Preshea felt instantly at home. The moment she entered the room, currents of power flowed in her direction. She knew herself to be beautiful, and, in her overly simple green gown, daring. Risk-takers were often respected in a fixed social order, for they courted the edge of propriety.
Always inspire ardor or terror – it matters not which, for in society, they share the same sauce.
Then a certain Scotsman entered behind her and attention shifted. She should resent it, but she understood it all too well. That damnable Captain Ruthven was impressive. It was hard for a Mourning Star to overshadow a mountain. In fact, even now, she wanted to turn towards him as he blithely conquered the room. His technique was amateurish and inadvertent. How can he not know his effect?
She forced herself to glance at Mr Jackson, establishing a friendly alliance of strangers in the soup together.
Their hostess commenced introductions. Of course, Preshea already knew the names, but she paid careful attention, charting the flow of expectation and precedence as one title followed another.
Three of the duke’s living children were in residence. And the dead one, of course. But as it was still daytime, the ghost was not present.
Lady Violet Bicker-Harrow was plainer than Preshea expected, dark and round like her mother but wearing both in better humor. She rose the moment they entered the room, putting aside a sketchbook upon which, instead of the expected insipid landscape, there was a shockingly scientific diagram of a flower.
She gave Preshea and the visiting gentlemen a curtsey without artifice. Preshea dampened down a strange sadness that her own motives must conflict with this poor girl’s love affaire.
“My dear Lady Vi!” Mr Jackson charged across the room to grab her fingers and press them ardently.
Lady Violet blushed and tried, not very hard, to withdraw her hand.
Preshea couldn’t help but bless Captain Ruthven for exclaiming, “By fegs, Jack! We’ve just arrived. Control yourself.”
Such rudeness, though warranted, was only to be expected from a Scotsman.
One of the other ladies tittered.
Mr Jackson, shamefaced, returned to the doorway with a hangdog expression. “I apologize, Your Grace – I quite forgot myself, being back in your daughter’s glorious presence.”
The duke gave Preshea a significant look. She wished he would stop. He’ll botch everything. I know what I’m about.
“With your permission, young man, my wife will carry on her hostess duties?”
Lady Violet covered her mouth to hide her shock at this blatant rebuke of her beau.
Is that my leverage? Is the very boldness of our Mr Jackson a detriment to his suit? Perhaps I need not intercept but instead encourage him in his foolishness?
The next Snodgrove offspring, Lady Florence, was a livelier version of her older sister. She was practically jolly, with Cupid’s bow lips and freckles across her uptilted nose. For all her pleasant demeanor, there was a tension about her shoulders that Preshea knew well. This one has secrets.
Lady Florence’s bosom companion sat next to her, a Miss Jane Pagril. A pretty brunette with a generous mouth that looked as if it smiled readily.
Preshea suppressed an inclination to dislike both ladies. Cheerful people were abominable.
Lord Lionel Bicker-Harrow, the only Snodgrove son present, was a match to his sisters in the matter of appearance, only a great deal more whiskered. He leaned his stocky frame against the piano where his affianced, Miss Fanny Leeton, palpated melodically.
The former actress stopped her playing to rise and curtsey upon introduction. Her execution was flawlessly subtle. The actress reminded Preshea of her days at finishing school, where she had learned the tricks of the stage from various mistresses of it and received a tongue-lashing every time she did not perform to the highest standards. Believe it or not, Preshea had once not been subtle enough – too quick to show anger, too sentimental in her expressions. Miss Leeton was so easy with her manners that Preshea envied her.
The actress approached. “Lady Villentia, how nice to meet you.”
“Miss Leeton, an honor. I’ve seen you perform. Such skill. Although I am not so fond of the theater as my late husband, and thus unfamiliar with your more recent work.” A hit and a hint that Preshea’s visits to the West End were not her idea, and that she was not inclined to let an actress forget that she was, in the end, only an actress.
Said actress took this barb with grace. “Pity. You missed some of my best work.”
“Now, now, Miss Leeton, you are engaged to Lord Lionel, are you not? I should say your best work is ahead of you as wife and mother.” Preshea could play the dutiful spouse card as hard as any actual denizen of a happy home.
Hypocritical that the third son should be allowed to marry a theatrical when the first daughter might not even consider a fortune hunter. Of course, the rules dictated that while gentlemen might marry beneath them, ladies never could. Preshea could not be too offended on behalf of the fairer sex. After all, she had climbed the social ladder herself via this exact double standard. Still, the duke’s objection to one and favor to the other might be more a matter of address than gender. For Miss Leeton had poise where Mr Jackson had none.
“Well put, Lady Villentia,” praised the Duchess of Snodgrove.
“And so sad that you were never blessed.” The actress had barbs of her own.
Preshea inclined her head. Perhaps not professionally trained, but a worthy opponent. In that one phrase the actress reminded everyone that Preshea was lacking (four marriages, none of them fertile). This cast doubt on Lady Villentia’s success as a woman. Of course, she did not know Preshea had taken precautions (children incommoded assassinations).
Preshea pretended injury. “Yes, it is sad.”
Captain Ruthven stiffened at the hurt in her voice.
Miss Leeton was as gorgeous in person as on the stage. She was not one of those actresses dependent on face paint. She had a fine straight nose, blue eyes, and a full mouth. Plus – curse it – she was tall.
Lord and Lady Blingchester comprised the final members of the party. Lord Blingchester looked like a florid and somewhat surprised codfish. Despite being younger than the duke, he was a devoted companion and political ally. His wife was of that aristocratic breed that specializes in mannish features. Snodgrove had described her as a good Christian and Miss Pagril’s aunt. Neither of which seemed to her benefit. She was squarish, stoutish, and sported a demanding coiffure.
Lady Blingchester made no attempt to hide the fact that she objected to Preshea’s presence, manners, and dress. No doubt she would interrogate her husband that night as to the presence of that woman. Preshea was accustomed to being that woman in social situations involving the Lady Blingchesters of the world.
Preshea addressed the duchess. “Thank you kindly for inviting me.” For the benefit of the others, she explained, “The duke and I are on the boards of several charitable organizations together. I do hope it is no inconvenience, Your Grace?”
Said in front of everyone, there was only one possible answer. “Certainly not, Lady Villentia. You are most welcome.”
Captain Ruthven and Mr Jackson made equally polite murmurs of gratitude.
The duchess moved them on before having to admit that either of the gentlemen was most welcome. “Your luggage is being taken up – shall we go in to tea?”
She led the way to the conservatory. The party trailed obediently after.
The conservatory was impressive, if cold. It was to be low tea, quite relaxed. To Captain Ruthven’s evident relief, a number of small sandwiches were laid on in addition to the traditional cakes.
He positioned himself near the food and inhaled more than was polite. He lurked under a palm frond of exactly the right height to drape over his head like a jaunty cap, in the apparent hope that it would hide his indulgence. Preshea found it harder then it ought to be to stop herself from smiling at the big man’s antics.
She forced herself to
focus on Mr Jackson.
The fortune hunter took a chair near Lady Violet – one of the horrors of a casual tea being that precedence did not hold. The couple instantly engaged in an animated discussion on the merits of bee pollination. Preshea considered joining them, but that would appear ham-handed. She must develop a strategy first.
Instead, she conversed with Miss Pagril and Lady Florence on the upcoming season’s fashions. A topic upon which any young lady could opine.
“I like them prodigiously,” Miss Pagril said with vigor. “Contrasting colors, excess draping, the gathering of overskirts to the back. It’s harmonious.”
“I’m in complete agreement,” Preshea encouraged.
Lady Florence wasn’t convinced. “I do love the swish of a fuller skirt. To narrow them down diminishes a lady’s consequence, don’t you feel?”
“You support the theory that the space formulated by a skirt provides an aura of moral protection?” Miss Pagril’s tone gently mocked her friend’s wholesome upbringing.
“Well, yes, I suppose I do.”
“I have never subscribed to the cage.” Preshea pressed her point through mention of an undergarment, which caused both younger ladies to gasp in titillated horror. “Don’t you find a close silhouette more flattering?”
Under the influence of fashion, the youngest Bicker-Harrow was moved to passion. “Perhaps for you, Lady Villentia, but we are not all blessed with your fine figure.”
Preshea laughed. “I thank you for the compliment, dear child, but I believe you will be similarly flattered by the latest fashions.”
“We can but hope,” said Lady Florence fervently. “I do not even know if I will be out of mourning by then.”
“Will I have the honor of meeting your departed sister?” Preshea felt it only polite to inquire.
“At dinner, most likely.” Lady Florence looked saddened.
“At least Formerly Connie does not have to worry about such things as skirt shape.” Miss Pagril attempted comfort with levity.
It seemed to work. Lady Florence brightened. “Yes, indeed, she chose a lovely dress for eternity, one of her favorite ball gowns. Perhaps too full-skirted for your taste, Lady Villentia.”
“But perfect for her, no doubt.” Preshea could make no other remark.
Miss Pagril returned to the coming mode. “I, for one, am glad to know I will not have to continually watch my skirts. I can’t begin to tell you, Lady Villentia, how many small tables I have overturned simply by walking into a drawing room.”
“Surely you jest.” Preshea snapped open a fan, in a pretense of hiding a smile.
“Truly. I am less interested in the current style than in the inconvenience it causes the wearer.”
Pity, thought Preshea, for she could make something of herself if she only tried.
Lady Blingchester clearly did not share her niece’s reticence. Her gown was of the latest design and ill suited to her complexion. Perhaps Miss Pagril chooses plainer fare in contrast to her aunt? Or perhaps Miss Pagril is of that brash type to declare herself no follower of fashion and, therefore, above it?
“You do not subscribe to the latest pamphlets from Paris?” Preshea probed gently.
“I find they change more swiftly than I do.”
Preshea nodded. “It is better to set trends than to follow them blindly.”
“For you, Lady Villentia, but I’m merely an unmarried girl and paid little attention.” Miss Pagril was remarkably self-aware.
Preshea tilted her head. “You could aspire to become an original.”
This was overheard by the aunt. “Now, now, Lady Villentia, I will not have you encouraging my niece to be fast.”
Preshea pressed a hand to her chest. “Heaven forfend! I was merely encouraging her to be fashionable.”
Lady Blingchester subsided. “Ah, well, with that I must concur. If only she would take interest, she might make a good match. She is fine-looking, if the gentlemen would only look.” She issued Captain Ruthven a pointed glare.
Captain Ruthven had been following the conversation, but bestowing the lion’s share of his attention upon dainty sandwiches, not dainty ladies. He seemed startled to be suddenly included.
Preshea seized upon his discomfort. “Yes, indeed, Captain. I have often wondered if gentlemen truly care for fashion, aside from the pinks and the drones.” The pinks were dandies of the first water, peacocks at play, who paid their dues on Bond Street and showed their wares at Ascot. And the drones followed the dictates of their vampire masters, who insisted everyone be well dressed regardless of gender.
So stalwart a soldier as Captain Ruthven was not to be overset by a direct question. “You see me as I am, Lady Villentia.” He waved his free hand up and down his big frame (the other clutched a loaded plate). He was respectably turned out, clean-shaven, but with no particular effort. His cravat knot was a mere gesture. Surely, he could undo it with one hand. And would. Bad Preshea, do not let your thoughts drift in that direction. Soldiers, efficient and serviceable in all things, even disrobing. Now, really, do stop it. I mean it.
“The fashions of the day are not for me,” he concluded.
“Or you are not for them?” She lowered her gaze coquettishly.
He inclined his head. “Just so.”
Preshea examined him further through her lashes. His valet cared, for his boots were polished and his trousers expertly cut. Perhaps they were not so tight as those favored by society’s elite. Nevertheless, when he shifted, the fabric stretched alarmingly over the massive muscles of his thighs.
Perhaps, Preshea thought, it is best for my wellbeing that he does not take to a high-end tailor. If the fabric were to strain any more, she would be hard pressed to keep her gaze away, partly due to appreciation and partly for fear of his seams bursting.
The conversation flowed genially, coaxed along by Preshea and the occasional quip from Captain Ruthven. The young ladies were honored by the attention of a worldly lady, not to mention an actual gentleman. Lady Blingchester supervised but heard nothing so egregious it required interjection again.
The Duke of Snodgrove gave Preshea various significant looks, trying to turn her attention to his daughter and her suitor. They remained cloistered together.
The tea was drained with sufficient gusto to be a balm to the duchess’s pride (although the sandwiches were consumed mainly by Captain Ruthven), and the rest of the afternoon seemed set to proceed apace.
Outside, the drizzle became a steady rain. There would be no riding or strolling about the garden. Preshea was pleased, for surely inclement weather would also prohibit assassination attempts of the military variety.
With nothing else to entertain, they agreed to return to the drawing room for an afternoon of cards.
Preshea excused herself on the grounds that she must change out of her travel dress into something more appropriate. In actuality, she needed time alone to collect her thoughts and formulate a plan.
Mr Jackson was not to be taken from his ladylove so soon after reuniting, but Captain Ruthven seemed eager to freshen up as well.
Together they followed the butler. Jennings was respectably stiff but near a hundred in attitude if not actual age. It took him a full ten minutes to hike the stairs. Preshea found herself exchanging amused glances with Captain Ruthven behind the poor man’s stooped back.
Their rooms in the guest wing were across the hall from one another.
The butler left, tottering slowly away.
Before shutting her door, Preshea said, testing Mount Olympus, “Enjoy your dainty sandwiches, Captain?”
“’Tis a pain to be a big man in a world made for tottie folk. Miss Pagril frets about her wide skirts, yet I knock things over constantly, skirts or no. My hunger should inspire sympathy, not ridicule.”
“And thus I am both chastised and reminded of my own stature.”
“Oh, aye, such a wee thing – leastways, you fit into chairs.”
Some devil seized her tongue. “Captain, y
ou’ve no idea! Can you imagine, on more than one occasion, my feet have been known to dangle? This very moment, I note that such a large bed graces my delightful room – my only avenue of approach is to run at it and leap in order to gain the top.”
He let out a bark of surprised laughter. “I’d offer a boost, but it might be taken as an insult to your good name.”
“Or to yours, Captain.” Don’t you know? I have no good name. “To have sunk so low as to be groomsman to a diminutive lady who needs aid not in mounting her steed but her counterpane.”
He gave her a sharp look, unsure as to the nature of her teasing. To mention mounting and counterpane in the same sentence? Preshea was delighted to see him flush about the ears. Perhaps he was not so indifferent to her charms as she thought.
Preshea could not quite countenance her own daring. She was not one for jocularity, but it seemed deceptively easy with him. She was used to gibing at those around her, seeking weakness. So far, Captain Ruthven seemed to have nothing more than a delicate stomach, a supposed clumsiness of which she had seen no evidence, and a delight in dainty sandwiches. To all of which he admitted so readily, they could not be used against him. He was comfortable in his own skin and did not flinch when she ribbed him. It made her quite long to do so.
He gave a little bow, ending their banter. “Weel, lass, I’d be happy to play groomsman if you’ve need of my services. It wouldna be a hardship.” Before she could decide whether this was levity or a genuine offer of a more licentious nature, he left her in possession of the hallway and at a loss for words.
Preshea entered her own room, closing and locking the door behind her. She stood, struck by a sensation of wonder – I am not opposed to such an offer. She actually enjoyed imagining him there, bent, big hands cupped, at the edge of her bed. Although, he would need only one hand. She might place her stockinged foot into it, and he would lift her up to the bed with ease. He would be gentle about it. She could tell. That made her shy away. She was not prepared for gentleness.
I am only curious, Preshea told herself, because I have never before had kindness from a man in my bedchamber. And because gentleness is so alien to my own nature.
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