“I hardly think—” Titania began to say, smiling, when a loud, insistent knock at the door below interrupted her. Claire and Lord Wexford’s eyes showed matching panic, and after a moment, Claire crept to the window.
“Wex, it’s them again,” she said, obviously agitated. “Make them go away.”
“Yes, yes, dear,” Lord Wexford answered, and, ignoring the bellpull, scurried out of the room. Titania heard him give an angry shout down the hall.
Titania was too polite to ask, but her face must have shown her curiosity. Claire plopped down on the sofa, a disgruntled look on her lovely face.
“These cent per centers! Tired of waiting for Wex’s father to stick his spoon in the wall. Can I help it if he persists in continuing his wretched existence? They simply don’t understand that there are so many things one needs, and when one needs them, then one does not put off getting them until the next quarter’s dividend day. I just had to have a new opera gown, and my morning gowns were in tatters. As for Wex, he is widely admired for his ability to judge horseflesh; he cannot very well go tooling about in the new phaeton with no-goers.”
Titania murmured some sort of sympathetic response, not that she understood much of Claire’s London slang. She considered confiding in her friend about her own financial state of affairs when something made her pause. Claire’s affect had changed since last they were together; there was a brittle brightness about her now. Perhaps she wouldn’t understand after all.
“So, my dear,” Claire began afresh. “Would you like to go shopping? I saw the most clever little bonnet the other day that would just suit you.”
Only if the clever little bonnet came with a tiny little price; it would be fun, though, to pretend to be a normal, carefree debutante for just a few hours.
“Certainly, but should you not be at home during your at-home hours? That is the point of them, is it not?” Titania laughed as she spoke, but her friend did not seem to find Titania’s gentle ribbing amusing.
Claire’s lips twisted into a pout. “At home to those nasty bill collectors. No, I would rather go out.”
Titania waited while Claire gathered her things, idly wondering if her friend was going to find even more diamonds to put on, and if so, just where she would find to put them. She looked down at her own deep-blue gown, contrasting it with the embellished, embroidered, and altogether extraordinary confection her friend was wearing.
Titania’s gown had not seemed plain in Northamptonshire; it had precisely one bow, no frills, and no embroidery. Compared with Claire, Titania appeared almost austere.
At least it was not white; Titania had put her foot down when the local dressmaker insisted all debutantes wore white. White, she knew, made her look like a particularly vapid flake of snow.
“Are you ready, Titania?” Claire stood at the door, a fetching little hat placed just so on her curls. Titania envied those curls as much as she had ten years ago, when the girls were thirteen, inseparable, and beginning to notice boys. Titania’s own hair would not curl at all, even if threatened with a pair of scissors. It seemed her hair was as stubborn as she was.
“You know, Claire, I would barely recognize you—you have become so fashionable as to be intimidating.” Not to mention so festooned in jewelry any other light was almost redundant.
Claire gave a simpering smile. “Yes, well, Wex likes me to look my best. He is such a dear man. I have a reputation as a leader of fashion to uphold, and he is very proud of that.” As they walked outside, Claire assured Titania it was not a long ride to Bond Street.
It was the longest carriage ride in Titania’s memory. There was indeed much to learn in London, she thought, such as the amount of time one woman could talk about herself and her clothes. She was contemplating ripping one of the many bows from Claire’s gown and stuffing into her own ears when she felt the horses slowing.
Thank goodness, she thought. Another few minutes and she would have flung herself out onto the road. And she still had more hours in Claire’s company. Was this to be her future? A society lady filling up her hours with idle pastimes and an even idler existence?
Despatch from the battle front, March 1813
In battle, one must trust one’s companions in arms implicitly. Winning the war requires tactical maneuvering, a clever, multifaceted battle plan, and, above all, a solid, united front.
So ladies, remember that as you march into Almack’s.
The enemy—otherwise known as the eligible bachelor—will notice if there is dissension in the ranks and will despise where he once admired. If his opponent can be so shrewish to her comrade, he wonders, how will she be when her castle is stormed by him?
Pettiness, jealousy, malicious gossip; all treason, and subject to the worst of punishments: spinsterhood.
A Singular Lady
Chapter 3
Renewing her acquaintance with Claire made Titania wish she had any other path than the one she needed to follow. It was with an implacable air, therefore, that she responded to Miss Tynte’s continued agitation about playing the part of a chaperone. She looked her in the eye and assumed a stern tone she had learned from the very woman now staring at her in panic.
“All you have to do is sit in the corner with the other dowagers and nod approvingly every time I look over at you. I can manage the rest on my own.” She softened her voice. “Tell me, do you prefer the peach or the green gown?” she asked, as much to distract her friend as to garner her opinion.
Her friend finally soothed, Titania escaped upstairs to dress, only to find Sarah had already made the choice of evening wear for her—“the blue will match your eyes, miss”—and would allow for no disagreement.
The money I paid for this single gown, Titania thought as Sarah buttoned her, would have paid the staff’s salaries for at least a quarter of the year. I hope it will earn its keep.
Titania scrutinized the gown as if it were an opponent, narrowing her eyes as she examined its ability to display every attribute while also maintaining her modesty. Its overskirt of white gauze gave her the illusion of being a fresh-faced debutante, while the darker blue ribbons at the waistline drew discreet attention to her breasts, possessions which until now she considered more of an embarrassment than an attribute. Sarah expertly twined a matching blue ribbon into Titania’s hair, all the while bemoaning its inability to take a curl. Titania, glad to be distracted from her thoughts, pulled the curling iron from her maid’s hands.
“Sarah, you know whenever you use the curling iron, I just end up looking like a slightly mad sheep.” Still grumbling, Sarah smoothed her skirts down, poked an errant ribbon into position, and stood back.
“I guess as ’ow you look well, miss,” Sarah allowed. That was as effusive as Sarah ever got. Titania hugged her maid quickly, kissed her cheek, and bounded down the stairs, pieces of hair already flying from the careful arrangement. She stopped and twirled in front of Miss Tynte, who had already descended and was fussing with her wrap. The two ladies surveyed themselves in the glass. Both seemed satisfied by what they saw: one debutante, one chaperone, both entirely respectable.
“You’d hardly think,” Titania whispered, “that neither of us is what we seem. I am a pauper and you are a governess.” Miss Tynte shuddered at the deception, but when the two walked outside, the chill air firmed their resolve.
LORD AND LADY HAGAN’S sumptuous new town house on Lisle Street in the West End was ablaze in lights for the party, candles melting in chandeliers suspended every five feet, giving off an almost overpowering odor. Titania tried not to wince as she inhaled the suffocating smell.
“Look,” Titania said, holding her nose discreetly as she pointed to a cluster of people in the far corner of the room, “there is my friend Claire, now Lady Wexford. I will introduce you. Thank goodness none of my friends’ parents ever allowed them to visit me, so you are unknown to them. It will make this lie much easier.” Miss Tynte winced at Titania’s words.
Claire spotted Titania and waved gaily, the
n led a procession to greet her, several languid dandies in tow. Titania introduced Miss Tynte to Claire, who began speaking in a high-pitched, breathy voice that made her sound like a wheezing nine-year-old.
“Oh, my dearest, dearest friend, let me present Lord Quimby, Lord Chatham, and Mr. Alexander Harris. Wex is deep in cards, and I have to fend for myself, so these gentlemen have kindly offered to keep me amused. Of course, now you have arrived, I shall no doubt be obliged to join Miss Tynte in the chaperones’ chairs. I should resign myself,” she finished with mock woe, “to sitting out the dances. I am an old married woman, after all.”
“Lady Wexford,” one of the three immediately declaimed, “every moment spent with you is a delicate flower in the bouquet of my heart.” Titania noticed his head moved in a slight twitch as he spoke, perhaps to encourage a particularly fetching curl to fall over one eye. The other two, apparently dumbstruck by their comrade’s eloquence, merely nodded their agreement. Claire giggled.
“You gentlemen are too delightful. Now, which one of you wishes to lead me out for a dance?” Claire blinked expectantly, apparently anticipating their eagerness to partner her.
After a duel of overly effusive compliments, Claire and her chosen swain trotted out to the dance floor, Claire’s guinea-gold hair glinting in the candlelight. The two losers sighed after them. After a brief moment of mourning, they turned toward Titania, their faces almost ludicrously downcast.
Lord Chatham, or at least that was who Titania thought it was, asked Titania to dance. If she were under any illusion that he was actually interested in her, his first question made his interest crystal clear. “I envy your role as Lady Wexford’s dearest friend,” he said with a sigh. “She is a goddess among women, a rose among the thorns, a—”
“Queen bee among the drones?” Titania finished brightly. The lord’s mouth gaped open, then shut. Then opened, then shut again.
At least he was remembering to breathe. Just what was it about her that made people get that confused look in their eyes when she spoke? Lord Chatham was completely silent, which she supposed she should be grateful for.
At last, the music ended and the lord, still mute, escorted her to her chair. He made a deep bow, then scurried off to where Claire had already begun assembling another entourage.
Over the next hour, Titania met an array of men she presumed were eligible—tall, short, young, old—but their conversation was not nearly so varied.
“Is this your first Season?”
“How are you enjoying London?”
“Is the weather not exceptional? I wonder what it will be like tomorrow?”
“What kind of name is Titania? Is it...foreign?”
“And you say this is your first Season?”
“London is very different from Northamptonshire.”
“What weather, what?”
By the time the orchestra stopped for a brief interlude, Titania was ready to scream. “I swear,” she hissed to Miss Tynte as they found chairs, “if one more man talks about the weather or makes another condescending remark about the country, I will box his ears. Or mine, just for a distraction.”
Miss Tynte gave her an amused look. “What, did you expect you would find a scholar amid this crowd? One or two might be here, Titania, but they will not reveal themselves so soon. Even a rustic such as I knows disclosing that one actually paid attention to one’s tutors is not the thing. You must be patient, my dear. Getting to know new people takes time.”
Titania’s reply was short. “I do not have time.” Miss Tynte’s look of amusement quickly turned glum.
“No, you do not, my dear. I would like to box your father’s ears, if anyone’s ears are to be boxed. Of all the irresponsible—”
“Predictable things for him to do,” Titania corrected. She patted her friend’s hand. “He got us into this mess, but I am going to get us out of it. I just have to remind myself to stop being such a martyr about it. Now, where is that footman? I am sure you are parched.” Titania rose to beckon a footman over and remained standing to survey the festivities.
In her Northamptonshire daydreams, Titania had nursed a secret hope she would meet someone on her first night on the town who would prove to be the embodiment of her requirements: intelligent, witty, and handsome. Now he only had to be loaded with so much gilt he would not notice the encumbrance of a much-beleaguered estate, a spendthrift brother, and a host of faithful retainers.
She sighed, thinking what a foolish girl she was proving to be, when she was startled by a large, very male presence next to her.
“Lost in reverie again, Miss Stanhope?” a voice spoke softly. “In the short time we’ve been acquainted, those woolgatherings have always resulted in something—or someone—hitting the ground.” Titania turned to see who was speaking and was shocked to see her hero from the day before, this time attired like a perfect gentleman: no scuffs, shine, or outdated fashion. The broadest shoulders she had ever seen were encased in a sober, but perfectly respectable, black coat. His black pantaloons sheathed his long legs, his muscles evident through the thin fabric. She briefly regretted the necessity of his wearing a cravat as her mouth went dry. “I am sorry, sir, but we have not been introduced,” she said, pressing her lips together in a prim line, “although I must admit I am surprised to see you here. Judging by your attire yesterday, I would not have guessed you were accustomed to going out in society.”
“Are you implying that you believed me less than a gentleman because of the way I was dressed? I had thought better of you.” He grinned down at her, his green eyes dancing.
Titania felt a slight blush come to her cheeks. Something about this man seemed to draw out her shrewish qualities. “No...well...what I mean to say is that with your...unusual garb and the fact that you were entering Mr. Hawthorne’s offices...well, I had assumed you were just recently arrived here, and so would not have acquaintance so soon. I am not in the habit of judging people by the way they dress, sir, if that is what you were asking,” she added hastily.
“No, Miss Stanhope, I had assumed you were in the habit of judging people by feel.”
It took Titania a moment to grasp his meaning, and when she did, she felt herself flush with embarrassment. “Sir, you have the advantage of me. You know my name, but I do not know yours. And given our... history,” she conceded, “it would be best if you relieved my situation rather than requiring me to wait for some mutual friend to make the introductions.”
“I am Edwin Worthington at your service, Miss Stanhope. Earl of Oakley, for formality’s sake.” He clasped her hand tightly, enclosing Titania’s delicate fingers in his strong grasp. “Are you named after Shakespeare’s queen of the fairies, or perhaps your parents were astronomically inspired? You share your name with a planetary moon, correct?” He furrowed his brow as if in search of an elusive thought.
Titania found herself unable to answer because his hand was still holding hers. Even through their gloves, the warmth of his palm clasping her fingers was igniting a similar warmth in places she had not thought much of before.
“Yes, well, it was very pleasant to meet you. And if you will excuse me, I must locate my cousin. She will be wondering where I am.” Titania hoped he did not know to whom she was referring; Miss Tynte was directly in their line of vision, as plain as day, and was even now peering at them interestedly.
Titania pulled her hand away from his, gave him a brief curtsy, and moved quickly toward her friend, trying hard to compose herself in the short distance between the two points.
EDWIN WATCHED HER RETREAT. She moved as if she were certain everyone would shift out of her way. He chuckled as his thoughts were confirmed by a slight, pimply aristocrat scooting out of her path. His eyes remained riveted on her until she was swallowed by the crush of people.
It was only then he became aware of a buzzing in his ear. The buzzing gradually became actual words, and he stared as a man spoke directly in his face, punctuating each word with a finger poke to his chest.
/> “You would think seeing your best friend after such a long time would be worth waking up for. Hello, Worthy, nice to see you. Glad you could rouse yourself for the occasion.”
Edwin gazed at the man in shock for a moment, then gathered him up in his arms and delivered a hug so strong it seemed he might extinguish the man’s very breath. Although the man was taller than Edwin by a few inches, his breadth was not nearly so imposing. His long, lean face was canvassed by deep lines, lines which seemed to indicate weariness, pain, or both. His skin was even darker than his friend’s, bearing the marks of long days in the sun.
“Alistair, what a surprise. In your last letter, you said you would be on the Continent until the army threw you out.”
His friend’s toneless reply conveyed more than any histrionics. “They did. Some shrapnel caught me in the leg at Salamanca. They insisted I return home.”
“I am glad you are here. I need a friend badly.”
“I would say you do,” Alistair replied. A familiar sardonic look appeared on his face. “Tell me, does everyone on the other side of the ocean dress as plainly as you, or is that your own particular aberration?” He flicked an invisible speck of dust from his bloodred waistcoat, a garment even Edwin knew was of the first stare of fashion. Edwin surveyed his friend, noting the impeccable grooming, faultless linen, and perfectly cut hair.
His friend had aged—there were strands of silver among the black, and the crow’s feet branching out from his dark eyes were more pronounced than five years ago—but his bearing and physique revealed he was still in prime condition.
“You,” Edwin said accusingly, “have become a dandy.”
Alistair sighed. “Ever the astute scholar. So, Worthy, what did it take to lure you back to these shores? I thought your father had washed his hands of you.”
“As it happens, Alistair,” Edwin said frostily, “it was an old and revered cousin, one of my mother’s relatives, who passed on.” He drew a long breath and grinned. “I will miss him sorely, if only because his being dead means I can’t kill him for leaving me his dilapidated holdings in the country and an enormous mess concerning practices of animal husbandry and accounting that must have involved the phases of the moon, since they make no sense any other way.”
A Singular Lady Page 3