“Where is everyone?” she asked, hoping she had successfully managed a casual tone.
Thomas peered up at her, lowering the London Times. He probably thought it odd she hadn’t yet taken a seat. She was not one to stand on ceremony when it came to food.
“It appears everyone is still abed.” He picked up a mug of coffee and took a sip.
It wasn’t surprising that her mother and sisters had not come down as yet but James was a notoriously early riser.
“It isn’t like James to sleep so late.”
Alex leveled her with a curious stare. Missy in turn offered him a benign smile.
“James has gone back to London,” he said slowly.
Something fragile inside her shattered into endless pieces. “Gone back to Town? This morning?” The question was choked from her larynx.
“Left with the cocks,” Thomas said in between bites, not bothering to glance up from his reading, oblivious to her distress. Oblivious to her heart lying tattered and broken at her feet.
“Apparently he’d forgotten an urgent business matter he needed to tend to,” Alex said, still watching her closely.
Missy swallowed a well of despair, disappointment, and wrenching heartbreak. Nodding stiffly, she turned to depart.
“Are you not going to eat?” Alex asked, his tone mild, but his silver eyes sharp.
Turning, Missy reluctantly met his gaze. Summoning up even the pretense of a smile would shatter the tenuous thread she had on her emotions. Her head moved slowly from side to side. “No, I no longer have an appetite.”
James was gone. He had run from her…again.
Chapter Four
Missy had imagined their first meeting since the moment James had left Stoneridge Hall so abruptly almost three long months ago. Who was she fooling? Since he’d run away, to put it more precisely. She’d assumed that meeting would take place at their residence in Town the following evening, during the small dinner party her mother was hosting.
In her mind, she would be coolly polite, exhibiting not an inkling of interest. Hers would be the mature air of nonchalance and faultless ladylike decorum. She’d not reduce herself to the banality of simpering or the transparency of coquettishness. No, she intended to be every bit the worldly sophisticate he seemed to prefer, if the identities of his ex-mistresses were anything to go by: an actress, a dancer, an opera singer, and a widowed duchess, just to name a few. All said to be terribly urbane and beautiful. She had learned all about them in the past month.
This—she stared down in horror at her mauve walking dress—didn’t come near to urbane, and was certainly not the way she had envisioned the meeting.
Mud, thick and runny gobs of it, dripped from the ribbon trim flounces of her skirt and speckled the shot silk material in an unlikely pattern. The trickle of something slippery and wet wound its way down her cheek, then a stain of dirt blemished the back of her gloved hand.
With her mouth slack, her eyes wide, and her form taut, she lifted her gaze. James stood across the well-traveled path in Hyde Park barely twenty feet away. And if the sight of her wasn’t enough to keep his sides stitched for days, beside him stood none other than Lady Victoria Spencer as yet another witness to her humiliation.
If mortification and disbelief had not kept her frozen in place, she’d have wailed and railed at the unfairness of it. He, naturally, looked dashing clad in a dark brown overcoat and brown and tan plaid trousers, while she—Missy stared down once more at her dress—looked like a mud-spattered wreck. A wave of heat suffused her entire body, her cheeks florid under the brisk breeze of the midmorning air.
“Oh dear, what a mess.” Claire, who had luckily missed the damaging spray, removed a white handkerchief from her reticule and began pressing it gently against her face. A giggle escaped her lips as she fought back a smile.
Missy’s head jerked up sharply, her slate blue eyes wide, her mouth pursed and tight.
“Forgive me.” Claire unsuccessfully tried to stifle another giggle. “It’s just that you look so funny with your face streaked with…” Missy blistered her with such a look, her friend’s voice trailed off. Silence.
Beatrice, her lady’s maid, who had been walking several feet behind the pair, busily worked on the polka dot skirt, her handkerchief now limp and soiled from its efforts.
Missy shot a glance down the path at the rider fading over the sloping trail. Did he know he had managed—with one ill-placed horse’s hoof and a pool of mud—to not only ruin her dress, but more importantly, leave her utterly humiliated in front of the one man whom she only ever wanted to see her at her best?
She watched James approach, her throat constricted, her pulse racing.
“Good day, ladies.” He tipped his hat, brown felt with a high crown, and extended himself in a shallow bow. Although his greeting was all encompassing, his gaze settled on the dishabille that she was. He appeared quite stoic given the circumstances, all patrician concern—damn him.
Beatrice immediately straightened, gave a deep curtsey and murmured her greetings to the two, before sweeping around to Missy’s back to check for additional damage.
Sufficiently recovered from her giggles, Claire flashed a gracious smile. “Lord Rutherford. Lady Victoria.”
“Oh dear, your beautiful dress,” Lady Victoria said, after offering her own greeting. Her gaze sympathetically mourned the loss of the garment. “It is simply dreadful. Horses really should not be permitted on these trails.”
All the expressed sympathy in the world could not staunch a pang of jealousy from rising within her to exert its indomitable presence. Did the woman ever act in a manner less than cordial or have a hair out of place? Hair that wasn’t the gold blond of Thomas and her sisters, but the ashen blond rarely seen and therefore all the more coveted. Her face hadn’t a blemish or a line. It was creamy perfection. And for a woman said to have no interest in men and marriage, she seemed quite partial to James’s attention. His company. Her James.
“James. Lady Victoria.” Missy nodded curtly, and then lowered her regard with hopes that the shallow brim of her bonnet would keep most of her mud-streaked face from view—his view, more precisely. “You will forgive me, but under the circumstances I’m afraid we must really be on our way.”
A drop of mud fell from the brim of her bonnet. Missy’s cheeks caught afire. Directing an icy glare at Claire, she inclined her head stiffly. Keeping her head lowered, she managed a curt nod in the direction of the dazzling twosome. She then spun on her heel and began a brisk walk toward the park’s south entrance, forcing Claire and Beatrice to scamper to catch up with her.
They had not gone more than fifteen feet when the low rumble of his rich baritone wafted the distance between them. “I expect I shall see you tomorrow evening.” Not one note of inflection in his voice to indicate even a shred of anticipation, or contrarily, dread.
Missy paused, but did not turn to face him. Not with her so disadvantaged by his equanimity. “Yes, I expect you will,” she replied before continuing on.
After nearly three months, the sight of Missy covered in mud and looking justifiably annoyed and embarrassed was all it took for his agitation to return with devastating force. He had felt the vein running along the side of his neck pounding in tandem with the accelerated pace of his heart the moment he’d glimpsed her unmistakable figure strolling down the pathway. It took all of his willpower not to glance back to watch her retreat.
Instead, eyes trained forward, James pressed on, his pace steady and brisk, only slowing as Lady Victoria began to lag at his side. In deference to her, he slowed, falling in step with her shorter strides.
Her chaperone, who Lady Victoria had introduced as Miss Fogerty, trailed a fair distance behind, but he could tell by the rigid way she held her head that she was alert to their every move.
“Mother would be thrilled if you called,” Lady Victoria said.
James was certain she would. The marchioness would like nothing better than to see her daughter marri
ed off to a high-ranking member of the peerage. Naturally, she’d initially set her sights on Granville, being heir to one of the oldest and most powerful dukedoms in all of England. But the marchioness soon saw the futility in trying to snag Granville, as he appeared destined to wed Missy. James had to stop himself from grinding his teeth. Then the marchioness had turned her attention to Lord Chadwick, an earl and the heir to the Marquess of Brunswick. Rumor had it that Lady Victoria herself had discouraged his suit.
An apologetic smile curved his mouth. “If not for another pressing engagement…” He enjoyed Lady Victoria’s company but coming upon her during his morning stroll certainly didn’t warrant that kind of sacrifice. Since the well of eligible future dukes and marquesses had run dry, the marchioness appeared determined to turn their relationship into something much grander than it was.
“Are you certain it isn’t the fear that my mother will have marriage banns posted before you exit the house that has you begging off?” Lady Victoria inquired, glancing back at Miss Fogerty, who was distracted by a foursome on horseback passing in the opposite direction.
Lady Victoria’s eyes danced with humor, a smile lighting her face, transforming her usually impassive countenance. She was even more beautiful when she smiled. It was a shame she didn’t indulge more often.
“You know your mother too well.”
“I know my mother better than most,” she said dryly. “Even my father, I imagine.”
“Then I’m sure you will send her my best and we can leave it at that.”
They continued in silence before Miss Fogerty stated in a dour voice behind them, “Lady Victoria, I think it is time we returned home.”
Lady Victoria did not respond, merely stopped and faced him. “Will you be attending Lady Elderly’s dinner party tomorrow eve?”
James’s interest was piqued. She’d never been inquisitive of his social schedule before. “No,” he said, drawing out the word. “I will be attending Lady Armstrong’s dinner party.”
A contemplative look entered her eyes. “Oh yes, so you said before. I had forgotten that was also the same evening. Mama insists we attend Lady Elderly’s. Word has it that Lord Chadwick has accepted.”
The reasoning certainly didn’t surprise James, although he had thought that the marchioness had beaten that horse to its last gasping breath. A reprieve for him, nonetheless.
“I do wish she would cease thrusting these gentlemen at me, and me at them.” Her words were spoken with more emotion he’d ever witnessed from her. She actually sounded peeved, just shy of impassioned. Quite a novelty for a woman known for her unflappability.
“Pick a gentleman and marry and your problem will be solved.”
She gave a delicate sniff. “That might very well be the beginning of a much larger dilemma,” she muttered.
James simply could not imagine she had a problem more complicated than which marriage proposal to accept or which dress to wear. Young ladies of the ton led a life of frightful leisure, wanting little else than to make an advantageous match and produce a passel of children—well, at the very least, an heir.
“But that’s neither here nor there at the moment.” She executed a small curtsey. “Good day, Lord Rutherford. I expect I shall be seeing you at yet another scintillating social gathering.”
James chuckled softly and bid her and the stern-faced Miss Fogerty adieu.
Missy checked her reflection in the cheval mirror in her bedchamber. She looked much improved from yesterday. Her face and her dress were free of mud. Beatrice had even managed the curls adorning her head without one singeing mishap.
Satisfied with her appearance, she dabbed some perfume on her wrists and the pulse points at her neck. Her nose wrinkled as she inhaled the light, flowery fragrance. The French did have the best scents on the Continent.
The ormolu clock sat perched on the bed stand, its long hand edging toward the top of the hour. Shortly, her mother would expect her downstairs to greet their guests.
Soon James would be there.
Another glance in the mirror revealed a woman in an ice blue fusion of puffed tulle and silk who, thankfully, bore little resemblance to that mud-spattered creature he had met in the park the day before.
James could have his pick of women. Very beautiful and accomplished women. Tonight she wanted—no, needed—to stand out from the rest. Considering her height, she mused wryly, she’d certainly be standing a good head above them.
Currently, he wasn’t involved with anyone. This she’d learned from Beatrice, who at the age of nineteen, could tout gossip as her second profession. He’d ended his relationship with his last mistress a few months back. Such an opening would have a multitude of women eagerly vying to be the next to fill the role, maybe with hopes of making it more. Missy’s hands skimmed the embroidered flowers adorning the neckline of her gown. This time she intended he acquire a wife.
A knock sounded. Missy turned in time to see her chamber door open and Sarah sweep in, her golden locks a riot of tight curls pinned up in an unsightly coiffure. It appeared her sister had been experimenting again. A tragic but normal circumstance.
“I’m almost fifteen. I don’t understand why I can’t attend the dinner party.” She stomped over to the bed and plopped down, her mouth pushed out in a pout.
Missy rolled her eyes. “Sarah, there will be gentlemen of marriageable age.” The statement itself should have explained everything.
“So?”
“Well, you do remember what happened to Pauline Franks, do you not?” Hadn’t she already relayed this story to her just four months back when she’d been grousing about yet another supper party their mother had held? The story had come directly from Beatrice who had gotten it from the kitchen maid at the Franks’ residence.
Emerald green eyes stared blankly back at her.
Commencing with a long-suffering sigh, Missy launched into the story again. It certainly bore repeating. “She set her cap for Lord Blake even though she had yet to get a formal introduction. When she finally did during an outing with her sister at Vauxhall Gardens, he paid more attention to her sister than he did her. And her sister wasn’t to have her introduction for another two years.”
Emily sniffed. “I doubt any of the men here tonight will give me a second glance.”
Not give her a second glance? Had her sister looked in the mirror lately or was she blind? “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a very beautiful girl.”
“But not as beautiful as you or Emmy.”
The mention of her sister served as a sobering reminder of just what was at stake. And what her three futile Seasons had cost Emily. But Missy was determined to make it up to her. Her betrothal to James would clear the path for her sister’s debut next year. She’d only be eighteen and a half, as young as most of the debutantes. And she’d not have to share it with either her or Sarah.
“Sarah, you are gorgeous. Far prettier than I was at your age. You’ll have plenty of time for dinner parties and balls when you are older.”
Her sister let out a short puff of air to signify what she thought of Missy’s claim.
Another glance at the clock set Missy in motion. “I must be off. Mama will send someone for me if I’m late.” She quickly slipped on a pair of soft satin shoes in the exact color of her gown, and hastily quit the chamber with a forlorn Emily still perched on her bed.
She arrived on the second floor to a flurry of activity. The servants were putting the finishing touches on the dining table, attending to even the minutest detail.
Her mother, wearing a bold red confection made of pyramid silk trimmed in lace, stood at the head of the table directing the first footman as he placed the placards at each setting.
“Millicent, you look lovely,” she said, turning her attention to her daughter.
Her mother would have declared her lovely if she’d been wearing a cloth sack. “Thank you, Mama.”
Missy slowly rounded the length of the mahogany table, which was covered in white lin
en and decorated with small vases, specimen glasses of lilies and pink roses, and a centerpiece of summer fruit. She searched the names on the embossed placards until she came upon the one with James’s name. He would be opposite her but much farther down the table seated between Lady Annabel and Lady Georgette, the eldest daughters to an earl and a marquess. Lucky women.
“Your brother should be arriving momentarily.”
Thomas was the furthest thing from her mind. She inclined her head, acknowledging her mother’s statement as if it had been of concern to her.
Minutes later, her brother arrived looking golden and dapper in his evening finery. Accompanying him was Miss Camille Foxworth.
Camille, the older sister to her brother’s friend currently in military service, looked—well, like Camille always did. She was pale and slender to the point of gauntness, all angles and eyes. And unfortunately, the white gown she wore only added to her wan complexion. Missy always thought it a shame she hadn’t a mother with an eye for fashion to give her some direction in that regard.
Thirty minutes after Thomas’s arrival, the drawing room overflowed with the bulk of the dinner party, each guest accounted for except James. Not even the attentions of five eligible gentlemen, including some of her most ardent admirers from the prior Seasons—Lord Riley, Lord Crawley and Mr. Townsend—could assuage her acute sense of disappointment. Lord Granville lingered on the outskirts of the circle as if uncertain if he wanted to join the fray.
Where was he? Her ears remained attuned for the announcement of his arrival, while her head bobbed up and down as Lord Riley droned on about something—what, she’d yet to ascertain. But at the moment, she was just grateful it didn’t call for her participation.
James appeared at the threshold some five minutes later. Without a formal announcement, she hadn’t an opportunity to prepare for the impact dealt every one of her senses. He looked too handsome by far in his dinner attire, a pair of white gloves and a snowy silk shirt throwing all the navy blue into stark relief. Missy toured his body in surreptitious admiration until, with a mental start, she finally noticed the woman pressed too close to his side.
Beverley Kendall Page 6