The Peculiar Pink Toes of Lady Flora

by Jayne Fresina

  But no, she was not to be chastised and her dark secret had not been uncovered. She was merely subjected to a marriage proposal by a man who couldn't even be bothered to stay in the same room while it happened.

  She did not know which part of it all was the most shocking: this unromantic mode of proposal, or the fact that Great Aunt Bridget's ruse should have taken them all so far. Rosie Jackanapes, pirate and imposter, had penetrated the ranks of society's "elite" to pass herself off as a fine lady.

  Perhaps, she mused wryly, while moving in these exalted circles, she might teach them all a thing or two about love. Share a little of her plain, commoner's wisdom.

  But firstly, Great Aunt Bridget— the architect of this deceit— must never hear about the duke's proposal. Better for everybody if it be dealt with as quickly as possible.

  "Before you get out your pen and ink for all those contractual arrangements, Master Plumm, I think the remainder of this peculiar exchange had far better take place between the duke and I. No need to put you in the middle. Now where is he, if you please?"

  He shuffled from one foot to the other. "I couldn't say, Lady Flora."

  "Well, I suggest you try, my good man."

  "His grace was most adamant that he did not want to be bothered with this matter himself today."

  "Oh, really!" She reached over and snatched the note from his hand to study it for herself. The paper was divided by a line down the middle with her attributes listed on one side of it under the heading "Pros". But it was the other side of this list, the "Cons", that was thoroughly filled in— almost overflowing the edge of the paper, sentences marching up the sides to find space— while her favors consisted of only one.

  "Amiable bubbies?" she exclaimed. "Amiable bubbies?"

  Plumm merely bowed his head.

  "If you cannot tell me where he is, you had better stand aside and I shall turn this house upside down until I find where he is hid."

  After a few more attempts to stand in her way and distract her from this action— promising, in vain, all manner of treats if she would let the matter drop— the solicitor declared himself "in no state to do battle with young ladies of such determined nature." With sagging head and pointing arm, looking as if he might soil his farting crackers, he directed her down the hall to the library and then collapsed onto the nearest chair with a series of belches and "alas, pardon me's" to which there appeared no end in sight.

  Chapter Four

  "I think I have broke Plumm," she blurted.

  Flora had discovered her host, with several other gentlemen and a few ladies, gathered around a giant, open atlas, all of them feigning interest in some dull tale about the young duke's Grand Tour, while probably thinking mostly about their dinner, or else lulled into a blank-eyed drowse by his uninspired droning. She had not thought it possible for the description of a gondola ride through Venice to be made as little interesting and unromantic as a hard seat on a fishmonger's cart, bumping along the road to market on a wet Monday.

  But with her sudden proclamation his story ceased and their faces lifted to look at her, as she stood dramatically poised in the doorway, arms now akimbo.

  "The poor man just delivered your grace's message to me, and I'm afraid the effort might have been too much for him," she added, mischievously. "He looks very grey about the gills and seems to have sprung a gaseous leak."

  The duke straightened up and turned slowly toward her. His eyes were faintly annoyed at the disturbance, but he didn't appear too concerned for his solicitor. "Lady Flora." He usually said her name like that, as if it was something heavy he must set down before he could proceed with the remainder of his sentence. "We thought you were bowling outside with the other young people."

  "I decided to come in and look at maps with you old people. Aren't I allowed?" Although only four years her senior, he acted considerably older, as if he had the troubles of the world on his shoulders.

  Her host said nothing to the people he was with and although a woman standing close to him had begun a sentence, he ignored her without a hint of polite apology, leaving the table and his open atlas to walk sternly down the long room toward her.

  "Master Plumm valiantly resisted my methods of interrogation, your grace," she explained hurriedly, as he drew nearer, "but I insisted he tell me where you were and— I know you'll find this a challenge to believe—I can be most stubborn and awkward. So do not blame him." She knew her face must be scarlet, as it often turned when her temper was up. In her gown stained with spring grass, and with the loose curls of her hair dampened by the exertions of an unruly game of bowls on the lawn, it was perhaps no surprise that he studied her as if she might be an assassin leading a peasants' revolt.

  He came to a sharp halt before her, both hands behind his back. "Might we inquire as to your purpose with this disruption, madam? It's not raining out, is it?"

  "No."

  "Somebody afire? Again?"

  "I don't believe so. If they are it cannot be my fault, thank heaven! Besides, Harriet Seton dropped that lantern on her own skirt and I am the one who had the foresight to throw her down and roll her heartily in the wet mud to put out the flames. Not that I received any thanks for my trouble. I daresay she was hoping for you to put her out." She chuckled. "With your customary wet blanket."

  He regarded her balefully down the length of his long, crooked nose, taking particular note of the grass stains. "Have you broken a window? Lost your ball? Thrust another poor soul through one of our hedges in a wheel-barrow?"

  "If you have never participated in a wheel-barrow race, you would understand neither the pleasure to be had in it, nor the skill involved in balancing weight and speed. I'm afraid, when I saw I was winning, the joy rather got away from me. For which I apologized most profusely."

  "Yes. If only your apologies were quite as heartfelt and honest as they are colorful and, by necessity, plentiful."

  There was no talking to a person like this, she decided. His mind was clearly made up about her. But why then had he sent his man to propose marriage? She'd heard of gentlemen who liked to punish themselves by beating at their backs with thorny brambles, but even so...

  "What mishap, this time," he added with a very slight degree of smug, "has cut short your entertainments and forced you indoors to our company on such a fine day? Especially to venture boldly all the way to our library, a place we would imagine far from your list of pleasures." One eyebrow rose in a cool arch. "Rather than quiet study, do you not prefer galloping about in a state of riotous and nonsensical hilarity? As you were the first time we met."

  "You refer, sir, to the game of Blind Man's Bluff."

  "A questionable proceeding at best."

  "It is hardly my fault that you had never played before and came upon us in the midst. You might have joined in and learned the game, but no— you had to be an addle-plot and spoil our fun."

  "Join in to be molested by giggling strangers?" Lips pursed he shook his head, disapproval springing from every well-tamed hair on his head. "Somebody has to keep their wits about them. Somebody has to be in charge."

  "Does it always have to be you?"

  "Not all men are made to bear the weight of solemn responsibility, madam. Some of us are born to the duty and so it comes naturally to us. Still, we suppose it has its advantages for a young lady such as yourself to expend her energies in some...vigorous way... during daylight hours. Outdoors, preferably. Where there are fewer objects to be damaged."

  "You mean to say I require exercise. Like your hounds."

  He looked at her blankly. "In moderation. An excess of excitement can be just as perilous for a young lady's health and well-being as too little."

  "Oh, lord save us," she muttered. "I pity your future bride."

  "Beg your pardon?"

  With a gusty sigh, she shook her head. "Which brings me to my purpose in seeking you out, your grace."

  "It does? At last. We await the subject like a fly in a tar box."

  "Is it not ob
vious?" she exclaimed. "Plumm's message. What else would I be here for?" She lowered her voice to a whisper, "Bringing my amiable bubbies with me."

  A brief dawning of "ah, that" rose across his expression before his features returned to their usual state of mild vexation with the world. Gesturing impatiently over her head, he then followed her out into the hall, leaving the wide doors open so that the two of them remained within sight of the others, but not close enough to be overheard.

  "It is not necessary to show your gratitude in person, Lady Flora. Surely our solicitor explained everything to you." He bowed his head an inch toward her, as if he spoke to a six year-old who must be told they couldn't have trifle and should be satisfied with gruel. "Is there some part of it that you did not understand, madam?"

  "Your grace, I'm afraid I understand none of it. I have never been so confused in my life, and that is saying a very great deal, for I've been in some dreadful pickles, I can tell you. And may we please have an ordinary conversation between two people? Whenever you refer to yourself as "we", I feel as if I address an entire battalion instead of one man, and it's most disconcerting."

  He glanced over at the others inside the library and then back to her. "Very well. I suppose you wonder why I am so willing to take you on as a wife, but a man of my position has many burdens and responsibilities to shoulder. Marriage is simply another and the sooner it is done the better. Your family is most eager to have you settled and their haste suits my plans. Further, we...I do not ask for a great dowry, which I believe will please them." He cleared his throat. "I thought a July wedding, here in the chapel at Castle Malgrave, would be most convenient. After the London season is completed and before the grouse shooting. A very small number of guests—" He paused, frowning down at her. "I am sure this is all most astonishing and gratifying to a young person such as yourself, Lady Flora, but please moderate your expression. The folk within might think me in the throes of an obscene suggestion."

  She meant to laugh, but it came out of her in an unladylike snort. "They wouldn't be far wrong, would they?"

  His scowl hesitated and then deepened. "I do not have the pleasure of understanding."

  "You cannot possibly imagine a marriage between us would be a good idea. Are you quite mad? You must be!" After all, she'd done everything possible to dissuade him, whenever Great Aunt Bridget looked the other way. She thought it was working wonderfully, until this happened. "Besides, I am far too young to think of marriage."

  "Seventeen is perfectly adequate. Many women your age are already mothers. There is nothing—"

  "But you're not in love with me, are you?"

  "What the devil difference does that make?"

  "Precisely. If you were an ordinary fellow, who earned his way in life, you would understand. You would learn that things do not simply happen because you click your fingers and command them to."

  His eyes narrowed, nostrils flared. She'd seen stallions kept too long in the horse boxes that looked like that. "Explain yourself, madam."

  "Plumm said you mean to manage me. You, your grace, feel adequate to that task, do you?"

  His head tilted slightly, confusion slowly finding a tighter hold on his countenance. "Your faults are many, your behavior in need of correction, but it is not solely your fault. I know your parents died when you were young and of an impressionable age. Since then your family has neither guarded nor guided you well. I'm sure the uncertainty must have made life difficult for you. I can give you discipline, stability and order where they—what's the matter now? You look as if you might be sick."

  She clutched her throat. "Please say nothing to my great aunt about this. She'd never forgive me for spurning such a romantic proposition. Promise me you will say nothing to her."

  Unlike his solicitor, the Duke of Malgrave was always perfectly groomed. Nothing was ever out of place or likely to be criticized, but neither was it very memorable, for the duke's choice of color and unwavering commitment to a certain style of waistcoat and stock-knot was as dull and predictable as the stories he told. Of course he had a valet and countless other folk devoted every day to his person. He would never suffer a grass stain and would most certainly never find a piece of meat from breakfast attached to his queue. But now, for the first time within the short span of their acquaintance, she observed a slight crack in his polished armor. A face unaccustomed to self-doubt and rejection could not be prepared with any expression to hide that moment of panic when he felt the floor falling out from under his conceited boots. Possibly for the very first time in his self-assured life, no servant could prevent his discomfort.

  "Am I to understand that you... you refuse me, madam?"

  "I most certainly do, you poor, dear, misguided thing."

  She looked into the library again and seeing that they were slyly observed by several pairs of eyes, gave a jaunty smile and waved. Immediately they all looked away again, prim and appalled by her casual, irreverent ways.

  "I shall not stay for supper, your grace. I suppose it wouldn't be proper now, but may I take some cake for the journey and for my brother, Francis, who is home from school and has so very little enjoyment? Bessie Bentinck says your cook makes very good lemon cakes. I have been in the greatest anticipation of tasting the delight since we got here and yet there were none served last night at dinner with the syllabub. But I ...I think there might be some in the larder. I think. Perhaps. Somebody mentioned something about it..."

  The young man before her seemed suddenly to grow an extra few inches in height and he had already towered over her. Swallowed up by his shadow she took an uneasy step sideways along the wall.

  "Cakes?" he muttered.

  "Yes, you know, the sweet, sugary—"

  "I know what cake is, madam." He followed her along the passage.

  "Surely you cannot deny a girl lemon cakes, especially not when you keep the best French cook in England."

  "I begin to think that is the only reason you accepted my invitation to Castle Malgrave."

  "Well, I..." She laughed uneasily, hands clasped before her.

  "I see." He raised his chin to look down from an even greater height. "And in London last week at the Bentinck's party, when I spoke to you at some length on the subject of marriage and its benefits, surely you knew what I was about. I am highly unlikely to strike up a conversation with a young lady about marriage merely to pass the time of day."

  "I assumed you spoke in jest on that occasion, your grace. That was before I realized all your stories are very dull. I waited for the good part."

  "A jest?" His eyes darkened. "You stood next to me for seven and twenty minutes anticipating the conclusion of a joke?"

  "I do love a good laugh."

  He swayed backward and made an odd sound, like a bag of flour landing on a hard surface. Two fingers curled against his brow as if to wipe away an invisible mark. "It seems I have inadvertently given you one."

  She felt sorry then, for although the Duke of Malgrave was a pompous arse it couldn't all be his fault. It seemed likely he had never learned to laugh at himself, whereas she'd had plenty of practice at that sport. At that moment she actually liked him a little— more than she had done before. Much more than she would have thought possible just a few weeks ago when they first met. But although she had gone along with this deception so far, and enjoyed all the fun of taking Lady Flora's place, to actually marry this unwitting gentleman would take their masquerade into the realms of madness and, most of all, be exceedingly unfair to him.

  It was everything for which Great Aunt Bridget had schemed, but the girl used as that mercenary lady's pawn could not go through with it. Her conscience would never allow it.

  "Be glad," she said, giving his coat sleeve a reassuring pat. "I'd make the most dreadful duchess, and soon you would tear that ruthlessly tidy hair of yours out by the handful." It still startled her that his hair could remain so neatly groomed all day. The first time she saw him, she assumed he wore a wig, but soon realized it was simply hair, v
ery well cut and maintained, seldom disturbed. Except on a few occasions when, in her presence, he clawed an impatient hand through it. "Oh, how you would regret it, if I married you. Better you find another more pliable to your needs. One you won't have to train. Even better, find a girl with whom you can fall in love. It really isn't beyond hope, sir. Love does exist and it can be very strong, I promise you. It can do remarkable things. I cannot say how I know that." She shrugged. "I simply do."

  He looked at her fingers on his sleeve and then at her face again. His forehead seemed to crumple a little, but his eyes were almost black. Were they hurt or angry, or both? There was something else there too— hot and frustrated.

  Pulling his arm away from her touch, he briskly adjusted his cuffs. "I do not know what I was thinking."

  "Never mind. We all make mistakes. It is human nature."

  "You would know more about that than I."

  "Why," she teased. "Aren't you human?"

  He did not smile. Of course not. Why would he? Even while proposing marriage through his luckless proxy he had taken pains to let her know how frivolous, giddy and ignorant she was. In his eyes, he granted her family a tremendous favor by offering his almighty hand in marriage to a silly chit like her. It was not entirely his fault, because the rest of the world would see it that way too. He'd never been taught anything different.

  She, on the other hand, had some very rebellious ideas which, although they frequently embarrassed her guardians, could not be smacked out of her.

  "I meant, Lady Flora, that you are accustomed to making mistakes. I am not. I hope that you do not live to regret the one you made today, as much as I regret mine already." He looked away from her, his jaw tight. "Good god, what was I thinking? You're barely civilized. I must indeed be insane."

  "Your grace," she replied through smiling teeth, "I think we had better part now as kindly and politely as we are able. I would not want us to be enemies. Surely we need not be."

  His gaze snapped back to her lips. "You said yourself I must be mad to propose marriage to you. I merely agreed with that assessment. Ah, you are cross with me, I suppose, for being so frank in listing your faults. Faults of which you are indubitably and inexplicably proud."