by Mary Nichols
‘According to the latest on dit, looking for a second wife.’ In spite of herself, she was curious. Would he recognise her? After all, she was no longer the gauche girl of seventeen he had known. Nor was he the stripling of twenty-three he had been.
Although he was naturally heavier and his good looks had matured, the years had dealt very kindly with him. The faint lines around his eyes and mouth gave his face character which had not been there before. His jaw was stronger than she remembered it and jutted out a little belligerently as if he did not suffer fools gladly, but he was still excessively handsome.
Percy looked sideways at her. ‘Would you prefer to avoid him? It ain’t too late to turn off the ride.’
‘Goodness, no,’ she laughed. Too many summers had passed, too many winters following one upon the other, for her still to bear a grudge. ‘That would look too much like the cut direct. And I have no reason to cut him.’
‘Water under bridges, eh?’
‘Yes.’ They were almost abreast of the phaeton and she knew etiquette dictated it was up to her to acknowledge him first. She reined in and favoured him with one of her famous smiles, a smile which lit up her whole face and had most of the male population of London in thrall. ‘Your Grace.’ She gave him a small bow from the waist.
‘My lady.’ He pulled his phaeton to a stop and doffed his tall hat. His extraordinary hair was as thick and vibrant as ever, she noticed. She also noticed his smile did not seem to reach his amber eyes and his mouth had a slightly cynical twist, which she was sure had not been there when he was young. ‘How do you do?’
‘I do very well, thank you. You are acquainted with Sir Percival, are you not?’
‘Yes, indeed. Good day to you, Ponsonby.’
‘And you,’ Percy answered. ‘What brings you to the village? It must be years since you were here last.’
‘Indeed, yes.’ He turned back to Frances. ‘Countess, may I present my daughter, Lavinia? Lavinia, the Countess of Corringham.’ His tone was cool and impersonal; there was nothing to suggest he remembered that hot summer when they had been everything to each other. Everything or nothing? ‘And this is Sir Percival Ponsonby.’
‘Lady Lavinia, how nice to meet you,’ Frances said, as Percy bowed in the saddle. ‘I do hope you enjoy your visit to London.’
The only answer the girl managed was a mutter and a scowl which spoiled her prettiness and earned her a telling look from her father.
Frances was startled but, having acknowledged her, turned her attention to the Duke. ‘Do you stay long in town, your Grace?’
‘I think I shall be here for the Season. I have business to attend to and Lavinia needs a little town bronze.’
Frances certainly agreed with that. The child was extraordinarily beautiful and would have all the young bloods at her feet, if only she could learn to smile and be polite. Instead of attending to the conversation she was watching the horses riding past, as if the last thing she wanted to do was talk to her father’s acquaintances.
‘Then we shall perhaps see something of you in Society.’
‘Indeed, I plan to take Vinny to some of the less grand occasions, to give her a taste of what is to come when she makes her bow next year.’ He smiled suddenly and she felt the old tug at her heart and a flutter of nerves somewhere in the region of her lower abdomen and realised she was not as impervious to his charm as she had hoped. ‘Lady Willoughby has already invited us to take tea with her tomorrow afternoon.’
Frances cursed under her breath. Trust Emma Willoughby to be first in the fray. And to choose the very day when she had promised to deliver the portrait. She could take the portrait in the morning and cry off the tea party, but that would be tantamount to cowardice and she had never been a coward. Besides, she could not hope to avoid him the whole Season, so she might as well begin as she meant to go on. ‘How nice,’ she said. ‘I shall look forward to seeing you both there. Good day, Loscoe. Lady Lavinia.’
‘Countess,’ he answered, with an inclination of his head and picked up the reins to drive on. Frances and Percy turned to continue their ride. As a meeting it had been nothing out of the ordinary; simply a greeting exchanged by acquaintances. Had she expected anything else? Fireworks, perhaps? She smiled at her nonsensical thoughts and turned to her escort who should, after all, have her undivided attention.
It was only then, that she remembered what he had said before the encounter. ‘What did you mean, “water under bridges”?’ she asked.
‘I believe it indicates the passing of time, my dear.’
‘I know that. I meant, what was the context of the remark?’
‘Oh, Fanny, do not play the innocent. I know perfectly well there was almost a whole Season when everyone thought Stanmore was going to offer for you.’
‘So?’ she demanded, unexpectedly irritated. ‘The tattlers are sometimes wrong, you know.’
‘Yes, but I wondered how disappointed you had been.’
‘Not at all,’ she lied. ‘I knew we should not suit.’
‘And so you married Corringham.’
‘I was very fond of George, Percy. Now, let us forget this conversation. It is of no import whatever.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘Unless you wish it, I will never refer to it again.’
‘Thank you. And I would be obliged, if you hear others mentioning water under bridges or anything of that nature, you put them right.’
‘Certainly, I will, though I doubt it will be at the top of the gabble-grinders’ list; it was all a long time ago.’
‘You remembered it.’
‘To be sure, but I am different.’
‘Why different?’
‘Oh, long memory and nothing else to fill it,’ he said vaguely. ‘Now, do we go home, or shall we have a canter across the grass?’
She laughed. ‘A gallop, I think.’
It was not considered the thing for ladies to gallop; indeed, they should do no more than walk or trot along the ride, the whole point of the exercise being to see and be seen, but Frances had never slavishly obeyed the rules and, because she was popular with everyone and considered quite beyond the marriage mart, no one took any notice when she veered off across the grass towards the middle of the park and spurred her horse into a gallop.
Sir Percival followed and half an hour later, exhilarated and free of the cobwebs in her mind which had plagued her overnight, they turned for home.
And that afternoon, just to prove her independence, she took her sketch pad and crayons and asked John Harker to drive her to the East End, where she positioned her stool and easel on one of the docks and drew a tea schooner being unloaded. Its spars and rigging were something of a challenge and totally absorbed her until it was time to return home. Marcus Stanmore, Duke of Loscoe, was banished from her mind and he did not return to it until the following afternoon.
She had taken the portrait to the Willoughby mansion and watched as her ladyship instructed a footman hold it up in one place after another in the main drawing room, undecided where it would look to best advantage. The obvious place was the wall over the Adam fireplace, but that already held a heavy gilt mirror; the fireplace recess was not light enough and the wall opposite the window too light; the sun shining upon it would spoil its colours.
‘Perhaps it should go in another room,’ Frances suggested when the footman had moved it for the fourth time and was looking decidedly bored with the task.
‘Oh, no, it must be in here. I want all my callers to see it. Perhaps I should have the mirror taken down…’
‘I think the heat from the chimney might crack the canvas in time, my lady.’
It was at this point Lord Willoughby arrived and, being asked his opinion, stroked his chin contemplatively and pointed to an empty space to one side of the room, well away from the fire. ‘Leave it on its easel and put it there.’
‘Not hang it?’ her ladyship queried. ‘Will it not look unfinished?’
‘No, why should it?’ He laughed
. ‘You can move it about as the fancy takes you. You might even start a fashion for displaying pictures on easels.’
Her ladyship clapped her hands in delight. ‘So I shall.’ She turned to Frances. ‘Dear Countess, can I prevail upon you to let me borrow your easel until we can procure one?’
‘Oh, you do not need to borrow it,’ Frances said, thinking about the fat fee she had only a few minutes before put into her reticule. ‘Have it with my compliments.’
‘I think I will cover it until everyone is here,’ Lady Willoughby said happily. ‘Then I can unveil it with a flourish. It is so good and will enhance your reputation even further, my dear Countess. How you manage to produce something so exactly to life I shall never know, for I was never any good at drawing when I was young.’
Frances stifled a chuckle; the picture was undoubtedly of Lady Willoughby, but a much slimmer Lady Willoughby than the one who faced her in the flesh—mounds of it. And the good lady could not see the difference. But surely her husband could and so would everyone else. Frances began to wonder, and not for the first time, if she was prostituting her art and ought to have more self-respect, when a footman announced the first of her ladyship’s guests.
They came in one by one, were greeted, asked to sit and plied with tea and little almond cakes. The easel stood covered by a tablecloth. Frances wished she could make her escape before the unveiling. She had never been happy publicising herself and her work, thinking it smacked of conceit. She was on the point of taking her leave when the Duke of Loscoe and Lady Lavinia were announced. She had been half out of her seat, but now sank back into it, feeling trapped.
He came into the room, entirely at ease even knowing that everyone was looking at him. He was dressed in a dark blue superfine coat with black buttons and a high collar. His cravat, in which glittered a diamond pin, testified to the attentions of a very good valet and his hair had obviously been cut by one of the haut monde’s best hairdressers. His long muscular legs were encased in pale blue pantaloons and tasselled Hessians. A concerted sigh escaped all the ladies except Frances, who refused to follow the pack.
He made his bow to his hostess. ‘My lady, your obedient.’
‘We are indeed honoured that you could attend our little gathering, your Grace,’ her ladyship simpered. ‘And this must be Lady Lavinia.’
‘It is indeed.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘Make your curtsy, Vinny.’
Lavinia did as she was told and even managed a smile as she murmured, ‘My lady.’
‘Now let me introduce you to everyone,’ Lady Willoughby said, and proceeded to conduct him round the room. He bowed to everyone, murmured polite nothings and moved on, followed by his daughter, whose smile was so fixed, Frances wondered what dire threat Marcus had made to produce it.
‘The Countess of Corringham,’ her ladyship said, suddenly looming large in Frances’s vision. ‘But I believe you are acquainted.’
‘Indeed.’ He bowed. ‘How do you do, Countess?’
She managed a smile, wondering if it looked as fixed as Lavinia’s. ‘I am very well, your Grace.’
‘The Countess is the reason for our little gathering,’ Lady Willoughby went on. ‘The guest of honour, you might say, excepting your good self, of course.’
‘Indeed?’ he said again, lifting a well-arched eyebrow at Frances, a gleam of humour lighting his dark eyes. It totally bewildered her. Had he forgotten? Or was he, like her, pretending nothing had ever happened between them? ‘I am sure it is well deserved.’
Lady Willoughby appeared not to notice as she turned away and clapped her hands for attention. ‘My friends,’ she said. ‘This is not a formal occasion, so there will be no speeches, but I particularly wanted you to be the first to see this.’ And with that, she tugged the cover off the portrait. ‘It is the most recent work of the Countess of Corringham.’
There was silence for about two seconds, two seconds in which Frances wished the floor would open up and swallow her, and then there was a burst of applause which was soon taken up by everyone, followed by a babble of conversation. ‘She has caught you to the life, Emma.’
‘The flesh tones are superb.’
‘You can pick out every individual hair.’
‘The hands are good too. Not everyone can portray hands.’
‘I am flattered,’ Frances said, rising to receive the plaudits. It brought her standing uncomfortably close to the Duke.
‘Flattered?’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Methinks it is you who do the flattering.’
‘Why not? It does no harm,’ she whispered back, trying to ignore the frisson of something she refused to identify that coursed through her at his nearness. Seventeen years fled away as if they had never been. Mentally she shook herself, reminding herself that water never flowed backwards.
‘I believe it harms you.’
‘Fustian!’ Just in time she stopped herself adding, ‘And what does it matter to you what I do?’ The last thing she wanted was a personal altercation with him.
‘Are you so in need of funds that you must produce insipid stuff like this?’ He nodded towards the portrait.
‘Lady Willoughby is delighted with it. And that means others…’
‘Will want to fling money at you too.’
‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘No, but I thought you had more spirit.’ He smiled at their hostess, who was bearing down upon them.
‘Lord Loscoe,’ she gushed. ‘What do you think? Is it not an excellent likeness?’
He bowed. ‘Oh, excellent,’ he said, ignoring Frances’s splutter of laughter at his duplicity. ‘Lady Corringham is indeed very talented.’
‘Have you ever sat for your portrait, my lord?’ her ladyship asked.
‘Not for very many years,’ he answered carefully. ‘It can be a very tedious business, and I have so little time for it.’
‘Ah, but now you are in town, you must surely have some leisure. I can thoroughly recommend her ladyship.’
‘Oh, please, Lady Willoughby,’ Frances put in. ‘You are putting me to the blush.’
‘Oh, you are far too old to be blushing,’ the woman said tactlessly, a statement which made the Duke chuckle. Frances felt colour flood her face, which only proved how wrong her ladyship was. ‘Now, my lord, you must come and talk to my other guests. And Felicity is dying to make the acquaintance of Lady Lavinia.’
He bowed to Frances. ‘My lady, your obedient.’ And then he was gone, followed by his daughter.
Frances watched his tall straight back moving away from her and then her attention was taken by other people who wanted to talk to her about having their portraits painted. She was kept busy for several minutes, making appointments to meet them again to talk about their requirements, and she did not see the Duke and his daughter leave. A few minutes later she left herself.
As a business exercise, the afternoon had been a great success, though she was left wondering why her ladyship was so enthusiastically promoting her. Did she think she needed the money? But she did, didn’t she? Every penny.
That evening she attended a concert arranged by Mrs Georgiana Butterworth in aid of the war orphans, one of her favourite charities, and enjoyed the music immensely. She had not given the Duke of Loscoe another thought and was taken aback to see him during the interval talking animatedly to one of the guests. He was wearing an evening suit of black cloth and a pristine white cravat, simple clothes, but superbly cut, she admitted to herself, while wondering if he was truly interested in war orphans or was simply doing the rounds in search of his new wife, though the company could hardly be classed as the haut monde and not one of the worthy ladies present seemed to qualify. They were either married, too old, or not from the upper echelons of Society and he would never marry so far beneath him, as he had proved seventeen years before.
It was some moments before he saw her and then his eyebrows rose in surprise as if she was the last person he had expected to see. He excused himself from the matron who was engaging
him in conversation and made his way over to her.
‘Countess, I had not anticipated seeing you again so soon.’
‘Nor I you. It is not a gathering I would have thought would interest you.’
‘Why not?’ he asked sharply. ‘The plight of children orphaned by war is a worthy cause and you must think so, too, or you would not be here.’
‘Indeed, I do.’
‘Then we have a mutual interest,’ he said.
She did not reply, and he looked quizzically at her. ‘Do you find that unacceptable, my lady?’ he asked softly.
‘What?’
‘That we are both interested in the orphans and wish to improve their lives.’
‘Not at all.’ She forced herself to ignore the swift beating of her heart. She was behaving like a lovesick schoolgirl and her thirty-five years old in a few weeks! ‘The more help they have the better. Some of them are in dire straits.’
‘Good. I should not like to think my presence in any way deterred you from your good work.’
‘Now why in heaven’s name should it?’ she retorted, her voice rising a fraction. She immediately dropped her tone to add in a hoarse whisper, ‘You are insufferably conceited, if you think that your presence or otherwise makes the slightest difference to me.’
‘Then I beg your pardon for my presumption.’
Mrs Butterworth joined them before she could answer. ‘I see you have made the acquaintance of the Duke,’ she said to Frances.
‘Oh, we are old sparring partners,’ Marcus said, a remark which sent Frances’s thoughts flying back to her studio and the painting of the pugilist. ‘We have not met these many years and were enjoying a coze about old times.’
‘How delightful! You must be gratified, my lady, that the Duke has joined our little band of subscribers. His name on the list will encourage others, do you not think?’
‘I am sure it will,’ she murmured.
‘We are looking for a good property to give some of them a temporary home until we can find new permanent homes for them,’ the lady told him, while Frances surreptitiously studied his face for signs of boredom and found none. But then he was always good at pretending. ‘At present they are housed in a dilapidated tenement in Monmouth Street, but the lease is running out, so we must find something more substantial and comfortable very soon.’