The grand dames whispered to one another that they hoped the two would find their way. For even the worst tabbies in the ton thought it a rare treat to witness a noteworthy couple falling in love. As a bonus, such a couple could be counted on to provide most excellent entertainment because true love rarely progressed from start to finish on a straight road without ruts. They sensed that this couple would not disappoint on that score either.
Chapter 26
In which our hero is not yet jilted.
Constance and other friends warned Elizabeth about troubling rumors in circulation that impugned her character and imputed vile motives for her reluctance to marry Lord Clun. As a result, these friends urged her to cry off without delay to silence the criticism and restore her good name. Still she would not. Not yet.
Though false, the gossip was having its effect. She met with cold stares at the parties she attended. Even at the balls during which she and Clun danced their waltz, she heard titters behind her back in the withdrawing rooms. She bore it all. Only one man’s opinion mattered. Unfortunately, his lordship was unfailingly courteous and aloof whenever their paths crossed. That was why she had not expected Clun to call on her or to invite her to Gunter’s in the company of the Duke and Duchess of Ainsworth.
She enjoyed every minute with Clun and his friends. The duke’s graciousness put her at ease, but the duchess’ warmth made her feel welcome. It would be lovely to be part of their intimate circle.
What Elizabeth remembered most clearly about the outing was silly: she marveled at how elegantly Lord Clun ate. He neither picked at his ice nor plunged in — so like the way he kissed. He savored each taste, letting the tart tang of the flavored ice melt on his tongue. His heavy-lidded eyes dipped with pleasure and he smiled to himself as he paused between spoonfuls. The man certainly knew how to enjoy himself.
Out of the blue, Clun set aside his spoon to address the duchess, “Your Grace, may I consult you on a matter?”
Prudence smiled broadly, “Of course you may, my lord, have you a complaint?”
“When I find myself uncomfortable with carriage travel,” he said, “is there some way to ease the discomfort? Or better yet, to prevent the upset?”
“Softened by civilian life already? Bah!” The duke cackled. “You never suffered from mal de mer that I can recall. You’ve cast-iron guts. Or you did have before your life of leisure.” He turned to regard Prudence. “Well wife, how would you cure our baron’s queasy tummy on the tollroads?”
Elizabeth said nothing while Clun suffered his friend’s teasing.
Prudence replied without hesitation, “There are several remedies. The most pleasant and efficacious, I find, is candied ginger root. It’s quite good for nausea of all kinds, even morning sickness.”
“Excellent.” Clun nodded.
Without another word, he dipped his spoon back into his treat. He looked up and caught Elizabeth staring at him. “Enjoying your ice?”
She could only nod, too affected by his consideration to reply. She also made a mental note to send out for some candied ginger as soon as she returned to the house.
Elizabeth looked furtively around the room and encountered bright, watchful eyes in smiling matronly faces. At table after table, other patrons regarded her with benign concentration. Even stern-looking older ladies nodded as if offering their benediction. She blushed and returned her attention to the sweet ice.
Next, she realized Lord Clun’s thoughtfulness went beyond candied ginger. He’d arranged this outing not simply as a treat for her, but also as a public gesture, with a duke and his duchess no less, to disprove the rumors. Her ice turned into syrup as her heart melted, too. Again and again, he cared for her without fanfare or expectation.
Mrs. Abeel would doubtless approve.
If Elizabeth could have loved Clun any more, she would have. As it was, her heart already overflowed. She ached with the excess of her affection. It was a horrible, heady feeling, and she hoped to survive it without ever having to recover from it.
Now, at least, she could face Lady Clun at tea on the morrow.
Chapter 27
In which the Fury transubstantiates into a loose cannon.
The morning slipped away from Elizabeth due to fretting about the tête à tête with Lady Clun. She rose from her writing desk, where she hadn’t written one note of thanks or one letter to a friend, where menus awaited review, where she hadn’t done a single productive thing since breakfast.
Her mind had flitted from one worry to the next, and it always circled back to the most pressing question: what of Clun? Time was short. He was proving to be just as obstinate as he was thoughtful.
Elizabeth had resumed her life, met friends at Hookham’s, circulated Richard Martin’s petition against cruelty to domestic animals for Lady Jane and joined the seasonal social whirl. Nevertheless, it was hard to ignore the pressure to resolve the situation.
Without a doubt, the baroness was calling on her to achieve a resolution. Given their initial, mutual dislike, she assumed her ladyship would insist she release Clun without further delay. It wasn’t right for a mother to meddle this way in her grown son’s affairs unless, of course, he’d approved it.
Elizabeth gritted her teeth when Nettles announced Lady Clun.
“Show her to the blue room, I’ll be there shortly. And Nettles, please send for tea immediately.”
For her part, Elizabeth intended to expedite tea and thereby hasten the baroness’ departure. She straightened her gown, which was creased by hours of restless sitting. Looking in the pier glass, she smoothed her hair under her proper lace cap, slipped on her gloves and left the room. Walking down the hall to the drawing room, she felt a chill in the air. She clasped her hands before her and stepped through the doorway.
Good afternoon, Elizabeth,” Lady Clun said from where she stood in the middle of the room. The baroness held out both limp hands to her. “I hope you will allow me the familiarity, under the circumstances.”
“Of course, Lady Clun. How do you do?”
“Let’s not either of us be formal, shall we? There’s so much to discuss. I’d rather we speak frankly.”
“By all means,” Elizabeth replied and gestured to the settee. Her ladyship sat and twitched her lips, as if attempting a smile and finding it unworthy of her effort. Elizabeth sat in a chair opposite her. A footman delivered the tea tray and placed it on a low table between the two tense women. Both ladies removed their gloves without a word. Elizabeth busied herself with the teapot and, after waiting silently for the tea leaves to steep, poured a cup for Lady Clun.
“How do you take it?”
“Milk no sugar. Child, I know this is hard for you, this awkward situation. I came here with a purpose and would speak of it.”
Elizabeth prepared the tea and handed the baroness the dainty porcelain cup and saucer with a slight smile. Next, she prepared a cup for herself, deliberately dribbling in cream and stirring the cut lump of sugar slowly, waiting wordlessly for it to dissolve.
The baroness huffed impatiently, “I would speak frankly to spare you censure and to save my son further embarrassment. You and Lord Clun simply will not suit. All the wishing in the world cannot make it otherwise.”
“You do speak frankly, your ladyship.” Elizabeth felt her cheeks burn. “But I believe a happy marriage is possible between us.”
“Would that it were so, poor dear, you know him not. Even now, you subject him to wagging tongues and the mockery of the ton whilst you leave him dangling. My son is a proud man. Do you think your behavior has endeared you to him?”
“I know, it has not. He understands my reasons and does not appear to hold a grudge.”
“Are you waiting, as I’ve heard, for a better prospect to step forward?”
Elizabeth stared in shock. “No.”
“That’s what’s said. The rumors hardly do you credit. Your father will doubtless agree with me that this situation is not to be borne. For all his faults, and there are many
, Clun does not deserve your unseemly reluctance. For your own sake as much as his, you must set him free.”
“No.”
“No? You are determined to marry him? Yet, you do not. What could you possibly mean by it?”
“We are in the process of— ” Elizabeth searched for the word she wanted, “negotiation.”
“There is no more negotiating to do. The settlement was settled, my child. He was generous to a fault, I might add. You cannot expect more from him.”
“That is not my meaning.”
“De Sayre men do not negotiate. If you know him at all by now, you know that I am right.”
Elizabeth did know. This lay at the heart of her dilemma.
As if reading the younger woman’s thoughts, the baroness leaned closer. “Have you considered carefully what a marriage to him will entail?” Lady Clun asked in a voice full of foreboding. “One must embark on life as a de Sayre wife with eyes wide open.”
“How so, your ladyship?”
With mirthless relish, Lady Clun laid bare the litany of sins of which de Sayre men were guilty. “Let me tell you a bit about Lord Clun’s heritage. My father-in-law, William’s grandfather, was an infamous libertine and his wife universally pitied. My own husband was that libertine’s true son. I had imagined otherwise, and that was merely my romantic fantasy. He lived up to every inappropriate precedent for behavior his forebears set.”
Elizabeth said nothing to interrupt the baroness’ diatribe.
“Prior to our marriage, he conceived a child with one Mrs. Rodwell. This, many young men do, I know, but he established her and his bastard in what was by rights the dower property in Ludlow, and he used the ground rents from other properties to support her and her misbegotten brat. I was aware of the situation when I married him. I was too infatuated with him to pay it mind,” she sighed. “My husband’s paramour continued to live in outrageous style, thanks to his unstinting devotion. A few years later, she died, and my husband insisted she be interred at The Graces. He also had the gall to insist I raise the orphaned by-blow alongside his legitimate heir,” Lady Clun recited this without inflection. “I finally found peace when he ran off to London to take up with his housekeeper. They lived as man and wife, regardless of social ostracism and my humiliation, till he passed on to his reward. Even that was not the last of his cruelties. It was his final wish to be buried beside Mrs. Rodwell at The Graces. I made certain he was interred properly in the castle’s family crypt with the moldering bones of every other de Sayre. So, even in death, he sought to scorn me. Our marriage was a fiasco but for the procreation of an heir to the title.”
Elizabeth was stunned by this recitation. The baroness pressed her advantage.
“My son is a decent man in many respects,” Lady Clun said, “Sadly, he has also inherited the familial temperament, I warn you. Resentful, withholding and cold. Make no mistake, when he weds, it would be best for his wife not to cherish tender feelings that will go unreciprocated. Unrequited love causes only anguish. Mark my words: de Sayre men do not love easily — if they love at all — and they think nothing of causing pain to those they do not.”
“Lord Clun has said he will honor his vows. He’s a man of his word.”
“He is a de Sayre.”
“Meaning?”
“He is a man of his word, child.” The baroness sighed theatrically. “Tell me, has he ever told you he loved you?”
“Not explicitly.”
By Lady Clun’s smug expression, Elizabeth knew the truth was plain on her face. He had not. Not once. Well, except in the context of denying its place in a sound marriage.
“I know, it’s not romantic of me to say so, but perhaps what you believe to be his feelings are the result of your own girlish hopes. I pray you will not make the mistake I did. My son has always declared himself uninterested in a love match. He prefers a rational arrangement. Yours was meant to be an arranged marriage, was it not?”
Elizabeth could only shake her head slowly ‘no.’
“Yes, dear. I fear it was so. In fact, while you’ve been procrastinating for your own obscure reasons, there is another young lady, who shares my son’s views on marriage.”
“Who?”
“I shouldn’t speak out of turn, but you ought to know. If not for this unfortunate situation, I believe he would come to an understanding with the Honorable Horatia Mangold. To say more would be indelicate.” The baroness had sown the seeds of doubt as intended. She dared not overplay her hand. Her son had yet to meet Miss Mangold.
“Clun has said nothing to me.”
“Nor would he. He waits for you as he must.”
“Ah,” was all Elizabeth could say, which evidently delighted the baroness.
“You must know men prefer to avoid unpleasantness of this nature. That’s why we women must deal with it for them. If you have any regard for Clun, you will do what is right and fair. You will release him without delay.”
Elizabeth sat silent. The baroness, on the other hand, beamed with good humor.
“Thank you for tea.” Lady Clun waited until Elizabeth set her jittering teacup down before asking, “Is your father at home?”
“He’s in his library.”
“It would be remiss of me not to say hello before I go.”
“He prefers not to be disturbed while at his scholarly work.”
“I won’t disturb him for long, dear,” the baroness said and stood up. Elizabeth went to pull the bell cord.
Nettles opened the door.
In a fog, Elizabeth addressed the butler, “Lady Clun would speak to my father briefly before she leaves. Will you announce her first?” Nettles bowed himself out to do as she asked.
Elizabeth escorted Lady Clun into the hallway.
“His library?” The baroness asked.
The earl opened a door further down the hall, peered over his spectacles and squinted. He waved to the baroness with a vague, friendly smile, “Georgiana, what a surprise. Have you a moment to rescue me from my scraps of foolscap and dusty dictionaries?”
“Indeed I do, Morefield, I’d welcome a brief coze, if I won’t disturb you,” she cooed and smiled a smug dismissal to Elizabeth before floating down the hall toward the earl. The two disappeared into the library and the door closed behind them.
The baroness’ words cut Elizabeth to the quick. Was she keeping Clun from the kind of marriage he desired? He’d said plainly enough he wanted no love match; his behavior demonstrated something else, something warm and considerate. It was something very like affection.
Rather than let herself become discouraged, Elizabeth grew angry. She stood stewing, long after Lady Clun disappeared into the library.
Back in the morning room, she dashed off a note to Constance and pressed it into a footman’s hand. She told him to make haste delivering it and to await reply. Her friend’s response was not what she’d hoped. Constance would see her at the Roebuck fête that evening and promised to find her there as soon as possible.
It would have to do.
Constance found Elizabeth in the cream and gilt splendor of Lord and Lady Roebuck’s townhouse and led her from the ballroom into the ladies’ withdrawing room, which was unoccupied. Elizabeth had hardly begun to retell the tortures of the afternoon when Lady Clun herself entered the room, ostrich plumes swaying over a silver silk turban. They cut off their conversation abruptly and watched the baroness.
“Do go on, girls. Pay me no mind. I cannot imagine why Lady Roebuck refuses to open the windows. A morbid fear of catching a grippe or perhaps she frets that the night fog will besmirch her pristine draperies. Only the foolish would think creams and ivories a good notion in Town. Such a crush, she must be aux anges. Still, a little air, however smudgy, would do a world of good.”
Other ladies drifted in after Lady Clun because the musicians in the ballroom had paused. The women fluttered to seats or flounced by to use the convenience in the adjoining room. Elizabeth and Constance remained silent and watchful, perched
on the settee.
The baroness walked right up to them and looked down at Elizabeth with cold, pale eyes. “Oh, I see how it is. You are telling your friend how the odious Lady Clun came to tea and spoilt all your dreams of cupid’s darts and fairy dust.”
Thanks to rumors of the de Sayre-Damgogan debacle-to-be, the lounging ladies fixed on the scene playing out by the settee.
“T’is better to know what to expect before one marries, don’t you think?” This last barb, the baroness addressed to Constance, as if asking her opinion.
Elizabeth cut in, murmuring sweetly, “Your ladyship mustn’t infer from one de Sayre’s disdain for his bride that the next will dislike his.”
Gleeful glances shot back and forth. Mouths contorted to stifle amusement. No one ever dared throw Lady Clun’s self-proclaimed failure of a marriage in her face, much less blame her for it. Constance stared aghast at her friend. Everyone else leaned closer. The spectators to this gladiatorial match eagerly waited to see who would next draw blood.
“The earl and I are of one mind you should know,” Lady Clun murmured. Her mouth turned down in a taut smile that should’ve warned Elizabeth to caution.
“That is hard to credit. My father thinks highly of your son.”
“Would that you did as well, child,” Lady Clun delivered her coup de grâce. Elizabeth defending her son only vexed the baroness more. True, she rarely disguised her disappointment in him in correspondence to friends, but brutal honesty, she believed, was a parent’s prerogative.
Lady Petra had entered the withdrawing room with her friend Lady Wesley and arrived in time to hear enough of the exchange to know it must not continue. She cast a glance at her friend, who took her hint and spoke up in the fraught silence.
“Georgiana, it’s been a dog’s age since I’ve seen you! What a becoming gown,” Lady Wesley said to Lady Clun. “And such a festive display of ostrich plumes. Well, why not! No sense saving one’s finery just for court, is there?”
The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) Page 23