June Calvin

by The Jilting of Baron Pelham

  She donned her plainest carriage dress, a dark blue bombazine trimmed with white Spanish puffs at the hem and along the sleeves. She did not really like Sir Ralph very much and had no wish to entice him with one of her more fetching costumes.

  Unfortunately Sir Ralph was a favorite of her father, who had met him at the Stanhope ball. “Sir Ralph Moreston, eh! Good man, good man,” he boomed approvingly when he heard who her escort was. “Waterloo hero, very sound Tory. A very solid man indeed, Davida.”

  It was an unfortunate choice of words. Davida giggled behind her fingers. “Very solid indeed, Papa. He must weigh above twenty stone!”

  “Now, not all men can look like your blond Adonis. He’d make you a fine husband. You’d be a lady . . .”

  “Yes, Papa,” she sighed, turning to pat her curls into place beneath her untrimmed bonnet as Perry admitted the portly baronet. He greeted her father effusively, then eyed Davida with delight.

  “Lovely, lovely! Not all decked out with frills and furbelows like so many flighty misses. Plain and sensible.”

  Their drive was not a success from Davida’s standpoint. After seating her in his rather ancient barouche, Sir Ralph spent all of his time disparaging the expense and frivolity around him. “Spending all they have to cut a dash. Fribbles!” He saw Davida eyeing a handsome team of grays that flashed past them. “And those mettlesome animals they dash about town with—dangerous business. You never need worry that my team will bolt with us, Miss Gresham.”

  Davida bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Except for their docked tails and braided manes, Sir Ralph’s stolid team would have looked right at home behind a plow. Whatever her father thought of the man, she found him a pompous bore, as well as unattractive. She politely refused his offer to take her to an improving lecture during the next week, and escaped into her home with great relief when the drive was over.

  No more successful was her ride with Arnold Lanscombe the next morning. She had allowed the dandy to provide her with a mount in spite of her father’s dislike of him, for they had not brought any saddle horses with them to London, and she missed riding sorely.

  But the mount Lanscombe provided was disappointing, a placid gelding with ears so large she wondering if he might be a mule. Lanscombe was little better mounted. Obviously all of his energy and treasure went into his clothing.

  Indeed, once he had induced her to comment upon his riding jacket, which was mustard-colored with sienna trim and sported the largest buttons Davida had ever seen, he spent the rest of their time together commenting upon the clothing and equipage of those around them. Davida did not know if her green riding habit met with his approval, and did not care. She escaped from him at the end of the ride with as much relief as from her outing with Sir Ralph.

  The most acceptable of her escorts that week was Gilbert, Viscount Threlbourne. She did not particularly admire his looks, but he had an easy, kindly manner and lively personality that she enjoyed. It was very clear early on, however, that he was not courting her. Indeed, he had spend a goodly portion of their first drive telling her about his cousin Virginia, just now out of the schoolroom, with whom he had an understanding.

  Although both families actively encouraged the match, her parents thought her too young to marry, and he agreed. “Let her have a season next year, and then we can begin to plan our wedding,” he confided. The tone of his voice more than anything he said made Davida believe that he was very attached to his young cousin. She told him quite honestly that she thought he’d make an admirable husband and that Virginia was very fortunate to have attracted his interest.

  By the time of their drive on Monday, it was clear to Davida that Harrison Curzon was the most interesting of her beaus. It was equally clear that Curzon was a serious suitor. He visited every afternoon that they were at home, reluctantly parting after staying the accepted fifteen minutes each time. He made it a point to know which entertainments she was attending in the evenings and quickly appeared at her side wherever she went. He always claimed two dances and virtually insisted on one of them being a waltz.

  Unlike Sir Ralph and Arnold Lanscombe, he could converse without criticizing all around him, and was an amusing partner for the dances they shared. She found herself looking forward to their drive, when she might have the opportunity to know him better.

  Davida was definitely drawn to him, though honesty forced her to admit to herself that she felt nowhere near the attraction to him that she felt for Pelham. But Pelham had not called on her again. When they came across one another in the social whirl, he was friendly, but he was obviously busy courting Elspeth. Each day she read the newspapers avidly, expecting an announcement of the renewal of their engagement, but as yet none had appeared.

  ***

  Curzon claimed her for their drive in the park with a very possessive air and made Davida not a little uncomfortable by taking her hand and pulling the glove down to press a kiss on her wrist before he helped her into his curricle.

  Her pink-cheeked silence seemed to amuse him as he expertly flicked his cattle into a trot. “Cat got your tongue, Miss Gresham?” he chuckled. Why did men seem to enjoy putting women out of countenance, Davida wondered.

  “Your blacks are very showy, Mr. Curzon, with their matching white stockings. However did you find such nearly identical horses?”

  Her diversionary gambit seemed to work. With the enthusiasm of the true horseman, he informed her, “Believe it or not, they were both bred on my father’s stud in Lancashire. They are about a year apart in age and from the same sire.”

  “And the entirely black curricle—all very impressive.”

  “And now the ensemble is complete, with a black-haired beauty by my side.” He arched a brow at her, the vivid, almost piercing ice blue eyes reminding her somehow of a bird of prey.

  “Are they fast, Mr. Curzon? Have you raced them?”

  “Do you find my gallantries unpleasant, Davida?” His free hand reached over to cover hers, which were tightly clenched in her lap.

  “Oh, no! I suppose I just haven’t yet quite learned how to flirt properly.” She opened her eyes wide, trying to look as naive as possible.

  “Nonsense. You are a born flirt. What is throwing you is that you know I am serious, is that not so?” The intentness of his look disconcerted her.

  At that moment Davida noticed that they were not on the right road to Hyde Park. “Where are we going, please?” She tried to control the nervous tremor in her voice.

  “Don’t be alarmed.” He released her hand. “I am just going to drive in Green Park. It will not be as crowded at this hour, and we can be more private. Does that distress you?” There was genuine concern in his voice and doubt in his eyes. “You don’t suspect me of having dishonorable intentions toward you, do you, Davida?”

  “Green Park will be quite satisfactory, Mr. Curzon.” She chose to ignore the question of his intentions, but Pelham’s warning was, she realized, coloring her behavior toward her handsome blond suitor.

  Davida was silent as Curzon concentrated on tooling his blacks through the busy London streets. She admired good driving and took pleasure in seeing the skill with which he handled the ribbons.

  When they turned into the park, he slowed the pace and turned to Davida, transferring the reins to his right hand. He slid his left arm around her and pulled her against him. “How I long to kiss you, Davida. It’s not possible here, but we can be a little closer, at least.”

  Astonished by his boldness, she looked hastily around to see if anyone was near enough to know what he had done. The feel of his strong, hard body beside hers startled her. It wasn’t an entirely disagreeable sensation, this proximity to a powerful male body, which surely intensified the impropriety of the experience! She tried to wiggle free, but his firm grasp easily prevented her.

  “Please, Mr. Curzon. I have done nothing to encourage such familiarity.”

  The broad brow wrinkled, the icy eyes narrowed. “I know you are a proper youn
g lady, but I do not believe you are cold. You are aware that I am courting you in form and in earnest, are you not?”

  “This is beyond . . .” she began, but his voice cut across hers, harsh with emotion.

  “Now, Davida, tell me who my rival is? I thought at first Pelham, but he is entirely taken up with the self-righteous if delectable Lady Elspeth. I really can’t credit that you have a tendre for Threlbourne or Lanscombe, and if I am not very much mistaken, you actively dislike Sir Ralph Moreston.”

  “What makes you think . . . that is, I have a great many gentleman friends, but no one in particular. And . . . and I beg leave to tell you I did not give you permission to use my first name!” Davida was beginning to feel trapped, and her instinct was to fight.

  The curricle was barely moving. Curzon turned toward her, loomed over her, it almost seemed, his hawk’s eyes intent upon her. “My suit displeases you?”

  “You go too fast. I’ve only known you since Wednesday.”

  He studied her narrowly, and Davida met his gaze squarely, almost defiantly, her usually rosy cheeks flaming now in agitation.

  After what seemed to Davida an interminable time, Curzon’s features softened into a smile and he released his hold on her. “Very well. Forgive me if I’ve been precipitate in my lovemaking. I’ll woo you slowly and gently, as you deserve. Unless you wish me to desist entirely?”

  Davida dropped her glance and fiddled with her reticule. “No, of course not. I . . . just wish to be very sure . . .”

  “That does you credit, my dear. If you only knew how many young women have been so determined to wed my gold that no insult, no impropriety was serious enough to discourage them!”

  “So you have become accustomed to being able to behave toward my sex in an insulting, improper manner.” Davida frowned at him fiercely.

  “If I have, you have certainly given me a salutary set-down today! May we cry friends?”

  “Of course.” Davida answered his beguiling smile with a hesitant one.

  “Then let me give you a hint of what these blacks can do, Miss Gresham!” So saying, he flicked the pair into a spanking pace that fairly took her breath away. She lifted her face to the wind and laughed joyfully. A devilish grin lit his face as he observed her delight in their speed.

  When he pulled them into a cooling walk, Davida clapped her hands in delight. “They are marvelous. And you are an excellent whipster. I wonder . . .?”

  “Yes?” He was smiling broadly in obvious enjoyment of her excitement.

  “Pelham and Threlbourne spoke of having raced. They are planning a rematch, but I suspect these beauties could take either of their pair.”

  “I think they could, too. Perhaps we’ll put it to the touch at the picnic?”

  “Famous!” Davida’s eyes glowed with excitement. She rode home in perfect charity with Harrison Curzon, even agreeing to accompany him to a private viewing of the Royal Academy’s exhibition on the following morning. Still, she was determined that he would only kiss the tips of her fingers when he took her hand to bid her farewell.

  He smiled wickedly up at her as he bent over her stiff, unyielding little hand. “At least you are not unaware of me, my dear, and so sweetly proper, Miss Gresham.” He stepped away and waved jauntily as he dashed down the steps.

  Watching him go, Davida felt a little twinge of guilt over the way she had answered his questions. She had given him the impression that she hadn’t a tendre for anyone, but she knew that wasn’t true. However, her interest in Pelham was hopeless, so there was no reason to reject Curzon out of hand.

  He was eligible in every way, although, like her mother, she found him difficult to be comfortable with. But that might pass on better acquaintance. Truly eligible suitors were not so thick upon the ground as to be dismissed lightly. Yes, she would continue to see him, but after their brief contretemps in the park, she would take care not to encourage him too much until she knew her own mind better.

  Chapter Seven

  As they drove along the Strand toward the Royal Academy at Somerset house the following morning, Davida learned that just as Pelham was an amateur musician who took his music seriously, Curzon was an amateur painter who took painting very seriously indeed. He explained that he was a member of the Academy, one of a very few talented amateurs allowed to belong to the country’s foremost professional society for the training and promotion of artists. It was as a member that he was able to invite her to view the paintings privately.

  Finding that Davida was relatively ignorant about the Academy, for she was definitely not an artist, her escort proudly and knowledgeably gave her a thumbnail sketch of its origins and functions. “Oddly enough, it traces its beginnings to the Foundling Hospital chartered in 1739. Hogarth was one of many wealthy and influential people who joined the crown in supporting this worthy cause.”

  “You mean the Hogarth, who did the superb satirical cartoons?”

  “The same. He was one of the original governors. He began the practice of donating works to the hospital and encouraged other artists to do so.”

  “Like his satires?”

  “No, Hogarth was a master painter, as well as a satirist. His first donation was a portrait of the founder of the hospital. Other artists followed suit, making similar donations.”

  Davida clapped her hands. “Let me guess. Before long, people were visiting the hospital for the sake of the paintings.”

  Curzon nodded his approval of her quick comprehension. “And paying for the privilege. After Hogarth’s death many other artists continued the tradition. The success of these exhibitions led to dreams of a separate academy for training artists and exhibiting their works.”

  “What an odd way for a school of art to begin.”

  “A great deal of the credit goes to our old king, who lent the project his support. He was healthy then. Poor old farmer George!”

  With enthusiasm and a range of knowledge that indicated that Curzon was also well versed in architecture, he pointed out to her the salient features of the fine building which housed the Royal Academy: its Corinthian columns and pilasters, balustrades, decorated windows, and other ornamentations designed to give it beauty and dignity.

  It was with a new appreciation that Davida entered through the two-story Corinthian columns into the imposing vestibule. She had been to the exhibition before, of course, but the crush of the crowd had prevented her from truly enjoying the paintings, much less the architecture of the building.

  Instead of proceeding up the grand staircase to the exhibition rooms, as she had on previous visits, Davida was led to the right, past the porter’s lodge and into the Life School, a commodious room full of artists’ easels and various props and draperies. The strong scent of oil paints permeated the room.

  Curzon pointed out several long wires hanging from the ceiling, ending in loops or hooks. “What do you think those are for, Miss Gresham?”

  Davida wrinkled her nose in concentration, but couldn’t come up with an intelligent guess. Mischief lit her eyes. “Instruments of torture, perhaps?”

  On a shout of laughter he led her to the raised stage over which these hooks dangled. “Perhaps our models sometimes think so, but they are really intended to assist them.”

  “Do explain, Mr. Curzon,” Davida urged impatiently, her curiosity aroused.

  Instead of explaining, he led her to a position beneath one and gave it a tug. It lowered to about his shoulder. He reached forward and took her wrist and placed it in the curve of the hook. “Now do you see?”

  A little uneasily, Davida watched him maneuver another hook. “Not entirely.” She resisted his attempt to place her other wrist in it, and he did not insist, but stood back, looking at her intently. At last Davida comprehended, and she struck a pose, using the hook to hold her wrist before herself in a dramatic gesture.

  “Exactly! They help our models maintain gravity-defying poses for long periods of time.”

  “You speak of ‘our’ models.”

 
; “Yes, I have the privilege of attending the life classes. Mind, I pay well for the privilege, but it is worth every farthing to be able to draw the human form unfettered by clothing.”

  At this Davida felt her coloring beginning to heighten, and she lifted her arm free of the hook. She was further discomposed by Curzon’s next statement.

  “How I should like to paint you, Davida. If I only could capture that devastating mixture of white and rose that is your coloring!” It seemed to her that he was undressing her with his eyes, and his look had become almost fanatical.

  Hastily, Davida murmured, “I think we should go see the exhibition now.”

  For once it was Curzon who flushed and looked embarrassed. “Forgive me. I always seem to be skirting the edge of propriety with you. And you have made it abundantly clear that you do not like it, have you not, Miss Gresham?” Brows arched, he held out his hand to assist her from the stage. With only a little hesitation, she took it.

  It was truly a pleasure to view the exhibition without the crowds that usually attended it. So popular had the Royal Academy’s yearly offerings become that in spite of raised fees and attempts to limit viewers to the beau monde, sometimes the great hall was so crowded that people had been known to faint.

  With only Curzon and the venerable porter accompanying her, their footsteps echoing in the huge room, she admired the crowded floor-to-ceiling mass of paintings. Davida listened with pleasure to Curzon’s knowledgeable comments. He especially recommended the paintings of Edwin Landseer, a newcomer to the Academy.

  “Truly, I have never enjoyed viewing paintings so much before. I only wish more of them were on eye level. I can scarcely see those near the ceiling.”