Gilding the Lady

by Nicole Byrd

  “I still think you’ve bet on a losing nag.” She pursed her lips as she stared at him.

  He wanted very much to laugh once more, but now his luck seemed to have run out. Lady Gemma had finished her conversation and had turned back to rejoin them.

  “But give me the chance to help you,” he suggested in a low tone. Miss Fallon gave him a doubtful glance, then lowered her gaze. Why were young ladies taught to be so missish? And why did he continue to glimpse the hint of old pain beneath the smooth surface of her eyes?

  He liked her much better when she was saying something outrageous, and he was more than ever convinced that Miss Fallon had some mystery in her life. He had not been so intrigued by a young lady in years. He remembered his cousin’s suggestion, but shook it aside as he escorted the ladies around the path and back to his carriage.

  No, he had no serious interest here, nor was he in any danger of losing his heart. He had no intention of taking on such a heavy responsibility. Incite passion with a marriageable miss? Hardly! He wanted no one’s happiness in his charge.

  But although it had been Galston’s idea, Dominic had rashly agreed to the wager, and he had decided to win it. And if, along the way, he could lighten the burden that this girl seemed to carry inside her, that would not be a bad thing. Since this was only a temporary commission and she was not really his duty, he did not have to fear the consequences of his failure. Even if he did fail and he did not manage to increase her standing in the Ton, she would be no worse off than she was already.

  So he drove them back to the Fallon house and showed the ladies inside. And if he held her hand a moment too long when he helped Miss Fallon down, and if she glanced at him with the same mixture of awareness and doubt that he found so intriguing, he managed not to smile.

  “Perhaps I may call on you again?” he asked.

  Clarissa blinked at him, and stuttered, “Ah, I-I—” And it was left to her sister-in-law to offer a polite response.

  “We should always be happy to receive you, my lord.”

  He bowed to them and took his leave before the younger lady could think of a way to rebuff him. She was not very socially adept, that was obvious, and he meant—in a most ungentlemanly fashion—to take advantage of her lack of skill to further his own ends. And what those ends were . . . No, it was only for the wager, he reminded himself.

  Clarissa glanced back over her shoulder as the carriage pulled away. Then the door was shut behind them, and the middle-aged butler and the maid were there to take away their outerwear.

  She knew that Gemma was watching her and tried to decide what she should say to any questions about the earl’s surprising interest. She could hardly share his confession about the existence of a wager. That really was disgraceful, and she should have realized it at once.

  Why had he told her?

  The man was so confusing, and if he wished to confuse someone, he should at least have the grace to pick on a lady with more social experience, Clarissa thought crossly. And as to how she felt when he stood close to her—Well, that was neither here nor there, even if it did induce sensations she had never felt before. . . .

  “You have a letter, my lady,” the butler was saying.

  “Thank you, Barrons,” Gemma said, accepting the missive but glancing across at Clarissa with an inquisitive gaze.

  Fortunately, before Gemma could take her upstairs for a private conversation, they were interrupted. A knock at the door sent the butler back to his post, and when he swung open the door again, a pitiful figure entered. It was Miss Pomshack, returning to the house with maid in tow. Her jaw was swollen and her eyes reddened; the tooth-pulling had obviously been most painful.

  “Oh, you poor thing,” Gemma exclaimed. She hurried to escort the older lady upstairs to see her put to bed.

  “I hope you feel better soon, Miss Pomshack,” Clarissa called after them, but then she took the chance to escape to her own room. Once there, she shut the door and flung herself upon her bed. She had to think about the earl and try to sort out her feelings about this blunt, arrogant, and yet appealing man.

  Why would he make the wager, she wondered again. Certainly, it was a typically insolent thing to do. Did the man think he could get away with anything? She should feel angry. Instead, she felt a bit wistful. Too bad Clarissa were not such a man, with a title and a fortune to insulate her from Society’s judgment. But she wasn’t; she was female, with a most loving family of only modest fortune, and such thoughts were useless. Only men like the earl could be so . . . so . . . And yet he thought he could make her the toast of the Ton? He must be insane.

  She lifted herself enough to stare across at the looking glass on her dressing table. A tendril of fair hair had slipped out of place, again, and, oh, hell, she had a smudge on her nose. Clarissa wiped at it absently.

  Did he really think she could be a success in Society? The idea of someone who was not a relative having so much faith in her warmed her.

  Not that he should be betting on it, of course! But, in Clarissa’s strange circumstance, it was hard to feel the outrage that a “proper” lady would naturally feel. Oh, the enigmatic earl had no idea what a task he had set for himself.

  Once Miss Pomshack was settled and given a soothing dose of laudanum for the pain, which soon sent her to sleep, Gemma retired to her own bedchamber. She considering checking on Clarissa, but decided to leave her alone for a time. The girl seemed reluctant to talk about the earl and his surprising show of interest. Not that Clarissa wasn’t extremely pretty and sweet and certainly worthy of any man’s attention, but, still, Lord Whitby could have his pick of the most beautiful, most wealthy, most prominent ladies of the Ton.

  Why had he fastened upon Clarissa?

  After Clarissa’s unfortunate fall at the party last night, Gemma had been very pleased when the man had had the decency to seek out Clarissa and complete their dance. If he had not, Clarissa’s case among malicious Society gossips would be even more dismal, although Gemma would not tell her so.

  But his call and then his escort to the park today had come as a surprise, as did the suggestion he’d made in parting that he might call on her again . . . mind you, stranger things had happened. A year ago, Gemma would never have guessed that the veils of mystery about her own background might at last be lifted. Clarissa was not the only one who had been restored to lost family.

  And finding Matthew as she had searched for her family history . . . that had been even more of an unexpected blessing.

  Gemma smiled a moment, then, remembering the letter, sat down and took it from her pocket. She broke the familiar wax seal and unfolded the single sheet of paper. The communication was from her brother, Gabriel, an acknowledgment that still gave her a feeling of warmth and contentment. The message inside was short. She scanned the contents, then read it again more slowly, but the information was still disappointing.

  She sat and stared into space, and was still there when Matthew came in and found her.

  “Is something wrong, my love?” He leaned over and gave her a kiss.

  She returned his caress and reached for his hand, holding it tight for a moment. “No, in fact, we have had a most interesting visitor. But I was just thinking . . . I’ve received a note from my brother.”

  She paused, and Matthew looked sympathetic.

  “He has had no luck?”

  “No, not so far. One former family servant was traced to Cornwall, but the man died two years ago. Gabriel is still searching for his mother’s personal maid, but we cannot find any sign of her current address. You’d think the late marquess deliberately tried to obscure any trail back to the truth!”

  “Perhaps he did,” her husband pointed out, sitting down beside her and putting a comforting arm about her shoulders.

  She made a face. “It’s not as if affairs among the Ton are not common enough. As long as the wife makes sure her first child, or first son, is truly her husband’s, future children who might be the result of a secret affair are not
unheard of. Not that I’m advocating such conduct, of course.”

  He grinned and leaned closer to kiss her neck. “Of course.”

  She grinned reluctantly. “I would not judge my mother too harshly, however. From all I have heard, the late marquess was a most unpleasant man. I’m sorry I cannot repudiate this silly title, since I don’t really deserve it, but Gabriel argues—and I agree—that we would not wish anything malicious said about our late mother. But I do wish we had some idea who our real father was! At least Gabriel remembers our mother. I have no memory of any parent to comfort me.”

  This time he pulled her completely into his arms, and Gemma laid her head against his shoulder. “You had a most difficult time,” he said.

  “Not as hard as Clarissa, sold into service,” she pointed out, determined to be fair. “But yes, it was hard not knowing who I really was.”

  “But that is behind you now,” her husband told her.

  She lifted her head and kissed his cheek. “Thank heaven! I have a family name at last. Most important, I have you, and a dear sister, as well as my brother and his wife, who are all I could ask for. Even the current marquess, our half brother, has been most kind and welcoming and does not dispute my heritage, even though he knows part of the public version is false. All told, I’ve never been so happy. And we will make sure that Clarissa also has a bright future ahead of her. But I do wish Gabriel could locate the man who begot us.”

  “Give him time,” Matthew suggested. “It is a hard task, as we know, to track family members who have been lost or gone astray. But Gabriel doesn’t give up easily.”

  “Like you.” She lifted her head and accepted his kiss, this time on the lips, returning it with equal vigor. She broke away only to say, “Oh, about our visitors today—”

  “Later,” he murmured.

  And smiling—until he captured her lips again—Gemma offered no argument.

  The next morning Gemma was pulling on her gloves when Clarissa came downstairs.

  “I shall be back for dinner,” she explained, pausing to give Clarissa a quick hug. “Lady Gabriel is picking me up very shortly. It is our day to visit the foundling home and inspect the building, and most of all, to be sure the children are in good health and spirits and the staff doing what they should.”

  “That’s good of you.” Clarissa felt a twinge of guilt. She should, no doubt, be accompanying her sister-in-law and spending some of her own time engaged in similar good works.

  No one had more cause to be interested in the home than she. Had she not suffered through the abuse and neglect of that institution? Didn’t the memories still haunt her? But her recollections were still too painful. Just the thought of rolling up to the big bleak building and crossing the threshold made her throat close up with terror and her body quiver with the need to run the other way.

  Her mind might tell her that she was free and that she now had family to protect her, but somewhere inside her a frightened child still recoiled in terror.

  Gemma patted her arm. “It will come,” she said, apparently reading the emotions that crossed Clarissa’s face. “You do not need to reproach yourself for not wishing to return, Clarissa.”

  “But you spend time there,” she pointed out. “I should do the same.”

  “I had less to forget as well as more years to recover; you will heal, too.”

  “You’re too good to me,” Clarissa muttered. Comforted by her hug, she clung to Gemma for a moment.

  Then the footman appeared. “Lady Gabriel’s chaise is here, milady.”

  “Thank you, I’m just coming.” Gemma nodded. “Have a good day, my dear.”

  Clarissa waited until her sister-in-law had departed, then went into the dining room and drank another cup of tea. Lost in thought, she was sitting there when Miss Pomshack appeared, looking pale but resolute, her jaw still somewhat swollen.

  Today the good lady ate only porridge and toast for her breakfast, and she allowed the footman to bring her some tea. “Good morning, Miss Clarissa. I hope you slept well.” She looked a bit heavy-eyed, but she spoke with her usual determined solicitude.

  “Yes, thank you,” Clarissa answered politely. “How are you feeling?”

  “Sore, I admit, but a good deal better. The maid tells me that Lady Gemma has gone out.” Miss P took a cautious bite. “This is one of her days for the foundling home visit, I believe. It is most worthy of her, and of Lady Gabriel, as well, to devote time and attention to such a good cause.”

  Clarissa nodded, but the other woman’s comment elicited more feelings of guilt, so she did not pursue the topic. Fortunately, Miss P was reaching for the strawberry jam and didn’t appear to notice.

  When Miss Pomshack had finished, they both went up to the drawing room. Miss P picked up her sewing basket and bent her head over an embroidery hoop. Clarissa chose a book from the pile on the side table, but although she turned the pages, she could not concentrate on the words. After a few minutes, she put it aside and found herself pacing up and down the room.

  “Would you like to go out, Miss Clarissa?” Miss P looked up from her needlework. “Shopping, perhaps, or a stroll in the park?”

  “No, I mean, no thank you,” Clarissa said at once. And risk seeing apparitions in the crowd? No, indeed. Yet, she did feel cooped up here, and she—Oh, she didn’t know what she wanted, except that the feelings inside her, somehow aggravated by her reflections on the foundling home, seemed rawer than usual.

  “Then let us take this opportunity to practice your needlework,” Miss Pomshack suggested brightly. “I have an extra hoop and square of linen here, and an ample supply of thread, and you have no dancing lesson today. Come sit beside me, and I will show you how to make a love knot. I’m quite good with my needle, if I do say so.”

  Without a good excuse, Clarissa was forced to sit down and accept the materials that her companion handed her. Clarissa knew her stitchery was abominable—yet another ladylike skill that she had had little training in, aside from some early lessons from her mother—and within half an hour, she had managed to prick her finger three times and bleed a few drops onto the pristine square.

  Clarissa bit back an unladylike oath just in time as she stuck her finger in her mouth and frowned down at the piece of linen.

  “Oh, dear,” Miss Pomshack said. “However, if I soak it in cold water, I’m sure I can get the spot out.”

  “You’re too kind,” Clarissa forced herself to say. She tried to think of a good reason to end the needlework lesson. By this time even Miss Pomshack was looking strained and her forehead showed several new creases. Clarissa considered claiming a headache, but that would only evoke an offer of one of the good lady’s tisanes. Biting her lip, Clarissa sighed and picked up her seemingly cursed needle one more time.

  A firm rap sounded at the front door. Both ladies looked up, and Clarissa was not sure who was the most relieved when footsteps approached on the staircase and the footman appeared in the doorway. “You have a caller, miss. Lord Whitby.”

  The earl paused in the doorway to give them both a proper bow. “Ladies, a good day to you.”

  Clarissa jumped up so quickly that she dropped the embroidery hoop. “My lord! I mean, Lord Whitby, this is a surprise. A nice surprise, I mean.” She was annoyed to find she was repeating herself like a lackwit. Belatedly, she remembered to curtsy, making an awkward bob and knowing that she lacked his grace of movement, and even Miss Pomshack’s somewhat stiff but totally correct dip was better done. Bloody hell, she would never learn it all!

  “This is my companion, Miss Pomshack.”

  He acknowledged the introduction. They sat down again, and he took his seat across from Clarissa.

  “I am pleased to see you both in good health. Lady Gemma is not at home?” Lord Whitby asked, in his usual slightly bored tone.

  Clarissa explained about the foundling home. “Lady Gemma serves on the board of governors, along with Lady Gabriel, and they visit regularly to see that the children are properly
looked after.”

  “An excellent endeavor,” he noted. “Which brings a thought to mind. Perhaps you would join me in a little good deed of my own, Miss Fallon.”

  “What?” she stared at him. If she had expected anything from his visit, it was certainly not an invitation to do good works. He hardly struck her as the philanthropic type.

  “I am overdue for a duty call on an elderly relative. She is an invalid and seldom goes out. I’m sure she would love to see a new face; it would brighten her day. Perhaps you would like to accompany me, you and Miss Pomshack, of course.”

  Clarissa stared at him, unable to think of a way to gracefully decline. “Ah, as to that, my sister-in-law—”

  What? Gemma would be gone all day, and even she could hardly raise her brows at such a respectable mission.

  She saw that he glanced at the embroidery hoop, still on the floor, and to give herself a moment to think, she bent to retrieve it. Unhappily, she jabbed the needle into her fingertip as she grasped the cloth and managed to prick herself yet again. She swallowed the oath that almost slipped out by sticking the sore finger into her mouth. This was a tactical mistake as it gave Miss Pomshack the chance to answer for her.

  “I’m sure Miss Fallon would be delighted to spend a few hours in such a laudable endeavor. I shall go up and collect our wraps.”

  “Thank you.” The earl stood as the older lady left the room.

  “I’m sure your relation is a lovely person, but I am not very good at conversation—” Clarissa began, trying to find a way out of this visit.

  “Oh, no,” he interrupted. “She’s judgmental, self-centered, and always complaining, aside from not being nearly as ill as she enjoys thinking she is.”

  “Then why in bloody hell should I suffer her company?” Clarissa blurted, free from Miss Pomshack’s constraining presence. She didn’t much care, at the moment, whether she offended the overbearing earl or not. Today he seemed to have reverted to his original arrogant self.