One Grand Season

by Sarita Leone

  She tapped a finger against the side of her nose. Today she wore a dress of the softest green silk, and looked years younger than her actual age. The girlish nose-tapping gesture gave her the appearance of being even more youthful.

  “Not to you or me. We are used to the ins and outs of fox hunts and other social events. But our guest is not, remember? To her, selling the horses is like letting go of family pets—unthinkable, cruel and heartless. Don’t you see? She does not object to you, Oliver. She just does not understand the common practices we take for granted.”

  He mulled his mother’s words over for a long, silent moment. She did make some good points, and seeing the situation through her eyes did give it a different slant.

  Still, he could not believe all Vivian’s objections had been over the horses.

  “I don’t agree with everything you say. I think—from the bottom of my heartless soul—that our dear houseguest does not like me one bit. She and I are like oil and water—incompatible and complete opposites. I am sorry, but it is the truth.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I know you want it to be different, but Miss Fox and I are just not suited for each other. Why, we cannot even take a morning excursion without nearly coming to blows. I believe she despises me.”

  “Surely you are exaggerating. How can any woman despise you, darling?”

  He raised one eyebrow. “You are biased, Mother. Utterly and hopelessly prejudiced in my favor—not that I am complaining, mind you. It is just that I know what I know—Imagine how it would be if Miss Fox and I did anything more serious than attend a horse sale. It could be catastrophic!”

  “Indeed,” Lady Gregory said with a deep sigh. “Catastrophic…”

  Chapter 8

  “There. I think that should take care of your snarl.” Vivian gave the delicate Irish linen square one last pat before she handed the stitching sampler back to Miranda. The thread knots she had sorted out defied description but they made her feel less awkward about the near-disastrous dancing lesson she had just endured. Surely her feet had not gotten nearly as tangled as the threads.

  Miranda looked at the scrap of fabric in her hands. She ran a finger across the restored stitches, touching the tiny pleats as if they might dissolve beneath her flesh at any moment.

  “You make it look so simple.” She threaded her needle with a fresh length of cotton and held it poised above the fabric. “It is almost embarrassing to be so inept—especially at something every woman should do effortlessly.”

  Lucie, intent on her own work, tsk-tsked. “You have plenty of womanly talents. Don’t cut yourself short just because pleats come hard to you.” Holding her fabric up to the light, she squinted as she inspected the row she had just finished. They were less ungainly than Miranda’s were but not nearly as perfect as Vivian’s example. With a small, almost delicate sniff she said, “Don’t feel bad. You are not the only one who won’t be winning any awards for her pleats.”

  They were seated in the library, beside the wide French doors where the sunlight streamed through the glass and gave plenty of light by which to work. An hour had passed since they left off dancing and began their needlework.

  Vivian had never known such pleasant times. Having neither a sister of her own nor the luxury of spare time to cultivate friendships, she had not known what a delight it was to keep female company. The hours she spent with Miranda and Lucie were some of the best she had ever known.

  Miranda tossed her sewing aside. “I give up. I know that once I poke that needle into the fabric again I shall make a fresh mess. Since Vivian has just sorted my last bit of chaos out I am going to leave well enough alone. My fingers hurt, anyhow.” She scowled at the tips of the fingers on her right hand.

  Vivian had noticed the tiny red spots on Miranda’s work. “You really need to keep the thimble on, at least until you become familiar with working the needle. Eventually you will build up a callous. See?” Holding up her own finger for inspection, she said, “It is not particularly becoming but it does save me from leaving bloodstains on my sewing.”

  “I don’t know how you do it, Vivian.” Lucie set her pleated fabric down on the table beside her chair. She stuck her tongue out at the swatch, and then giggled. “I am hopeless at sewing. Embroidery or crewelwork—even cutwork—I can do, but this heart-and-soul seamstressing is just beyond me. And, while I respect your fine finger, I am sure Nick would not be thrilled if I come home with calluses all over the tops of my fingers. As it is, I am not certain he is going to be thrilled by the little pricks I have given myself poking the needle into my fingers. Goodness, dressmaking is much tougher than I thought it would be!”

  When she first met Lucie she had worried the Duchess would be high in the instep and far from approachable but now that they were friends her earlier fears seemed silly. No one could be further from haughty and unsociable than the woman seated nearby.

  “I agree.” Miranda stuck one index finger in her mouth. Then she added, speaking around the offended fingertip, “And much more painful.”

  “Oh, you are both too funny! Dressmaking is a skill anyone can learn, if they’re willing to put in the time.” Vivian shook her head, the memory of the long hours she spent hunched over her sewing never far from her mind. “Eventually it comes naturally, and much more easily. Less painfully, too.”

  “I shall have to take your word for it. I am not sure I am up to the task. What about you, Lucie?”

  “We are not giving up this quickly, Miranda. She will have to find a simpler lesson for us. Perhaps pleats are a bit advanced. We shall have to work up to them, I think. What do you say, Vivian? Will you find something tamer for our next lesson?”

  Something tamer?

  She scrambled to come up with an interesting project which would guarantee success for everyone. Her mind went momentarily blank before the idea hit her.

  “Pockets! Everyone should know how to construct and attach a pocket to the outside of a garment. One can never tell when an extra pocket might come in handy.” She glanced at her companions. “What do you think? Are you up to trying pockets?”

  The others exchanged dubious looks. While it seemed that Miranda might refuse, Lucie nodded. Relief washed over Vivian. She wanted them to enjoy their sewing lessons, not to be tortured by them. Pockets were the most rudimentary lesson she could think of—besides hems, which were too boring to consider. No, pockets had at least some appeal and were somewhat useful.

  “Pockets it will be,” Lucie declared. “As long as they don’t have pleats.”

  “No pleats,” Vivian promised. “Now that is settled, I have a request about the next dance lesson.”

  Miranda frowned. “What is it?”

  Miranda had taken her position as dance instructor to heart—perhaps too much to heart. Vivian’s toes throbbed painfully inside her kidskin slippers, a testament to the exuberance she had insisted each dancer display.

  “No cotillions! I have a headache, trying to recall all the twists and turns of the cotillion you demonstrated earlier. I believe I might have nightmares just thinking about it.”

  Lucie nodded her agreement. “She is right, you know. No one but you followed any of the dance you were showing us. It did not help that you sent Vivian and I flying through the openings you created between passes and dips.”

  Miranda sighed. “It probably did not help that I was dancing both parts, did it? Well, I see your point—both of your points.” She shrugged, her frown gone and replaced with her usual sunny smile. “No more cotillion lessons. Next time we shall practice the waltz again. It is much more sedate.”

  “And kinder to the toes.” Vivian gingerly rubbed one foot over the other.

  She would have loved nothing more than to steal a feature from each of her new friends. It would have made the process of becoming socially adept much more expedient, and substantially simpler.

  Miranda, despite her definite leaning toward plumpness, danced like a dream, sweeping across the floor as if
borne on the wings of fairies. Once upon a time, long before she knew anything of want or hard work, Vivian had danced in a similar fashion. Of course, the steps were of her own making, the music playing in her mind and her “ballroom” the alley behind the apartment where they lived. Then, she had danced without thought to propriety, with no mind to impressing anyone save herself and with steps so sure she had never stumbled. Her toes had not ached and her pride had remained intact.

  Now, the basic steps required for waltzing or the country line dances which were so favored by the upper classes were difficult enough for her to learn. The French cotillion Miranda demonstrated this morning, with its intricate turns and partner changes, was far beyond her rudimentary skills.

  Lucie leaned forward, struck a confidential pose and said, “Miranda just likes to show off her cotillion skills. Truly, she does.” When her lifelong chum opened her mouth, she cut off the protest. “Do not try to wiggle your way off the hook, duck. You know it is true. You have always been far superior at dancing than I. We all know that if Nick had not taken such a forceful lead during our first dance—which was, unfortunately, a cotillion—I would have made a complete fool of myself. It was only his expert dancing skills that kept me on my feet—and off his toes!”

  “Hmmph! You act as if you have two left feet. It is not the case, either for you or Vivian. You both possess adequate physical skills—why, you both can walk and talk at the same time, can’t you? Dancing is no different—it is merely a matter of walking to a tune while talking to a handsome—hopefully—partner.”

  After a fast grin and quick glance at Vivian, Lucie said, “Well, it is a good thing that I have found a husband because it seems that the older I get, the less able I am to coordinate my feet with my mouth.”

  Shaking her head in amazement, she wished she had a bit of Lucie’s fast wit and good humor. Lucie made no attempt to hide her intellectual prowess, something that made its being part of her personality even more likeable than it would have been had she pretended to be less than she truly was.

  “You do not seem to have any problems at all.” She gazed thoughtfully at the other woman. While Miranda yearned so obviously for a man to call her own, Lucie seemed to lack for nothing. She seemed unreservedly at ease, and fairly glowed with happiness.

  What must it take to look so? Vivian wondered if she would ever seem as satisfied as a cat with a bellyful of warm cream. She hoped so, although she did not fully believe it would happen to her.

  “Oh, I have problems.” A faraway look in Lucie’s eyes as she gazed through the French doors and to the sweeping expanse of manicured gardens beyond gave no hint to the thoughts behind the stare. A small shake of her head brought her gaze back to meet Vivian’s. “They are not horribly pressing issues, I grant you, but I don’t believe there is anyone on the face of the earth without a tribulation. Or two,” she added.

  How could she have been so careless? No one was exempt from shouldering some sort of burden.

  “I did not mean…why, I am sorry, Lucie. That was insensitive of me to say.”

  “Don’t fret,” Miranda said soothingly. She glanced at Lucie. Then, apparently satisfied by what she saw in the other woman’s eyes, said, “Lucie and Nick lead a charmed life but that was not always the case. Your relatives have had their share of trials but they have managed to overcome them. And what is on her mind now is something she and Nick will also solve, in their own good time.”

  Turning to face Lucie, Vivian asked, “Is there anything I can do to help? We are, after all, related. It seems I should share some of the family’s misfortunes as well as its good times.”

  Miranda giggled. Lucie followed her lead. “No, my dear, I am afraid this is one issue Nick and I will have to deal with on our own.”

  In a loud whisper Miranda said, “They wish to begin a family. They are newly married but His Lordship—”

  “Don’t call him that! It makes him sound a million years old!” Lucie shot Miranda a disapproving look but it was clear there was no force behind the expression.

  As if she had not heard, Miranda continued. “As I was saying, the newlyweds have an eye to the future but there seems little hope of producing an heir when the duke is so frequently away on business. He takes a serious disposition to his business holdings, and seems disinclined to leave the running of his affairs to someone else.”

  The topic was not one Vivian had discussed before so she wisely kept her lips shut. She did not know about husbands, businesses or babies, so it seemed better not to offer advice.

  Lucie did not seem to require any, which was a relief. She did not seem overly Friday-faced by her predicament, because she lifted, then dropped, one shoulder as she smiled.

  “I am sure that when the time is right, we will begin our family. Now,” she looked over her shoulder toward the closed door. Then, her cheeks pinker than they were only a moment earlier, she said, “I should change the subject. I am sure Mother would have a fit if she heard me speaking of such things with two unmarried women. Why, the scandal it would cause if anyone knew!”

  The sound of heels in the hallway brought their conversation to a standstill.

  Vivian stared breathlessly at the heavy double doors swung open on silent hinges. Oliver strode into the room as if he owned it—which he did, of course—and put an abrupt end to the female chatter.

  Looking every inch the lord of the manor in a navy-blue pinstriped morning coat and severely pleated matching trousers, he bent to kiss Lucie’s cheek as he passed her chair. Then, a nod for Miranda.

  When Oliver turned to her, Vivian glued a little smile to her face, hoping to conceal the trepidation that had her hands clammy and her throat tight.

  Since their outing to the Tattersall horse auction, she had managed to avoid him. It had not been particularly difficult to do so, since the manor house and its grounds were so large they provided ample hiding spots. Not that she was hiding, exactly. No, it was more a case of staying away from the temptation Oliver Gregory brought with his presence. Vivian did not feel tempted by her attraction to him; she had a tricky time resisting the lure to bicker further with the man.

  Why does he have to live here?

  The thought passed hastily through her mind. She swallowed guiltily as Oliver inclined his head to her, his good manners making her feel bad for having any ill thoughts in his direction. He was, after all, one of her hosts.

  “Vivian.” His tone was pleasant, and his demeanor suggested a truce.

  The white flag of friendship should never be overlooked. With renewed resolve to find common ground with the man before them, she nodded a greeting.

  “Oliver. It is…ah, why, it is a nice surprise to see you this morning.” There. The sentiment was not entirely true but it was socially acceptable. That, Vivian had come to learn, held much more weight in London circles than the truth did.

  “Whatever are you doing inside on such a fabulous day? My dear brother, I would have thought you and Will would be out and about, taking care of something dreadfully important or absolutely pressing.” Lucie grinned, raising one impeccably shaped eyebrow in question. “Don’t you have something lordly to attend to?”

  When Oliver waved a fist in mock threat, the smile on his face so wide it was almost dazzling in its intensity, she saw a side of him she had not known existed. Love for his sister shone from his eyes and turned his words tender.

  “Listen, little sister, just because you are a married woman it does not mean I must take such insults from you. Besides, I could pose the question of Nick’s business—is he off on some lordly mission, or is his absence this week due to a more mortal errand?”

  “He will only be gone for one night, and it is actually on an errand of mercy.”

  Sitting heavily on the footstool by his sister’s feet, he asked, “Mercy? Whatever do you mean?”

  “His friend from school, Charles something-or-other, sent a message and requested Nick’s help. I am not certain what the matter is, but I am sure it
is one of a financial nature.” She lifted one eyebrow as if in surrender, and then went on. “He gets several appeals for monetary help each month. At first I was put off by the sheer volume of them but now I just take it as part of life. Nick does not think those with more than others should hoard their resources. So, he is probably lending a financial hand to his old friend.”

  “Admirable, but doesn’t it bother you that he is spreading the wealth the way he does?” Miranda’s eyes opened wide, as if she surprised herself by speaking.

  “Not really,” Lucie answered. Her gaze touched each of them in turn, and seemed to linger on Vivian. “I agree with him. We have more than enough. Why shouldn’t he help those less fortunate?”

  Knowing she was technically among the less fortunates of the world made Nicholas Grayson’s kindness more meaningful. She knew what it was like to go without, so hearing Lucie and her husband believed in giving help where it was needed struck a chord.

  Whatever her differences were with Oliver, these were good, kind people. Vivian counted herself lucky to be in their company.

  Oliver smoothed a gentle hand along Lucie’s wrist. “When will Nick be home?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  The next was less a question than a statement. “You will be spending the night here, then?”

  “You know Father would not have it any other way. Nick, either,” Lucie added with a giggle. “Yes, I shall stay. In fact, staying the night will make my excursion with Vivian all the more uncomplicated to carry out.”

  Vivian sucked in a breath. Her mind had been only half-listening to the conversation, so when she heard her name she was at a loss. The others picked up the thread of dialogue without her help.

  “Excursion?” Miranda sat up straighter on the settee, looking a trifle green around the edges. Vivian had not thought her a jealous creature, but if Miranda’s glance had been a dagger she would surely be lying on the floor in a bloody heap.

  “Do not take on so, Miranda! Why, you look ready to draw Vivian’s claret,” Lucie said with a small burst of laughter.