The Sensible Courtship

by Megan Daniel

  Convinced as she was, she could not quite bring herself to face Sarah just yet. She headed for an empty chair beside Priscilla. She would try to determine for herself how much headway Devlin was making with the girl and do what she could to repair his mishandling of her so far.

  Mrs. Pennington had been cornered by Lady Brae- thon. By the preening of the former and the speculative looks toward Pris of the latter, it was obvious what and whom they were discussing. Everyone must have noticed by now the attentions Devlin was paying to Pris. Even Roxanna was pouting in the comer of a sofa.

  “May I sit with you, Pris?” asked Francesca. The two girls, though scarcely bosom buddies, had been acquainted for more than a year.

  “Certainly, Lady Francesca,” said Priscilla, minding her manners and trying hard to forget her wretchedness.

  “That is a very pretty frock,” Francesca lied easily. Priscilla looked down at the pile of acid green sarcenet that engulfed her delicate form. It was wrapped around with ruchings and rufflings, and the bodice was covered with far too many ribbons and rosettes for one of Priscilla’s size.

  She looked at Francesca to see if she were teasing, but saw only kindness in the lovely face next to hers. With unwonted courage she replied, “It is a perfectly horrid frock! You know Liza would not be seen dead in such a hideous dress.” Her voice was thick with misery and a touch of self-pity as she added, “Mama chose it.”

  “Does your mother always choose your clothes?”

  “Generally. She never did so with Liza, of course— Liza would not have stood for it—but then, I haven’t Liza’s style.”

  “Of course you haven’t,” said Francesca, patting the girl’s hand. “You have Priscilla’s style. You need only to find it. We each of us must find our own way, you know.”

  The soft kindness in the voice seemed to open some kind of floodgate in Priscilla. A suggestion of tears began to well up in the big aquamarine eyes. “But it is so easy for you! You are beautiful, like Liza. You do not stammer and blush and make a fool of yourself whenever someone tries to speak to you. And you don’t have a Mama dressing you up like some sort of doll and throwing you at the heads of gentlemen who try to be kind but who really only wish you would go away!”

  Francesca discreetly offered the girl a handkerchief and turned her body so as to shield her from the curious eyes of Lady Braethon. How completely lacking in confidence the poor girl was!

  After a moment Priscilla calmed herself and wiped

  away a last tear. “There,” said Francesca in a nurse- maidish, that’s-better sort of tone. “You must not let your Mama distress you so. She is only trying to do what she thinks is best for you, you know.”

  “I know she is,” said Priscilla on a hiccup. “But I do wish she would not.”

  “Well, of course you would like the freedom to choose your own gowns and your own friends and your own pursuits. It is what everyone wants. But single girls seldom have such freedom.” She diplomatically refrained from pointing out that she had always had just such freedom simply because she had always insisted upon it. “But when you are married, you know, you need listen to no one but your husband.” She gave a conspiratorial smile and added, “And husbands, I think, are much more easily managed than mothers.”

  To her dismay, she saw the hunted look had returned to Priscilla’s face to replace the recently vented anger. “I do not think so, my lady,” she whispered. Why, the girl was truly frightened at the notion, thought Francesca. And it must be Devlin that had made her so afraid. What an absurd idea, she thought, to be frightened of Devlin. But then she recalled her own fears five years ago. But she had been afraid of herself, of the strength of her own feelings, not of the object of those feelings. Priscilla was a different sort of creature entirely.

  “You mustn’t let Devlin frighten you, you know,” she said quietly. Priscilla looked up in alarm, all her suspicions confirmed. Lord Devlin had been singling her out, so much so that everyone had noticed. Tears brimmed up once more, and she could not answer. Francesca, realizing too late her gaffe, changed the subject and began chattering away on totally innocuous subjects for the next quarter of an hour.

  When the gentlemen finally rejoined them, it was with surprise and a touch of annoyance that Francesca saw Devlin and Caspar enter together, still deep in conversation. No sooner did they step over the threshold than

  their eyes lifted to where she was sitting. There was a degree of alarm mixed with the admiration in Caspar’s look; there was a definite note of amusement in Devlin’s. They had obviously been discussing her. Devlin’s glance taunted her with the fact. How dare he interfere, she thought with annoyance, entirely dismissing the equally obvious fact that she was sitting beside Priscilla, holding a handkerchief still wet with tears from the girl’s red- rimmed eyes.

  With a last whispered assurance to Priscilla, Francesca vacated her seat and went to help Sarah with the recently arrived tea tray. She expected Devlin would take advantage of her vacating her place to continue his wooing of Pris, but instead he followed her to the teapot and stood at her elbow while she poured and handed round the cups. Sarah smiled up at them. “What a dear you are, Cesca,” she said, “to relieve me of every burden. If you will pour, I will just go speak to Sally. She has the most wonderful nurse to recommend, she says.” She rose and gave Devlin her sunniest smile. “Do I not take shameful advantage of my friends, my lord? Do stay and help Cesca with her task. You will relieve my conscience.” Neatly kicking her demi-train behind her, she swirled off toward Lady Jersey.

  Francesca watched her go with a puzzled frown. What was Sarah up to? And why was Devlin standing there with such an amused grin on his face, the odious man? She picked up the heavy silver teapot and poured the dark brew into a delicate Wedgwood cup, added warm milk, and handed it to him with a cold “My lord.”

  He only grinned the more. “Oh, do stop looking daggers at me, if you please.” he said without preamble. “Just because I have been doing what I could to mend your fences for you. You should be thanking me.”

  “My fences are in no need of mending, my lord,” she said coldly. “And if you had been paying closer attention at dinner, you would have seen it quite clearly.” She

  handed two cups to Lord Poole with a pretty smile. He accepted with a compliment, then carried them away.

  “I was paying very close attention,” continued Devlin, “and I agree that your Mr. Maltby is, for the moment, quite dazzled. But I promise you, Caspar Maltby is not the fellow to marry a dazzler. I suggest you tone down your act, old girl, or you will lose your bet.”

  “Would you take this to Lady Braethon, please?” she said coldly, handing him a cup.

  He did, but, to her dismay, returned at once and went on as though without interruption, “That gown, for instance.”

  She abruptly stopped pouring and looked down at her dress. It was a long elegant fall of amber peau de soie that exactly matched her eyes, trimmed with Brussels lace of a rich deep brown.

  “Very tonnish,” he said. “Very elegant, and well calculated to direct the thoughts of most gentlemen to your undeniable charms.” He could not deny that it had just this effect on him when he had first seen her in it. He had thought her quite perfect. She flushed with embarrassed annoyance as his gaze raked those undeniable charms. He went on, “But something a little more demure would better suit your immediate purposes, I think.”

  “I suppose you would prefer me to dress like Priscilla!”

  He looked toward his would-be wife. “Well, you needn’t go so far as that,” he conceded. He took in the girl’s still-tearful eyes and added, “And by the by, what have you been saying to her? She looks all in a dither.”

  “What have you been saying to her? The poor thing is nearly beside herself. She is terrified at the thought of you, Devlin.”

  “Terrified? Nonsense! Why ever should she be frightened of me of all people? I am the best of good fellows. I have treated her with nothing but respect and kindness.”
>
  “You may think you have. But I might suggest that Pris is a rather nervous little animal. If you want to catch her, you had best use an invisible trap. You have been going after her with beak and talons bared.”

  “I have only—” he began his defense, but was cut off by what he saw approaching. “Oh Lord! Here comes the Widow!”

  “I shall leave you to your tete-H-tete with her, then,” Francesca replied, and picked up a cup to carry to Lady Aurelm.

  He stopped her with an iron hand on her arm and spoke through his teeth. “If you desert me, I shall tell Maltby what a baggage you really are. And I shall never speak to you again.”

  Her eyes laughed at him. “Such a temptation!” she said softly, but remained seated. “As you wish, then.”

  “And don’t think I am through with you! We will continue this conversation at a later time!”

  Roxanna Gordon fluttered up in a wisp of red chiffon that scarcely covered enough of her alluring form to deserve the title of gown. Her eyes were glittering as brightly as her rubies. “Devlin,” she murmured, taking a cup of tea from Francesca rather as if she were a servant, then completely ignoring her. She turned her powerful allure on Devlin. “You must just settle a question for me. Lord Jersey and I have been discussing the mating and breeding of dogs ...”

  The evening ebbed slowly away. Jane Magness performed with much virtuosity and little emotion on the pianoforte. Priscilla was made to tackle the harp, which she did with an overabundance of feeling—her nervous agitation and embarrassment were evident to all except her Mama—and only a modicum of skill. Devlin was called upon to partner Lady Braethon at whist, much to Roxanna’s annoyance, and Francesca went to work once more on Mr. Maltby.

  Whatever Devlin had said to him after dinner, Caspar seemed less bemused by Francesca than he had been. She began to find it uphill work to amuse him and keep him enthralled. Her questions about his flowers and his shrubs still kept him talking, but a look behind his not unintelligent eyes now and then clearly wondered if she were truly interested or only tolerating his company for some obscure motive of her own. He knew very well that he was not the sort of fellow to usually attract such as she. Also, he had known Francesca for some time, and she had never paid him the least attention before now. It was a puzzle.

  “Yes, Sarah’s gardens are particularly fine,” said Francesca in response to some comment from him. “I do hope you will tour them with me. Sarah has been promising to do so for ages, but I am certain that you, Mr. Maltby, would make a far better guide. You could explain the characteristics of the various species so much more thoroughly than Sarah.”

  “I should be glad to do so, of course,” he answered, “if you do not think the Duchess would mind.”

  “Not at all. She loves her gardens, of course, but she would be the first to tell you that she knows very little about how they grow. I know she is considering adding more color to the beds in the lower terraces. The old Duchess had a penchant for nothing but white blooms.

  “Oh, but she must not!” exclaimed Caspar. “The White Garden is superb just as it is. Quite unique, in fact. Of course, the rose garden would be improved with a little more variety. I’ve a nice cinnamon-red Persian the Duchess might favor.”

  “Cinnamon! But how intriguing. I am certain she will love it. Perhaps we could visit the rose garden one afternoon. After the hunt, of course,” she added, almost as an afterthought. To Lady Francesca, looking at rosebushes, especially bare autumn rosebushes, when one could be riding to hounds, galloping over fields and fences, was scarcely imaginable. “I should so like to see it with you, Mr. Maltby,” she concluded, laying a hand lightly on his sleeve.

  His eyes flitted to her hand in surprise, then to her face, which was smiling a brilliant but strangely intimate smile. He felt his neck begin to grow warm and his head to grow a little dizzy. He really had drunk a great deal of wine, he concluded. It must have been the wine that made him reach out to cover her hand with his own.

  “I should be honored to escort you, my lady.” He spoke in a voice that came out a sort of croak.

  “Francesca,” she said softly, and squeezed his hand. When she looked out into the room once again, it was to meet Devlin’s glare upon her with a smile of triumph. She would show him that she did not need his advice. Nor would she take it.

  10

  The party did, at length, break up and the guests retired to their bedchambers. As Francesca sat before her mirror, a pretty peach nightdress gathered at her bosom, and her abigail, Rose, brushing out her rippling golden hair, she mused on the progress of the evening. She felt sure now she could bring Caspar up to scratch, and had, in fact, already gone halfway to doing just that. She would be a married lady before the spring, maybe even sooner. Perhaps, by this time next year, she would find herself in Sarah’s condition. She looked down at her firm breasts and flat stomach just covered by the silk shift. How would it feel to be with child? she wondered. Caspar’s child. She shivered. Rose handed her an airy peignoir that matched the shift. She wrapped it around her shoulders.

  It occurred to her that, for one contemplating such a momentous change in her life, she was strangely dispassionate about the whole thing. It was as though she were observing someone else, a good friend, whose best interests she had at heart, but for whom she felt little emotional involvement.

  Of course, Caspar Maltby was not the sort of gentleman to arouse intense emotion. It was precisely why she had settled on him. A husband whom she could like well enough, even respect a bit, was what she required. Not one who would wield emotional power over her. Such affection would be saved for her children.

  That thought did bring a smile to her lips. The poor little things were likely to be smothered by her if she wasn’t careful. She would cherish them and care for them and bring them up to be strong and bright and free. They would be her world.

  She dismissed her abigail, but she was not in the least sleepy. Her mind was too jumbled with thoughts to be able to rest just yet. After a languid stretch she settled herself into a comfortable chair before the fire, her bare feet tucked up beneath her, to read herself into a more composed state. Mr. Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire seemed perfectly suited to the task.

  But hardly had she transported herself to the ancient world than a tap at her door jolted her back to the present. It must be Rose returning with some message or other, she guessed. “Come in,” she called, and was surprised when the only response was another polite tap.

  She walked to the door, her airy peignoir billowing from the movement and her long hair draped over her shoulders. But the angelic picture she presented jarred with the amazed look on her face at the sight of her caller.

  Devlin, still perfectly and completely dressed, stared back with equal amazement. Had he given the matter any thought, he would have expected to see her already dressed for bed. But the truth was that he had given the matter no thought at all. His reaction, therefore, was a compound of embarrassment at finding her thus and awe at her striking beauty. The candlelight behind her glowed through the thin silk, perfectly outlining her long thighs, her tiny waist, her elegant arms. Her golden hair looked as if it was on fire, a halo hanging over it.

  Francesca was the first to find her voice. “My lord?” she asked softly.

  “Forgive me, my lady,” he replied, giving himself a

  mental shake. “I had not thought you would be so quick.” He knew he was making little sense, but didn’t know how to remedy the situation.

  Suddenly the absurdity of their grave formality while she stood there in her nightdress struck them both, and they smiled.

  “Well, Devlin,” she said in a more relaxed voice, “what can I do for you?”

  “I had thought we might continue our earlier conversation and perhaps map out a little strategy together. But it can wait for another time.” He made as if to leave, although with obvious reluctance.

  Quickly, and almost involuntarily, she reached out to
stop him. “Nonsense, Devlin. Now you are here, there is no reason you should not stay.” She looked down at her charming deshabille. “I am as thoroughly covered as I would be in a ball gown, you know.” He said nothing to disabuse her of her misapprehension. “And with such a house full of guests, it is unlikely we will find many opportunities to be private together.” With a smile and with very little reluctance, he came in, and the door was shut behind him. “And I would like to know what you said to Caspar after dinner. I had to spend the rest of the evening beguiling him again.”

  She moved so that the candlelight was no longer behind her; thus she appeared clothed again, and he came back to his senses. “What? Scales beginning to drop from his eyes already, are they?”

  “No, they are not!” she retorted, then calmed herself. “I believe you observed how the evening ended. He is scarce indifferent to me.”

  “Too bad he can’t see you now. It would clinch the matter. You look like an angel.”

  His gaze made her feel hot with embarrassment and something else she could not yet name. She retreated into anger. “Perhaps I shall invite him to do so! Unlike you, he will most assuredly not come without such an invitation.”

  “No, poor fellow, I am certain he wouldn’t. Doesn’t know what he’s missing. But I shouldn’t do it if I were you. He wouldn’t come, you know, and you are like to give him a disgust of you if you don’t moderate your behavior.”