell

  “Tell me, were you so theatrical as a child?” he asked with a show of interest. “Or perhaps I should rephrase that: Will you be so theatrical when you grow up?”

  “Let me go!” she hissed. “You’re hurting me!”

  The viscount quickly captured her flailing hand and, pulling her ungently into his arms, he brought his lips down to meet hers. It was a hard, forcible kiss, devoid of sentiment, and its effect was crushing to Thalia. It said all that he had not put into words. When he was done, he cast her savagely aside.

  She stood, breasts heaving, trying to catch her breath and rubbing her reddened wrist. Thalia stared at him with a pout, but her heart was pounding with excitement. The aura of violence about him had always enticed her.

  “You’re a beast,” she said at last.

  “Then you are well rid of me.”

  “How can you say that when you know how I feel about you?”

  “Sure you don’t expect me to believe your heart is broken, or that you care a snap for me?” he asked in a bored drawl. “I was not the first to cuckold Loveday and I very much doubt I shall be the last, so have done, Thalia.”

  “You know we are branches of the same tree, Colin,” she said, her pointed chin upthrust. “And whatever else we may feel, we’ll always be drawn to one another.”

  “There is little point to this conversation,” he said in a dangerously soft voice. “I’m not a man of many scruples, as you indeed know, but even I will not throw my mistress into the face of my fiancée.”

  “Fiancée!”

  Thalia audibly drew in her breath, then released it as two red spots tainted her cheeks. She was not one of the fortunate females to whom a flush was becoming. And looking at her stained, angry face, Colin wondered why he had ever been drawn to her at all.

  “So it is the country mouse!” she sneered.

  “It is,” he confirmed in a flat voice.

  Again, she sucked in a sharp breath. Then she charged shrilly, “You don’t love her. You’re not capable of love.”

  “Understand this, Thalia—what I feel is immaterial. I’ll not have Miss Lawrence suffer any hurt. Should anything you do or say cause her the least embarrassment . . .” He let the unspoken threat hang in the air between them.

  Collecting her clothes from the blue satin chair, Thalia went slowly to the door. There, she turned to taunt him with a smile. “I’m willing to wager,” she said with confidence, “that however much you feel for your country nobody, my lord, you’ll soon come back to me. You’re as incapable of fidelity as you are of love and when you tire of her, you’ll look to me for your pleasure.”

  She left him scowling at the slammed door. He was scowling still when Maret appeared later that evening. Jacques stood staring speculatively at the viscount’s obvious ill humor before venturing to ask, “And who is it you are calling out this time?”

  “Oh, the devil! It’s not that,” Stratford said, downing the contents of a wineglass at a toss.

  Jacques raised his quizzing glass and inspected his friend for quite some time, noting the unnatural glitter in the black eyes. Deciding his lordship was not yet castaway, however, he let the glass fall and inquired, “Dare I ask? Just what is it that has put you into such . . . shall we say, spirits?”

  Colin flashed him a look that bespoke understanding, but answered moodily, “Thalia paid me a call today, one of her usual melodramatic scenes. She said we’re branches of the same tree, she and I, and I’m damned if she’s not right!” When his friend made no response, he said more calmly, “At least Helen does not look as if she will enact me any Cheltenham tragedies.”

  With an inscrutable expression, Maret remarked, “Speaking of whom, you’ve only two days more to make good on your wager. You know, dear boy, when you let the first week pass by without even attempting to claim my thousand guineas, I quite feared you’d lost your touch.”

  As usual, Maret’s dry observation made Stratford forget his petulance. He threw back his head and laughed, then stood. “Your five hundred guineas are as good as in my pocket, Jacques. Miss Helen will be saying yes with time to spare. In fact, I’m engaged to escort her to the Reeves’ this evening. Will you come?”

  Though Maret was reluctant, Colin pressed him into accepting and a few hours later the two stood watching the ravishing Miss Helen step gracefully through the boulanger with a young coxcomb newly on the town. She looked, as always, breathtakingly beautiful. Her dark tresses were pulled to one side by a velvet ribbon that precisely matched the jonquil gown she wore. The curls cascaded down her shoulders enhancing the creaminess of her skin as well as the fine structure of her cheekbones. Though some of the less gracious, or less lovely, females dismissed the simple style as too countrified, every male in the ballroom greatly admired its effect.

  “It’s as well her beauty sparkles so,” Stratford commented as his gaze followed Helen’s progress about the floor, “for her wit does not shine at all.”

  “If she so displeases you,” returned Maret on an unusually sharp note, then choose another for your bride.”

  “What, and lose my five hundred guineas?” the viscount asked on a laugh. “Not on your life! Besides, I’ve heard that for a wife to have more hair than wit is no bad thing. And Miss Helen’s hair is superbly lovely.”

  Maret shrugged. “I do not find her to be so witless, but I dare say looking at it from a husbandly point of view makes one more critical.”

  He moved away before Stratford could respond, leaving the viscount looking after his receding form with a thoughtful frown. He was unable to reflect deeply upon his friend’s sudden acerbity, however, because he was immediately snared by his aunt, Lady Minerva Baldwin.

  “Stratford!” she screeched. “I have been desiring to speak with you for days. Did you not receive the note I sent round to Half Moon Street asking for you to wait upon me?”

  He turned a resigned, indifferent gaze upon her rounded features, focusing on her multiple chins. “I’m sorry, Aunt Minnie, I was unable to get away.”

  She did not believe this for a moment and told him so bluntly. “But the fact is, Colin, I wonder what you are up to, trying so hard to fix your interest with that little beauty, for you’ve certainly never lost your heart. If you have a heart to lose—which I have doubted for years—you’ve kept it intact, for a man less in love I have yet to see!”

  Stratford gnashed his teeth at this, but knew the impossibility of trying to stem one of her lectures in midflow. He did not listen as she continued, but wondered where she found a dresser who would allow her out of the house with that repulsive puce turban wrapped around her head.

  She regained his attention by rapping smartly on his wrist with her closed fan. “You will doubtless think me an interfering busybody—”

  “Will I?” he inquired politely.

  “But whatever game you are playing, I advise you to quit before the stakes become too deep.” With that Lady Minerva trotted away, satisfied that she had set her nephew onto the right path.

  Stratford stared unseeing after her, then pivoted on his heel and went directly to where Miss Lawrence had just been seated, her face still delightfully aflush from the exertions of the dance.

  “Miss Helen, I wish to speak privately with you,” he started, his tone abrupt.

  “N-now?” she stammered, her eyes flying to meet his.

  “If you please,” he said, extending his hand.

  She hesitated briefly, then placed her own slim hand in his and rose. As they moved together across the room, she knew this was the moment that had been expected all week and steeled herself to make an affirmative reply. She had looked in vain for some sign of affection from Mr. Maret, but had finally been forced to accept that his kindness to her stemmed solely from his friendship with the viscount.

  If she had to sacrifice herself for the good of the family, Helen would by far rather do so with the fair Mr. Maret or even, she thought sadly, with someone like the ridiculous Baron Greer, whose wealth and eccentric pr
anks made him a regular feature in the on dits about town. But they were not about to offer for her as, she suspected with a sinking heart, Viscount Stratford was.

  His lordship stopped before a curtained alcove and stepped aside for her to pass through. He pulled the curtain closed when he entered, then turned his dark gaze upon her.

  “Miss Lawrence—Helen, you must know what I wish to ask,” he began in a brusque manner.

  She tried to speak, but found she could not. She merely inclined her head, which, had she but known it, tried his lordship’s tin supply of patience to the utmost. He covered this by possessing himself of her trembling hand and, bending his head, lightly brushing his lips across it.

  “I desire to make you my wife,” he said as he straightened, “and if you will honor me with an acceptance, I will apply to your brother for formal permission to address you. Our future, my dear, is yours to command.”

  He had retained his hold upon her and she sat staring mutely at the two hands entwined before she finally raised her blue eyes to his square face. “I am certain you will find Griffen happy to receive you,” she said so softly he had to bend to catch it.

  “You have made me very happy, Helen,” Colin remarked calmly before returning her to her seat and setting off to collect his winnings from Maret.

  Chapter 5

  A small, slim boy burst through the door shadowed by an even smaller one. Their dark crops of chestnut curls and vivid blue eyes plainly proclaimed them as Lawrences. The elder, a child of possibly seven or eight, skidded to a stop and the younger crashed into his back.

  “I say!” cried the first. “There’s a ripping carriage coming up the road!”

  “Frederick,” said Nell sternly, “that is no way to enter a room. You and George go out and see if you can enter like little gentlemen.”

  “But, Mother!”

  “No buts, Frederick, if you please. Now do as I say.”

  The boy stalked out, followed by his little brother, whose stubby legs could not keep up with his sibling’s. The pair marched back in, quietly this time, to their mother’s austere approval.

  “What were you saying about a carriage, Freddy?” His Aunt Rose looked up from her needlework and smiled at him.

  “It’s a bang-up rig,” the boy told her, “and it’s got a capital crest on the side!”

  “Where do you pick up such terms?” Nell wondered.

  “I think I hear something,” Rose said at the same time.

  “That’s the carriage!” exclaimed Freddy. He ran to the window and stood pressing his nose to the pane while George stretched on his tiptoes beside him.

  Rose laid aside the linen she had been mending and stood behind her nephews. “Indeed it is,” she confirmed. She turned a puzzled look upon Nell. “And it’s stopping here!”

  Nell joined the others to peer out the window in time to see a private coach drawn by four bay horses pull to a halt before their cottage. The outriders sprang to the ground, opened the door and let down the steps to help the occupants emerge. A young lady’s maid clutching a square dressing case stepped out first, then stood waiting for her mistress.

  Freddy was the first to see her. “It’s Aunt Helen!”

  George clapped his chubby hands together.

  Rose ran lightly to the door and outside to meet her sister.

  “Helen! Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?”

  “I did not know myself before yesterday,” she answered with a happy laugh as she threw her arms around Rose’s neck. “There was no chance to send word before Aunt Liz packed us off!”

  Followed discreetly by the Thacker’s maid, the two came arm-in-arm into the house where they were met by Nell.

  “Whose coach is this?” she inquired.

  An indecipherable expression crossed over Helen’s face before she answered tonelessly, “It is my Lord Stratford’s. He kindly offered it for my journey.”

  Rose cast her a sharp look, but was constrained from saying anything while Nell continued to greet Helen. She did so with such a degree of warmth that her young in-law was prompted to ask if she was feeling quite the thing.

  “Oh, you precious child!” Nell replied with a false titter. “How could we not all feel happy for your joy! It is the best of good news, and we are most impatient to hear all the details of your romance.” She ended this speech by tapping on the door of Susanna’s bedroom and saying as she entered, “Mother Lawrence, look who has come home!”

  Mrs. Lawrence lay upon her bed surrounded by her bottles of hartshorn and Hungary Water. Her vinaigrette reposed next to her hand and was grasped instantly upon their entrance. She sat upright with astonishing energy and cried, “Oh, my sweetest! My love! Such a triumph! It was precisely what I expected of you, though of course we were most surprised when Elizabeth wrote of your brilliant catch. If only your dear, dear papa could share in your happiness, for I am sure the salvation of the family would have saved his life!”

  Such reasoning brought an amused twinkle to Rose’s eyes, for dear Papa had met his untimely end by falling from his horse during a drunken celebration for the winning of a bet, the winning being a far more unusual circumstance than the drinking. The twinkle soon disappeared, however, for within the hour Rose was certain that her sister was not in love, nor even very happy over her forthcoming betrothal. Helen confirmed that his lordship had indeed spoken and would be traveling to Willowley in the next day or two to speak with Griffen and make his formal declaration. She stated this so matter-of-factly, with such a resigned set to her pretty lips, that Rose was nearly overset with anxiety to be alone with her.

  There was no opportunity throughout the remainder of the afternoon, for Susanna engulfed her daughter in her arms and continued to monopolize her, pausing in her raptures occasionally to sniff at her vinaigrette or to question Helen sharply about the season’s on dits, the latest fashions, and all the myriad details of fashionable life on the town.

  By the time her mother at last relinquished her, Helen was thoroughly convinced that she had been right to make this noble sacrifice, for matters were far worse than she had ever realized. Though Mama had not been vulgar enough to mention such subjects, Nell had referred repeatedly to such mysterious things as settlements and mortgages until Helen was assured that only her marriage stood between the Lawrences and the poor house.

  This notion was reinforced over their family supper when even Griffen admitted that his lordship’s offer was a fortunate one, indeed. He mitigated this slightly by adding, “If I find his character is not all as is reputed, I shall be most happy to give my consent to this match.”

  “If!” Nell shrieked. “What can you mean? Of course you will consent!”

  Observing that Helen, who could not bear arguments or dissension of any kind, was turning pale, Rose intervened, saying quietly, “It shall all be settled soon enough. Helen, dearest, do tell me where you came by that fetching bonnet you wore today. It became you extremely.”

  The subject having been successfully turned, little more was said regarding Helen’s betrothal and gradually the color returned to her cheeks. But her sister remained dissatisfied and impatiently awaited the time when they would retire to the tiny bedroom they had shared for years.

  At last, however, the moment came when Rose sat on the edge of Helen’s bed, regarding her seriously with concerned gray eyes.

  Helen did not meet her gaze directly and chattered nervously about her stay in London, her trip home in the viscount’s luxurious coach and her happiness to be back in her own little room until finally the flow of words faded awkwardly away.

  “Why are you entering into this engagement, love?” Rose asked her then.

  “Why—why it is a wonderful match! His lordship is—is handsome and most flattering. You cannot imagine how attentive he has been. It will be a most agreeable marriage, I assure you.”

  “Stuff!” Rose said in sisterly affection. “It’s as plain as a pikestaff you are not in love.”

  “Oh, R
ose!” Helen responded airily. “Surely you do not still believe that people marry for love? Is that why you’ve never got off the shelf?”

  There was a shocked silence while Rose struggled not to show her hurt.

  “Rose, dearest, I’m so, so sorry!” Helen exclaimed in great distress. “I never meant—”

  “It does not signify.”

  “But it does, it does! I am so sorry!” Tears spilled from her lovely eyes as Helen flew into her sister’s arms.

  “You silly peagoose! It was nothing,” Rose said, giving her a hearty squeeze. “Now dry your eyes. As regards the other, you must do as you feel is best, dear. I only spoke out of concern for your happiness.”

  “I know, I know. I’m a wretch to have spoken to you so,” she sobbed on a muffled hiccough.

  “Nonsense,” Rose countered bracingly. “Now let us say nothing more about it.” She blew out the candle ad, wishing Helen pleasant dreams, climbed into her own bed to lay awake for quite some time.

  *****

  During the days which followed, they spoke no more of the betrothal for Helen’s manner did not invite confidences and Rose was far too wise to press upon her. She was tempted once to speak when, three days later, Nell came into the parlor wreathed in smiles to announce that Griffen had received a note from the Viscount Stratford. The note had been sent from the inn in nearby Adderbury where his lordship had put up with his cousin, Mr. Baldwin.

  Helen accepted the news that Stratford would be calling upon them in the morning with such a strained smile that Rose had to bite her lip to keep back the exclamation that sprang to mind. Her sister’s only comment, however, had been that they should like the viscount’s cousin very well, for Mr. Baldwin was a nice, quiet gentleman.

  That Stratford had journeyed to Willowley with his cousin Daniel had come about as a result of an argument with Jacques Maret. Though not generally of matutinal habits, the viscount had risen early the morning of Helen’s departure to pay a call upon his friend. He was ushered into Maret’s sunny breakfast room where the beau sat leisurely perusing his morning correspondence. As Stratford was announced, Jacques set aside the stack of papers and took up his eyeglass.