Gilding the Lady

by Nicole Byrd

  Clarissa smiled at him in return. When he released her hand, she smoothed the silky skirt of her dress. Indeed, Matthew had done so much to alter her life, although the most important change was not the nice dresses or comfortable house, or even no longer having to scrub floors or carry chamber pots. The most important gift had been having her family restored to her.

  As for hardships . . . he had no idea how much courage this night had cost her, or how her stomach clenched whenever she had to face her—supposed—peers. It was easy enough to remedy the outer dressings of her life, to thrust her back into her proper social milieu, but as for making her believe it, inside . . .

  She would not trouble Matthew by trying to explain her muddled feelings. Clarissa leaned back against the velvet squabs and shut her eyes. When they reached their own home, she was happy to climb down and enter, and after bidding her brother and his wife good night, go straight up to bed.

  She did not even wish for any time alone with Gemma, as dearly as she loved her new sister. Tonight, she had no wish to share confidences. All she wanted was to shed her clothes, with the help of the maid, pull on a nightgown, and crawl beneath the bed covers. Yet when she shut her eyes and drifted into an uneasy sleep, the echo of ballroom tunes haunted her dreams, as well as a pair of dark eyes that seemed to conceal secrets in their depths. . . .

  It was a Cornish fishing village, like too many he had visited in the last few weeks. The stench of dead fish hung over the place, imprinted its odor into the row of small stone houses and the shingled beach and one small boat tied up to the wooden pier. The breeze was fresh, sticky against his face, and it carried the smell of fish, too, and a cleansing hint of brine.

  Lord Gabriel Sinclair slowed his horse to a walk and surveyed the village. There had to be a pub here somewhere, a church and a pub, and sooner or later, everyone passed through one or both. When he saw the inn’s sign, cracked and faded from the weather’s harsh scrubbing, he dismounted, tied up his horse, and went inside.

  He smelled the vinegary scent of ale and the miasma of hardworking men who seldom washed. But the tide was out, and most of the menfolk with it, riding the choppy waves with nets and lines.

  The landlord looked up.

  “A pint of your best ale, if you please,” Gabriel said, and passed over a coin.

  The man grunted and brought him a mug full of foamy brew.

  “I’m looking for a John Bitterman, who might live in the village. Have you heard of him?” Gabriel inquired, keeping his tone easy.

  The man blinked.

  Another dead end, Gabriel thought, but before he could frame another question, the man motioned toward the window.

  “Happen, ye’ll see him there.”

  Gabriel turned so quickly that the liquid in his mug sloshed onto the wooden table. He set it down quickly and looked through the small window where he could see two stout legs and the wheels of a cart.

  He hurried to open the door and mount the steps to the walkway, which wound its way up the hill and onto higher ground.

  “Bitterman?”

  The man pushing the cart turned to gaze at Gabriel. His face was round, and his brows lifted. “Aye?”

  Gabriel felt a quick rush of disappointment. This lad was much too young to be the man he sought. But it might be a family name. . . .

  “I am looking for a John Bitterman who worked for my family, years ago in Kent. Might he be a relative of yours?”

  The boy blinked. “Me grandpap worked in Kent for twenty-odd years, sir. Worked for a great lord, ’e did, but the man was mean-natured and stingy, me grandpap said, and ’e finally come ’ome again, little the richer for all ’is time.”

  Gabriel nodded, his voice grim. “That would be the man I called Father.”

  “Oh, sorry, sir.” The boy flushed. “I didn’t mean no disrespect.”

  “It doesn’t matter, it was true enough, I’m sorry to say. But I would very much like to speak to your grandfather. Can you take me to him?”

  The boy hesitated, and Gabriel drew out a handful of coins.

  “It would be to his advantage, I promise you, and I mean no one any ill will. Can you take me to him?”

  The lad’s expression was twisted. “I can do that, sir, but you’ll be none the wiser.” And he explained.

  Gabriel steeled his expression to hide his discontent, but he wanted to curse.

  When she opened her eyes again, blinking at the sunlight that slipped past her draperies, Clarissa felt a stab of alarm. No, no, she told herself, catching a glimpse of her discarded gloves and reticule still lying on the side table where she had left them last night. The ball was over. She had no reason to dread today—

  Except for the earl’s suggestion that he would call. Clarissa sat straight up in bed. Oh no, surely he did not mean it!

  She almost fell out of bed and without even ringing for the maid, pulled on a dressing gown and found her slippers. She opened her bedroom door—what time was it, anyhow?—then slipped along the hallway to her sister-in-law and brother’s room. But the bed was neatly made, and the room empty.

  Late, then. Perhaps Gemma was downstairs in the dining room. Clarissa tiptoed down the wide staircase, hoping not to encounter any of the servants. She wanted to ask Gemma’s advice about the enigmatic earl.

  When she reached the first landing, she heard voices from the drawing room. Visitors, already? Oh, not the earl, it could not be!

  She found her heart beating fast, like a fox hounded to its den and surrounded by baying dogs. Not wishing to be seen in her present state of undress, she paused just outside the doorway and listened. No, it was only female voices that she heard.

  Clarissa had turned to hurry back upstairs to dress when a comment from inside the room made her pause.

  “I was sorry to hear that they were making unseemly jests about her mishap,” a woman said. “They are calling her the ‘fallen Miss Fallon,’ you know.”

  Gemma’s answer was too low to be heard, but the other woman continued, “Of course, I would not tell Clarissa herself. I do not wish to distress her. But I thought you should be forewarned.”

  Distress her? Bloody hell, she was ruined for life! She wanted to march into the room and shout her anger, but killing the messenger would do little good. Nor would such behavior convince the Ton that she deserved the status of a “lady of quality.”

  Her fists clenched, Clarissa fled up the staircase. Once safely back in her own room, she paced up and down. What a way to repay her brother and his wife; oh, how had she managed to make such a grudgeon of herself? And the arrogant earl with his abrupt manner—he had had a part to play in her ignominious spill, too. If he had not startled her, if he had never interfered in the alley, she would not have dropped her dance book and she might not have stumbled. . . .

  No, she could not assign her guilt or her awkwardness to anyone else. She was the one who had taken a tumble, and she was the one to blame. But her poor brother, who was trying so hard to give her a chance for a normal life . . . But she was not a normal young lady. Clarissa bit her lip.

  She was startled by the door opening. It was the housemaid, Ruby, with a tray holding tea and toast. “Oh, you’re up, miss. You should ’o rung. Here’s some nice hot tea, and I’ll bring your some warm water to wash up with.”

  “Thank you, Ruby,” Clarissa said. She drank her tea and nibbled on the toast, aware of the tremors that still disturbed her stomach. She had to get over her nervous qualms, or she would fade away like the lovesick knight in Mr. Keats’ poem, she told herself.

  So, determined to be brave, no matter what trials the day might bring, she washed and dressed in a jonquil-sprigged muslin and eventually made her way, somewhat hesitantly, downstairs.

  Gemma was still in the drawing room, but this time she was alone, staring at the pattern of the wallpaper as if considering its dainty swirls.

  Clarissa went in almost on tiptoe. Gemma turned and smiled as she entered the room.

  “Good morning,
my dear. Have you broken your fast?”

  Clarissa nodded. “I’m sorry to have slept so late.”

  “Not at all, there was no reason to rise early, and I was sure you were tired after the big night. And I did not schedule a dance lesson today. I thought you might appreciate a day off from drills and dance patterns.”

  Clarissa laughed. “Thank you, that is most kind. Are you all alone?”

  “Miss Pomshack has a toothache,” Gemma told her. “I have sent her off, with my maid as escort, to a barber to draw the tooth. However, I’ve already had two ladies call to chat about the ball last night, and, you’ll be gratified to hear that we have received more invitations.”

  She nodded toward the mantel, now adorned with more cards and letters.

  Clarissa gulped. Gratified did not exactly describe her feelings. “After I made such a fool of myself last night? What, are they hoping for more sensations—that I will disgrace myself again?”

  “Now, Clarissa,” Gemma told her. “We must not assume the worst. I’m sure that most of these ladies are trying to be supportive.”

  Clarissa was not so sure. Gemma was well liked, but she had only resided in London a short time herself; her circle of acquaintances was not large. “I think I am simply the latest curiosity,” she argued. “Like a new and exotic beast in a menagerie!”

  Gemma smiled. “Either way, we might as well make the most of it. And Psyche has sent us all a card for her next ball. You can be sure that she and my brother mean only kindness toward you.”

  Clarissa nodded. Yes, but they were family, too, in a way. The other notes and cards she still regarded with suspicion. She thought of the earl’s promise—threat?—and again turned to her sister-in-law, ready to explain, but then she heard the decisive thud of the knocker at the front door.

  More ladies ready to gossip about the ball—or worse?

  Gemma interpreted her change of expression. “Now, do not be distressed, Clarissa. If we have more callers, you only need to sit and make polite conversation. No one is going to assail you in our drawing room.”

  Considering some of the matrons with their hard eyes and ready criticisms who had stared at her last night, Clarissa was not so sure. But she sat down and folded her hands and tried to present the picture of a proper lady.

  At least while she sat, no one could make her stumble, she thought. Except—oh no, she heard a deep voice downstairs, a male voice, and it was not her brother, nor even Gemma’s brother, Lord Gabriel.

  She swallowed hard, and when the butler came to the door, she felt no surprise, only a sinking sense of doom, when she saw the man who accompanied him.

  “Lord Whitby to see you, Lady Gemma, Miss Fallon,” the servant said.

  They both rose and curtsied as the visitor made his bow. “Please come in,” Gemma said. She had hidden her surprise, if she felt it, and surely she did. How did she keep her tone so even and pleasant? “How nice to see you, my lord.”

  Seen once more in the daylight, the earl was an impressive figure. His riding coat and breeches fit him superbly and showcased his wide shoulders and the toned muscles in his arms and chest and thighs. Surely this man must do more than canter through the park, Clarissa thought, to have such a form.

  But she realized she had to speak, too. She muttered a response, not nearly as graciously as her sister-in-law.

  The earl did not lift his dark brows at her, as she feared. Instead, he faced Gemma. “I thought I should inquire about Miss Fallon after her mishap last night, and make sure she is not feeling any lasting ill effects,” he explained.

  “Not at all,” Gemma assured him. “It is kind of you to ask, but she is quite well, are you not, Clarissa?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Clarissa stared at their visitor.

  “Splendid,” he said. “In that case, perhaps the two of you would do me the pleasure of taking a turn through the park. I have my curricle with me, and I’m told I’m a tolerable driver.”

  Such a humbug, Clarissa thought. Despite his modest words, the man knew he did everything well—it showed in every line of his assured bearing. What did this paragon know about feeling clumsy or out of place?

  But having assured him of her good health, she had done away with any chance of a polite excuse. She threw a beseeching glance toward Gemma, but the other woman smiled. “That’s very kind of you, my lord.”

  Oh, bloody hell. The maid was summoned, and without any obvious escape, Clarissa found herself donning a spencer and bonnet and pulling on her gloves. At least Gemma would be with her, she told herself.

  The open carriage was as stylish and well-made as its owner. Lord Whitby helped them both in, then took his place and picked up the leads from his groom, who returned to his place on the back of the vehicle. The earl drove them through the crowded London streets with an almost annoying ease.

  At least, since he was occupied with the carriage, conversation was brief, and she did not have to speak to him. But Clarissa found that she stared at him often. Annoyed at her own weakness, she turned her gaze away and observed the handsome team of matched grays.

  When they reached Hyde Park, the earl turned the curricle into the park lane and took them around the expanse of greenery. Just as Clarissa had decided that this was not such a frightening expedition after all, he pulled up his horses and nodded to the groom, who jumped down and went to their heads to hold them steady.

  “Perhaps you would enjoy a stroll through the gardens?” the earl asked, speaking apparently to them both.

  And again, Clarissa had no good excuse. So, with the earl between them, they strolled through the walkways and admired the flowers and scrubs.

  When they rounded a corner, Gemma saw another woman she knew and she paused to chat. Clarissa was unsure what to do. She took a few steps and stared down at a bed of bright blossoms, trying to ignore the earl.

  He did not seem ready to be ignored.

  “Have I displeased you, Miss Fallon?”

  Why did he always have to be so direct? No polite chatter for the earl. She looked up at him and frowned. “I am sure you have plenty of other ladies to please, my lord,” she shot back, then blushed. Probably not what a well brought-up young lady should say. And if she encountered such a young woman, Clarissa would inform her.

  But even so, she looked away from his searching gaze.

  “I am trying to help you,” he told her, his tone steady.

  “Help me? Do what?” If he had in mind more dance instruction, she thought wildly, she would tell him to go to the devil! “Stay off the floor?” Then she blushed even more hotly, glad that Gemma had not heard her mutter such an unladylike expression.

  To her relief, he ignored her awkward phrasing. “I simply wish to help you find your place in Society. In fact, I want to do more.”

  She gaped at him, she could not help it. “Why should you care?”

  “I have made a bet,” this infuriating man said, his voice calm, “that I can make you the toast of the Ton.”

  Five

  “What?” She drew a deep breath.

  He waited for her outrage, her maidenly shock, willing to risk her wrath and her condemnation, anything that would break through this shell she had withdrawn so unreachably behind.

  But to his surprise, she wrinkled her smooth forehead in apparently genuine puzzlement. “Why would you waste your blunt on such a hopeless cause?”

  He laughed aloud and, for a moment, felt an irrational urge to hug her. No, he could not do it, of course, in the middle of the park with too many observant eyes all around. And if he did take such a liberty, she would likely box his ears. Whatever her problem, he did not think it was lack of spirit. Anyhow, he was here to save her reputation, not besmirch it.

  “Why should that be such an impossible task?” he countered. “You are of good birth and have committed no social sins—that I know of, anyhow.”

  “Except for tumbling to the floor at your feet,” she muttered, looking away.

  He frowned at her
stubborn tone. “Anyone can make a mistake.”

  “Seldom in such a public place,” she told him. “But—”

  “Yes?” he said, hoping she would not pause now, and that her sister-in-law would not end her conversation—which she seemed to be drawing out very kindly—and rejoin them. If he was lucky, he might find out the real reason behind her reticence. He was sure there was more here than another timid damsel in her first Season. This girl had backbone, he was sure of it, and despite her relative youth, something in her eyes hinted at adversity overcome and tragedy survived. If she would only confide in him, his task might be much easier.

  She bit her lip.

  He tried to encourage her to talk. “You have spent your whole life preparing for this debut,” he reminded her. “A stumble or two along the way signifies little.”

  The glance she gave him was haunted, and it startled him. Yes, certainly more here than met the eye.

  “That’s the problem,” she said, very low. “I haven’t . . .”

  He waited, but she didn’t go on. Perhaps another nudge was in order. “Are you not going to tell me how offended you are, how outraged that I should make a lady like yourself the subject of a wager?”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, yes, I’m sure that’s most improper, isn’t it? It’s not mentioned in my book of etiquette, but—”

  She paused in confusion as he was startled into a laugh. Again, not the response he had expected.

  “Yes,” she went on, her face a little flushed and her eyes bright. “I am most shocked, indeed. Shame on you!”

  “I humbly beg your pardon,” he told her, wishing he could tell her how her hazel eyes sparkled when she looked at him just so, and how much he longed to trace the delicate line of her throat—no, he could hardly tell her that!

  “Then why did you do it? You must call off the bet,” she suggested.

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” he told her, keeping his tone as serious as hers. “A gentleman’s word, and all that. But I swear to you, Miss Fallon, that I mean no disrespect to you, and I intend to aid you, not harm you.”