Lord Wraybourne's Betrothed

by Jo Beverley

  “Tell me, Mr. Carruthers,” she said. “Is this your first visit to Town? Are you perhaps, like Sir Edwin, in search of a wife?”

  “My first visit, Miss Sandiford? Indeed no. I’ve practically lived here for years.” With a self-deprecating smile and endearing honesty he added, “I have only a small estate which takes little time to manage, and the country is devilish dull when one has no work to do there and no loved ones around.”

  Was it her imagination that his eyes spoke of a particular loved one, herself?

  “Then you are looking for a wife, Sir,” she said.

  His silvery eyes, framed by long lashes, rested soulfully on hers. “Alas, but the fairest maids are quickly taken.”

  Her nerves aflutter at the game, Jane turned away to show she had understood his reference but glanced back to say, “Perhaps you must learn to be more speedy, Mr. Carruthers, or more daring.”

  Appalled at the gleam in his eye, she decided she had overplayed her hand and rose hastily, saying she must find Lady Sophie. Sophie, however, was surrounded as usual. Lord Randal was supporting a nearby pillar as Jane approached him.

  “Got rid of Carruthers, have you?” was his casual greeting. “Good thing too. He’s a mushroom. I don’t know why Maria would invite him along.”

  “I find him charming,” she protested. “It is a pleasant change to find a man able to talk sensitively on a subject.”

  Lord Randal looked disbelieving, but he merely grinned and said, “You probably mean that you haven’t yet received a surfeit of compliments tonight. Only a thousand or so.”

  She laughed. “I am not so greedy, Lord Randal.”

  “Are you not? Then, alas, you must be sickened by now, so I won’t tell you how magnificent you look.”

  “Won’t you?” she asked with a smile. She knew Lord Randal was a safe partner in this kind of conversation.

  “No.”

  Disconcertingly, he did indeed stop then and lapsed into silence. She burst out laughing.

  “You are an original, Lord Randal.” Struck by a sudden thought she asked, “Tell me, why exactly do you hover about us? Surely Sophie does not have such a claim on you?”

  He looked sharply at Jane, as if surprised by the question. “I’ve known Sophie all her life. It amuses me to see her success.”

  Hardly thinking of her words, Jane said, “And I suppose you wish to vet her choice of husband?”

  The planes of his face seemed to tighten. “Of course,” he admitted bleakly. “After all, I know all the cads, intimately. Which reminds me, stay away from Carruthers.”

  “That is absurd,” she protested. “He could never be described as a cad!”

  His smile was grim. “I was trying to keep within the language fitting for a lady. The music is about to begin. Let me find you a seat, Miss Sandiford.”

  It was only as she sat listening to a young lady playing the piano that she realized his ridiculous attack on an innocent man had been to deflect her from their previous conversation. It occurred to her that Lord Randal might in fact be harboring deep feelings for Sophie. But why hide them? He held a high rank in Society, even if he was a younger son, and was an intimate of Sophie’s family. Jane could see no reason for him not to press his suit if he were so inclined. Perhaps, she thought, he had asked and been refused. Sophie seemed to treat him as a brother. Jane sighed for an unhappy lover.

  The amateur concert continued, with performances ranging from dreadful to superb. Jane was pleased to hear Sophie acquit herself tolerably upon the harp, making up in verve for a lack of practice. Jane glanced at Lord Randal to see what his face might reveal, but at that moment it told her nothing.

  All such matters were driven from her mind when Lady Harroving said, “Jane, will you not sing for us?”

  Finding herself the focus of so many eyes, Jane wished the earth would swallow her. Even though she had been told she had a fine voice, she had never sung before strangers. She was amazed that Lady Harroving would put her in this position without asking whether she wished to perform, but Jane quickly perceived that refusal was impossible.

  Thankful for the creamy skin which did not show her blushes and for her long training in self-control and composure, she went to the piano. Playing from memory, she sang “The Aspen Tree” and a lullaby. Though she was not aware of it, the room became quiet and attentive in response to her rich voice. She finished to enthusiastic applause and calls for an encore, which she prettily refused.

  However, as she looked about her in glowing pleasure at this acceptance, she was disconcerted to note what looked like anger upon the face of Lady Harroving, but quickly forgot that when she saw Lord Wraybourne standing behind the lady. An irrepressible joy swelled in Jane’s breast, not lessened by the fact that he had witnessed her little triumph. This would show him she had some qualities other than her pedigree and upbringing.

  He came to meet her, his eyes glowing. “You were magnificent. What a treasure you are, Jane.”

  Jane’s spirits descended. Treasure immediately made her think of her enormous dowry.

  “Rich and entertaining too?” she said.

  The warmth in his eyes did not diminish. In fact, he seemed less reserved than usual. “And very beautiful and, I believe you said, frugal?”

  He was holding her hand and smiling in a way which would have been embarrassing, if it hadn’t given her hope that his feelings might already be strongly engaged. Jane could feel that tingle of excitement building in her again, flowing from his touch on her hand. Unable to deal directly with that right now, she took refuge in frivolity.

  “Those were compliments,” she accused, “and so against the rules.” Then she made a shocking discovery. “Lord Wraybourne, are you inebriated?”

  He chuckled. “Just a bit on the go. I usually go straight home after the third bottle at Carlton House, but I found myself passing here and remembered you were to attend. I thought you might have missed me.”

  Jane wasn’t quite sure what to do with this mellow version of her betrothed. She had never in her life been associated with anyone affected by drink, and she wondered in dismay if that meant she should disregard his doting behavior. Her mother had always said that those who were inebriated were totally untrustworthy. Jane was relieved when Sophie came up to them.

  “Did you hear Jane, David? What a wonderful voice. Why did you not perform at The Middlehouse, Jane?”

  “I was not asked, and I have never before performed in public,” Jane explained. “I would not have sung here if Lady Harroving had not suggested it.”

  “Yes,” said Sophie, puzzled. “It was careless of her. You could have had a voice like a frog and put us all to shame. But no doubt your mother primed her as to your virtues.” She looked at her brother, who was gazing at Jane with an anticipatory smile.

  “Prinny’s port,” Sophie diagnosed with a grin. “I’d go home if I were you, David, before you make a cake of yourself.”

  “Yes,” he said with a sigh.

  Jane stiffened as she felt his fingers tickling the palm of her hand. Such a simple contact to have so alarming an effect.

  “After all, you’re not going to disappear, Jane. Are you?”

  No reply was required, but as she watched him take his leave of the hostess, she caught sight of Crossley Carruthers watching her soulfully. She had mischievously encouraged the poor young man and had been, in a sense, false to her betrothed. Oh, the traps which surrounded the unwary in Society! Her mother had been right about that too. Guilt hung over Jane like a cloud. Fearing yet more indecorous behavior, she slipped for a moment into a quiet anteroom to collect herself. She was sitting quietly, making resolutions about her future conduct, when she heard a whisper so soft and hoarse that at first she thought her ears must be deceiving her.

  “Poor little beauty all alone,” the sibilance crept across the room. “Wishing for a man’s hands, a man’s lips? Wanton thoughts in a wanton’s body. Woman’s body, wanton’s body, no difference . . .”

>   Jane leapt to her feet and peered into the shadows. The room was empty, but there was an open door in each wall. It was difficult to detect from which direction the voice had come. Though she longed to flee to safety, Jane had no desire to confront the whisperer and dared not exit through any of the doors when he might be waiting for her on the other side. Trembling, she turned first to one, then the other in indecision.

  “Guilty conscience?” the whisper came once more. “Does the earl know how you cast lascivious looks at all the men, make promises with your eyes and your body?”

  Her ears had fixed the direction now. He was in the small salon. Dry-mouthed, with eyes fixed by terror on the doorway through which the horrible words had sounded, Jane began slowly to retreat towards the safety of the corridor and nearby music room.

  She heard a disgusting, spittly chuckle. “Will you have Carruthers to bed? Ashby? Or are you full of longings? Perhaps I’ll fill your needs for you.”

  Gasping, Jane bolted for the music room. Only a lifetime of self-discipline kept her from hurling through the doorway into scandal. A hasty glance showed her that the corridor was deserted, and she took a moment to compose herself, again giving thanks for her creamy skin. All the time she kept a fearful gaze fixed on the corridor down which the whisperer would have to come if he had pursued her. As her heartbeat slowed, her mind began to clear once more. He would not come here. Two steps and she would be in the music room and safe. He obviously had no desire to be seen.

  Was this some bizarre joke? If she told Sophie or Lord Randal, would they laugh, would it create a scandal? She was surely at fault in having gone off by herself. Once again, her impulsive disregard for correct behavior had led her astray.

  Could he possibly have been one of the guests? Surely it must have been a demented intruder. . . . Yet, he had known all about her. With horror, she realized that the whisperer could already have gone from the small salon to the main hall and thus rejoined the company in the music room. The thought of returning to that company with him perhaps there, studying her, even touching her, made Jane feel faint. What was she to do?

  Fortunately, rescue arrived in the form of Lady Harroving. “Why ever are you out here, Jane?” snapped the lady. “We have been looking for you this age. We are ready to go. Even if you are sometimes gauche, I had not thought you the sort to hide from the company. This will never do.”

  Jane let the tart comments wash over her as she gratefully allowed herself to be whisked away from danger.

  During the carriage journey home, she decided to keep silent about the encounter, partly because it was so unreal that she doubted she would be believed and more so because she was very disinclined to repeat the words she had heard. Also, she felt at fault for having separated herself from her party. She would be sure never to do that again, when it could lay her open to such a fright.

  Her sleep that night was troubled by distressing dreams of a whispering pursuer.

  For his part, Lord Wraybourne walked the rest of the way to Alton Street, hoping to clear his head. He had a deal of thinking to do, mostly upon his uncle’s business and the discussion which had been held at Carlton House. But his mind kept turning to Jane, so magnificent in the first neckline he had ever seen her wear which showed the roundness of her full breasts, with that rich and mellow voice swelling to fill the room, while the eyes of the other men upon her made him angry and proud and greedy.

  With determination, he cut off that line of thought. The wedding was not far off, and she deserved the time she had requested to find her feet in Society without having to worry about his passion. It was as well he had plenty to occupy his mind in the next few weeks.

  When he reached his house, he called for a jar of porter to settle his head and went to his study. He laid out crisp, new paper before him and dipped his pen in the standish. Thus prepared for work, he spent the next few minutes deciding which of the fashionable miniaturists should be commissioned to execute a likeness of Jane. He liked the work of Andrew Robertson.

  Lord Wraybourne shook his head to encourage clear thought and wrote the date clearly across the page: “May 19, 1813.” On the line below he continued: “Dinner at Carlton House. Present HRH, Colonel Hanger, Lord Liverpool, the Home Secretary, Uncle M-L, Mr. Stokely, myself.” Soon his pen was flying across the page as he recorded the discussion.

  He had been surprised to receive an invitation to dine with the Regent. As an earl and eminent member of Society, Lord Wraybourne was a frequent visitor at Carlton House and Brighton, but he was not one of the Prince’s intimates. Such invitations had usually been to events of the more public sort, especially as he was known to be a friend of Brummell, who was now totally out of favor with the Regent.

  A brief note from Lord Wraybourne’s uncle had advised him that the meeting was to be a business one—Mr. Moulton-Scrope’s business. Lord Wraybourne had suspected that his uncle was under pressure about the assaults and reluctantly agreed to go. All in all, it had been an unpleasant experience.

  The Prince was in a forceful and pettish mood. He insisted on action, obviously seeing himself as the defender of the weak. Though he had no ideas himself concerning how to proceed, he expected the solution to be easy and obvious. The most distasteful moment had come after the port circulated twice.

  The Regent, his speech slightly slurred with drink, leaned back in his chair and muttered, “Shame we can’t pin this on that damned Brummell, damned if it ain’t.”

  As the protuberant royal eyes roved round the table and everyone smiled or laughed at his humor, Lord Wraybourne knew that the Prince hadn’t really been joking at all.

  Meanwhile, something must be done to catch the real miscreant. David had agreed again to make observations among the circle from which the victims had been selected. He had heard a rumor of another attack but had not yet managed to confirm it. He also agreed to read the various documents assembled on the cases. The politicians then joined in to wrap this lack of progress in words that made it sound as if new direction had come from the meeting. Finally, the Prince had been appeased and turned jovial, even remembering Lord Wraybourne’s forthcoming marriage with congratulations.

  With the meeting summarized on paper and proposed action noted, Lord Wraybourne threw down his pen and continued that last thought—his marriage. He saw a vision of his betrothed, waiting shyly in the marriage bed, her long, dark hair draped about her like a cloak.

  He sat up with an oath, grabbed the mistreated pen, and blotchily wrote a further note. “Tell Jane she must NOT cut hair!”

  8

  LORD WRAYBOURNE’S NOTE to himself was useless. The coiffeur was at Marlborough Square before the earl had time to review what he had written. Sophie had summoned M. Charles to trim her own locks and consult with Jane. The elegant Frenchman marveled at the length and thickness of Jane’s hair and then tried to persuade her to have it cut off.

  “It is the style, Mademoiselle,” he entreated. “The gamin curls. See how well they suit Lady Sophie.”

  But Jane was not yet a creature of fashion. She could not face the thought of losing her hair, even if it was difficult to manage.

  “I am not Lady Sophie,” she retorted, firmly, “and I will set my own style. You may cut the front so that I may have curls there. Then devise different ways of dressing the back and instruct my maid.”

  Even the snipping around her face made her wince, as long snakes of hair fell to the carpet, but she had to admit that the effect was excellent. Relieved of its weight, the hair sprang back and needed only a little work with the irons to achieve glossy, fashionable lovelocks on her forehead. M. Charles then showed Prudence how to arrange the remainder in knots, twists, and braids for a number of different effects.

  For Jane’s first ball, which was to take place that evening, he considered her gown, then devised a Grecian style with the back hair concealed under a bandeau and only a few tresses peeping out at the crown. The style was severe for a debutante but perfectly suited the deceptively
simple slip and tunic which Lady Harroving had ordered for Jane to wear. With only her new girdle and her pearls for ornament, Jane regarded herself in the mirror. Nothing could be further from the country miss she had so recently been.

  “I wonder if it is not too sophisticated,” she confessed to Sophie.

  “It is wonderful,” her friend protested. “Very daring. You will show them from the start that you are not a child. After all, you are not an ordinary debutante. You are betrothed.”

  “Why do I have to show them anything?” queried Jane in alarm.

  “How naive you are. The whole town has been talking of your betrothal. Everyone is waiting to see what you are like, and the uncharitable expect you to be a bumpkin. Of course, jealous mamas are hoping to find you ugly and dull so they can console themselves that you caught David with your moneybags.”

  “Which is the truth.”

  “I doubt it,” retorted Sophie in surprise. “To be sure, why marry poverty if money is available? But the Kyles have been blessed by three generations of thrifty spenders and clever investors. Not a gambler or wastrel among them. We are disgustingly rich and have no need to marry money.”

  Jane was astonished. “Then why did he choose me?”

  “Well, you are wealth in a lovely package. Why would he not?” replied Sophie with a shrug. “Just remember you are the chosen one. Others as rich and beautiful have not been. They will scratch at you if you let them.”

  Jane felt a bud of hopeful joy begin to unfurl in her heart. It was a tender bloom, but full of promise. He had no need of money, there were others as wellborn as she, and, though his standards for his bride were doubtless high, they were not so very rigid that only a bride from Carne could match them. She had been chosen. Not, perhaps, for love, but for something personal.