June Calvin

by The Jilting of Baron Pelham

  “I thought . . . you might be more pleased to see me.”

  “I am engaged to be married, Elspeth. Your being here is a serious embarrassment.”

  “But you can break off your engagement. I know that Miss Gresham will agree. She told me so last night. She told me she wanted you to be happy. She’s a very generous, good-hearted person.”

  “Yes, she is, and a great deal more than that, and I haven’t the least desire to end my engagement to her. Moreover, I am furious with you for approaching her. She was most upset.”

  Pelham had warily kept a tall-backed sofa between himself and Elspeth. Upon hearing these discouraging words, she collapsed in a heap upon it and began weeping inconsolably.

  “I’ve lost you forever. It’s all my fault. Oh, I am so miserable I want to die,” she gasped out between sobs.

  So affecting was her desperate sobbing that Pelham came to sit beside her and pat her shoulder ineffectually. “Don’t, Elspeth, please. We shouldn’t suit, you know. All we ever did was quarrel.”

  “Oh, Monty.” She turned toward him, lifting a tearstained but very lovely face to his. “Please forgive me. I know I’ve been difficult, but surely you still love me. Can love die so quickly?” She pressed herself against him, throwing her arms around him and bringing her lips to his.

  “Here, now.” He took her arms and tried to push her away. “Quite some behavior from the miss who wouldn’t even let me kiss her when we were engaged. Didn’t even seem to like it, now I think on it.”

  “I know I seem cold to you. But I’ve been brought up so strictly. I thought it was wrong. I asked my mother, and she explained about men and the . . . the intimacies of marriage. You’ll have to teach me, to show me how to make love.” Her eyes seemed huge in her lovely face. “I’ll be a willing pupil,” she whispered, pressing against him again.

  It was very difficult for Pelham to resist this shapely, gorgeous creature when she offered herself to him so openly. He felt the dull throb that was the beginning of desire. How often had he dreamed of sharing passionate kisses with this delectable beauty? When Elspeth put her lips to his again, he gave in to temptation and bent to return the kiss, drawing her fully into his enfolding arms.

  Her fervor was overwhelming. She kissed him back, running her hands through his hair and writhing against him. Aroused by her response, he deepened the kiss, thrusting his tongue past her open lips and probing within.

  Elspeth gasped and drew back, rigid with shock. “How can you! You did that deliberately to give me a disgust of you.” A look of horror on her face, she dealt him a hard slap.

  Pelham recoiled, his face flushed except for the imprint of her palm on his cheek. “No, Elspeth, God forgive me. What I did was let passion overcome me for a moment. Men have a tendency to do that when curvaceous young females throw themselves at their heads.”

  A dull red suffused Elspeth’s face. “You cannot mean I’m supposed to let you do such a disgusting thing to me? Does she let you do that to her? Davida Gresham must be a wanton degenerate to . . .”

  Suddenly Davie’s trusting face as she had looked up at him full of joy not many minutes before flashed before Pelham’s eyes. What am I doing? he wondered. Not only am I betraying her trust, I am about to hand her over to the tabbies. He was under no illusions as to how Davida’s reputation would fare if Elspeth began spreading such notions about. He jumped up.

  “No, she doesn’t. Miss Gresham hasn’t so far forgotten herself as to tempt me into such behavior.”

  Elspeth gasped indignantly, but he continued without mercy. “She would never present herself alone in a man’s library, nor throw herself at him, as you have done with me. Have a care, Elspeth, or you will become scandal broth.”

  “Am I supposed to let you kiss me that way?” Elspeth was truly puzzled.

  “No, no more than you were supposed to come here in the first place, Elspeth.”

  “Then she won’t let you either, if she is so proper!”

  “There is a time and a place for such lovemaking. I am quite confident that when I do kiss Davida passionately, after we are married, she will not be disgusted. She is a loving, warmhearted girl, and you, Elspeth, are cold and shrewish. Now, please leave.”

  He took her hat and placed it firmly on her head, drawing the veil over her astonished face as she gasped for words. “You can’t mean that,” she wailed. “You love me. I love you.”

  “No, Elspeth, I don’t love you. If I ever did, which I begin to doubt, it’s gone now. And you don’t love me. I doubt if you can. You just want me to dance to your tune again. But I never will. If for no other reason, I would not do anything so shabby to Davida Gresham. But there are many other reasons, so give it up.”

  He finished tying the veil firmly in place and propelled her to the door. “I hope you find happiness, Elspeth, but it can’t be with me. Now please go, and do not come back.”

  After his unexpected visitor departed, Lord Pelham sank into his favorite leather chair and brooded gloomily on the fact that he had so easily fallen prey to Elspeth’s charms. Pray God Davida never knows of this incident, he thought.

  That evening as they arrived at the Malcolms’ ball, Davida was happier than she could ever remember being before. Not only was Pelham attentive, but he obviously took pleasure in her company. Feeling the security of knowing he truly wanted to marry her, Davida let her love show. She blossomed into a radiant creature so alive to Pelham’s every mood that it seemed to her that he was already the other half of herself. Even though he had never spoken of love, she felt sure he cared for her. Surely love would follow, as her mother had suggested.

  It wasn’t difficult for Pelham to maneuver his willing fiancée onto the terrace and tempt her into a stroll in the Malcolms’ garden. Some part of Pelham wanted to know the answer to the question Elspeth had raised in his mind. What would Davida’s response be to a truly passionate kiss?

  She giggled and came willingly into his arms when he pulled her off the lighted path and into the shadows. At first he kissed her as he always had, gently rocking his lips over hers until she melted against him. Then he deepened the kiss. At the touch of his tongue she opened her mouth almost instinctively. When he plunged inside, she was startled. For an instance she stiffened, and then on a long, shuddering breath opened fully to his exploration. When he finally pulled away, breathing heavily, she was gasping for breath, too, her nostrils flaring with passion. She clung to him, weak-kneed.

  “Oh, Davida, what you do to me.”

  “I do to you!” She snapped, mock-indignant. “I like that. You kiss me almost senseless, then accuse me . . .”

  “Not accuse you, my love. Praise you. You thrill me with your affectionate nature. I can’t tell you how much I look forward to our wedding night.” He pressed her against himself, letting her know how much he desired her.

  Davida was glad of the covering darkness, for her cheeks were aflame. She turned a little away. “Monty, please! How am I supposed to compose myself?” He called me his love, she thought, her heart soaring.

  Pelham looked wildly around. “Forgive me. I almost forgot where we were.” He led her to a strategically placed bench. “Sit here with me a moment and then we’ll go in.”

  Shyly she looked up at him and nodded, and he sat sideways, facing her, holding her hands and gently swinging them. The moon lightly gilded her dusky curls and kissed her heart-shaped face. He let his eyes roam all over her possessively. “This is a little taste of hell,” he murmured.

  “I beg your pardon, sirrah.” She flashed those brilliant eyes at him, tossing her head.

  “Yes, to have just a taste of heaven when one cannot enjoy the entire dish is a kind of hell.” He grinned at her. “Let’s go back in before I kiss you again.”

  ***

  The following morning the ladies Gresham returned to their modiste, Madame Poincarré, for what Davida devoutly hoped would be the last fitting of her come-out ball gown. This gown, so long planned, had to be refitted beca
use she had, in the frenzy of activity of the last few weeks, lost weight.

  As Madame Poincarré clucked over the changes, Davida regretted once again her mother’s insistence that she wear white for this occasion. She liked it as little as she had liked her court gown and all those hideous white ostrich plumes.

  But if ever a girl must be completely proper and conventional, it seemed, it must be at her coming out ball. So Davida had allowed herself to be draped in white satin, overlaid with white spider gauze. To be sure, the gown was trimmed with blue satin at the bodice, high waist, sleeves, and the hem, where the gauze was caught up in scallops with large blue rosettes. Her father had presented her with an exquisite necklace featuring sapphires to help reconcile her to the gown, which she had complained made her feel like a wedding cake.

  But Davida felt considerably less grumpy now as the dress was refitted. The thought of weddings was no longer distasteful or even unsettling to her, and she daydreamed a little about her coming nuptials.

  The alterations were minor, and Lady Elizabeth arranged to have a footman pick up the gown late in the afternoon.

  As they entered the carriage, Davida’s mother studied her daughter’s face. “I believe we will stay home tonight. We could do with a quiet evening,” she suggested. Monty had already informed them that he had long since accepted an invitation to dine with his mother at the home of one of her oldest and dearest friends. Since the lady was reclusive, he had not felt comfortable requesting the inclusion of his fiancée.

  Davida agreed gratefully to her mother’s suggestion. With preparations for a ball and a wedding underway, in addition to a full social calendar, she was nearly exhausted. And last night, after they had returned home from the Malcolms’ ball, she had been unable to sleep for reliving, over and over, that astonishing kiss that Monty had given her.

  She wished she could discuss the sensations it had caused in her body with her mother, but she had a notion that it had been a very improper kiss, and was afraid to broach the subject.

  On the way home from the modiste, they called on Sarah, to see what progress was being made with the ball. The duke’s very capable secretary had come to town two weeks earlier to open the Harwood mansion and see to any redecorating that was needed.

  When the Greshams were announced in Lady D’Alatri’s drawing room, they found a very downcast Lady Sarah awaiting them. “What is the matter,” Davida asked, rushing to her friend’s side.

  “My father writes that he is not coming to London for the ball, after all.” All of Sarah’s usual bounce was gone; she was the picture of dejection.

  Lady Elizabeth let out an exclamation of dismay. Sarah’s aunt nodded her head vigorously. “It is just too bad of Justin. It is understandable that he hates the mansion where his wife died. It has such unhappy associations for him. But he has a daughter. He owes her something!”

  With heavy hearts the women completed plans for decorating the ballroom in flowers that would echo the ducal colors of blue and cream. Streamers of silk in the same colors would drape from the ceiling, and be hung with shimmering silver stars. It was not the most original decorating scheme in the world, but Sarah had had little interest in anything elaborate, and the Greshams had been forced to follow her lead.

  After completing their conference, the ladies sadly departed, Lady Elizabeth exclaiming over the duke’s defection all the way home. “It is just wrong, for Sarah’s sake. And then—gracious! The Prince Regent is coming. How will it look to him?”

  When they reached the Gresham home, Davida’s mother headed straight for her father’s study and poured out the tale to him. Davida stood in the doorway, listening. Her mother told the story almost as if her father could do something about it.

  To her amazement, Sir Charles behaved as if he could, too. “That won’t do, won’t do at all. He shall have to come. One doesn’t invite one’s sovereign to a ball and then not show. Send Robert to me.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  As the groomsman was summoned, Davida watched her father scrawl a hasty letter, sand it, and seal it with a flourish. Her mother silently crossed the room and sat in an ancient but comfortable overstuffed chair, watching her husband as he penned a second, shorter note.

  Davida sank into a chair beside her mother and listened as he instructed Robert to go to the duke’s secretary. “This note will instruct him to let you have a fast horse. You are to ride as quickly as possible to Harwood Court. Here, take this purse—hire fresh horses as needed. I’m hoping you can be there by tomorrow morning. No later than midday. Can you do that?”

  Robert’s eyes were shining. The opportunity to ride prime bits of blood neck or nothing about the countryside obviously appealed to him. “Yes, sir. Indeed I can, sir. And am I to await a response?”

  “No. The duke himself shall bring the response.”

  A silence descended on the three as they watched Robert jauntily walk from the room.

  “George, I hope you have not done anything outrageous. The duke . . .”

  “I’ve known Justin since he was an unlicked cub. If I can not tell him a few home truths, I don’t know who can.”

  “He’s always respected you, dear, and rightly so. Still, he can be quite stiff-necked at times.”

  “That’s as may be. Let’s have tea, I’m famished.”

  Davida watched in some awe as her father dismissed with a wave of his hand the Duke of Harwood. He might indeed have known him since he was an “unlicked cub,” but today the duke was an urbane, sophisticated, and somewhat enigmatic person, and Davida could not imagine telling him what to do. Still, she wished her father success, for Sarah’s sake if for no other reason. Fancy your own father not attending your come-out ball!

  As the date of Davida and Sarah’s ball approached, they were engulfed in a whirlwind of activity, of constant to-ing and fro-ing from the Greshams’ home to Lady D’Alatri’s, to the ducal mansion. In addition to his secretary, the duke had sent his own capable French chef, who was coordinating the contributions of the Gresham and D’Alatri kitchens, plus those of caterers. Decorators must be supervised, link-boys hired, and Gresham and D’Alatri servants fitted out in Harwood livery in order to assist at the ball.

  Once it became known that the Prince Regent was attending, acceptances that had been withheld came pouring in. Also, at her father’s suggestion Monty had given Davida a list of relations and special friends of his to invite. Thus the already large guest list expanded. If all came who accepted, it was going to be a squeeze, even in the duke’s palatial ballroom. Davida was a little overwhelmed by the prospect, but Pelham was gleeful. “What a triumph, love. You’ll be a succes fou, and deservedly so!”

  “A mad success. Yes, if I don’t go mad with these frantic preparations,” she tossed back.

  Just then an urgent message came to them from Sarah. They were in the Greshams’ morning room, completing the place cards for the dinner to be served to intimate friends before the ball began. Pelham had willingly offered his assistance in writing them and in planning the seating. He was much more knowledgeable about who took precedence over whom, and who should be seated far apart to prevent hostilities from breaking out.

  Their task was made that much more complicated because they had to make up two seating plans, one if the duke attended, and one if he didn’t. “Thank goodness Prinny didn’t accept for dinner, too,” Pelham said with a chuckle as they discussed the complex problem.

  “What can Sarah want, I wonder? And why did she not just come here?” Davida shoved an errant lock off her forehead, feeling rather put-upon.

  “We’ll soon know. Come, we’ll walk. The exercise will do us both good, and we will get there before we could have the horses put to the carriage.” After informing her mother, who was diligently addressing wedding invitations, Davida walked out with Pelham, smiling with pleasure at the sun and fair skies.

  At Lady D’Alatri’s, they found Sarah and her aunt entertaining a distinguished-looking young man who introduced hi
mself as an equerry in the service of the Prince Regent. He had come to instruct them on the protocol involved in entertaining His Royal Highness. The women listened with eager faces, Davida making notes as he talked. Pelham leaned back in his chair, swinging one leg over the other and looking very amused.

  After the equerry left, Davida took him to task. “Just what did you find so humorous, sirrah?”

  “Ah, forgive me. My republican tendencies are showing. All this folderol about precedence and protocol. How I envy the Americans!”

  Sarah was uninterested in Pelham’s political views at the moment. “Wasn’t he the handsomest creature you’ve ever seen?”

  Eyebrows raised, Davida and Lady D’Alatri stared at Sarah. She had paid no attention at all to any of the dozens.of young men who had attempted to court her.

  “Gregory had best look to his mettle,” Davida said with a laugh.

  “Perhaps he had! He’s not even written me, and I’ve written him almost every day. And that Lord Meade is all the crack! Handsome and well spoken, and with influence, too. Just think of working directly with the Prince Regent!”

  Pelham laughed. “A third son, Sarah, his title is merely honorary. If his family was not so plump in the pocket, he’d be training for a parson or a soldier.”

  Heatedly Sarah snapped, “I don’t care about that! What matters is that he’s so . . . polite and, well, kind.”

  “Too bad it is so late in the game, I would write Gregory Allensby and tell him to get up here to protect his interests!” Davida laughed. “But the ball is tomorrow night.”

  Cast down, Sarah nodded. “And Gregory has never bothered to reply to my invitation.”

  The day of the ball dawned as clear and as beautiful as the one before. Lady Elizabeth insisted that Davida have an easy day, sleeping late and spending most of her time on grooming, so as to be rested for the ball.

  Davida donned her gown that evening with trepidation, hoping she had not lost any more weight. To her relief, it still fit quite perfectly. Her sapphire necklace solaced her for the white dress. Her hair was artfully arranged by the hairdresser hired for the occasion. He had fashioned a dainty circlet of blue-and-white flowers similar to those decorating the ballroom, and fit it skillfully among her dark curls. “Parfaítement,” he exclaimed in a very phony French accent. “Vous est très adorable.”