by Amanda Scott
The sardonic tone was not lost on the Beau, whose gaze glittered even more. But something in Landover’s expression brought a reluctant smile to his lips. “Have a care, my lord. My day is not yet done. I could indeed supply you with a telling phrase or two; yet, methinks you’ll do well enough on that score unaided. I’ve no doubt the lad’s ears will ring ere you have done with him.”
They parted company soon afterward, and Gillian’s curiosity was well and truly piqued. At first opportunity, she drew Mrs. Periwinkle aside.
“Pray, ma’am, what was all that?”
Mrs. Periwinkle shook her head. “That dreadful boy! Surely, Mr. Brummell thinks it was a calculated insult.”
“Because Avery refused his snuff to Mr. Willoby? But how on earth could such an action have anything to do with Mr. Brummell?”
“Well may you ask, child. But you are not conversant as I am with the babbling gossip of court circles. Not long since did Mr. Brummell make that same comment when the Bishop of Winchester helped himself to a pinch of his snuff. Indeed, Mr. Brummell actually called his servant and ordered him to pitch the rest on the fire, since it had been contaminated.”
“A bishop! How rude of him!” Gillian was horrified.
“Hung himself in his own straps, too, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Periwinkle added, “since Prinny himself was present at the time. It is said that he gave the Beau a royal wigging for his rudeness. Which is no doubt what Landover, naughty fellow, was referring to when he asked the Beau what he should say to Sir Avery.”
“But I’m quite sure Avery never meant to insult Mr. Brummell!” Gillian exclaimed. “Why, the man is very nearly his hero. You know he is! Avery strives to dress, speak, even act like him. Oh!”
“Indeed,” smiled Mrs. Periwinkle. “He has succeeded only too well in acting like him. But even Mr. Brummell was not allowed to behave so rudely with impunity.” She frowned thoughtfully. “You know, my dear, Sir Avery could do no better than to match Mr. Brummell’s elegance of attire, but to copy his social manner would be a grave mistake, to my way of thinking.”
“Yes, indeed,” Gillian agreed. “Why, Mr. Brummell makes a habit of rudeness.”
Mrs. Periwinkle seemed perfectly ready to launch into a nice gossip on the subject, but Gillian’s attention was claimed for the Scottish reel that was just beginning. Her partner was one of the young men whose acquaintance she had made within the past three weeks, and he was slightly intoxicated, which fact she thought might be partially to blame for his rather forward manner with her. He flirted; indeed, he leered. His grip on her arm when the pattern of the dance brought them together was familiar, even lingering. And when the moment came for them to whirl their way down the corridor made by the other couples, he literally lifted her from the floor.
“Oh, Mr. Wakely!” she gasped when she could catch her breath again. “You really are too physical, sir! Nothing but minuets for you after this!”
“Nonsense, Miss Harris,” he breathed close to her face, brandy fumes wafting gently under her nose. “A brisk trot clears the head and exercises the heart. And, oh, my heart, Miss Harris!” He leered again.
“Will you introduce your friend, my dear?”
Gillian jumped at the sound of the harsh voice. Turning, she discovered Landover looming over her, his gimlet gaze impaling young Wakely.
“This is Mr. Wakely, Landover,” she said, oddly breathless. “And this is the Marquis of Landover, sir.”
“A marquis, eh?” Mr. Wakely beamed vacuously. “You in the running, too, my lord?”
“I beg your pardon.” Landover spoke blightingly, but he might have spared himself the trouble. Wakely was far too insulated to notice his tone.
“The running,” he explained carefully. “Y’ know—the Harris Heiress stakes! Bein’ a marquis gives you an edge, I daresay, but win, place, or show makes no never-mind to me. Don’t need the guineas m’self. Well heeled. But the little filly’s worth the race, whatever, doncha know.”
Gillian stiffened with dismay and opened her mouth to correct Mr. Wakely’s mistaken notions. But Landover spoke first.
“There are no stakes to be won, sir. Miss Harris is under my protection.”
“What! Already? Quick work, my lord. And just to show there’s no hard feelings, here’s my hand on it.” And to Gillian’s outraged astonishment, he actually seemed to expect Landover to accept a congratulatory fist. Suddenly, the whole incident seemed ludicrous. She stifled a giggle.
“It is not as you seem to think, you young cur,” Landover said angrily. “I am Miss Harris’s trustee, not her … her …”
“He is not my lover, Mr. Wakely,” Gillian put in helpfully. “Nor my betrothed. He has merely taken it into his head that I need looking after.”
“That will do, Miss Harris.” The tone was such that she subsided obediently. “Good evening, Wakely. I trust Miss Harris will not be annoyed by any further attentions from you.”
This time his tone sliced through even the brandy. Young Mr. Wakely reddened perceptibly. “No, my lord. As you say, my lord. Not me, sir.” He turned rather too abruptly upon his heel and stumbled against a corpulent gentleman following in the wake of a regal dame. “Beg pardon,” muttered Mr. Wakely wretchedly. Then, bethinking himself of another detail, he turned back to Landover. “Want I should pass the word, my lord?”
“By all means,” was the damping reply.
Gillian, her eye upon Mr. Wakely’s careful progress, let a tiny chuckle escape as she turned back to Landover. The sound froze in her throat, however, when she encountered blazing fury in those hazel eyes.
“My lord?”
Her voice was tiny. She tried to clear her throat, but he took her hand, clamped it down upon his forearm, and drew her inexorably from the dance floor toward a group of chairs, temporarily vacant, against the nearest wall.
“Sit.” She sat. At first he seemed about to deliver his lecture standing, but with a quick glance around the crowded ballroom, he thought better of it and took the chair to her left, growling, “That is exactly the sort of behavior I had hoped my presence would deter, Miss Harris.”
“But how was I to know? He seemed all right when he asked me to dance, and I’ve danced with him often since I came to London. He’s perfectly harmless, my lord.”
“That remains to be seen,” he retorted grimly. “As to how you should have known, that is the precise reason for having a chaperone. And don’t try to flim-flam me by pretending Amelia Periwinkle approved Mr. Wakely for a partner. She would have noticed his condition straightaway.”
“But she was right beside—” Belatedly, Gillian realized she had not so much as glanced at her companion before accepting Mr. Wakely’s invitation. Her cheeks flamed, and she found it difficult to meet Landover’s steady look.
“Just so. At least you do not prevaricate, Miss Harris. That must always be accounted in your favor. Nevertheless, henceforward, you shall dance with no one who has not been formally approved by Amelia Periwinkle or myself. Is that absolutely understood?”
“I am not a child, Landover,” she grated between clenched teeth. “I can look after myself. I can even handle the Mr. Wakelys of this world, and I should vastly prefer to do so by myself. I cannot like having my every step overlooked.”
“And the ‘Harris Heiress stakes’? Can you handle those as well, my dear?” There had been a touch of sarcasm in the first few words, but at her stricken look, his tone gentled. Now he laid his hand comfortingly upon hers. “Do not look so distressed, child. And don’t glare at me for calling you so. You may be of an age to become a matron lady, and you may have done a great many things in the past three weeks or even before that in Sussex, but you are still a child in experience. And it is my duty, whether either of us likes it or not, to protect you from yourself as well as from others who might do you harm.”
“Who could do me harm, sir?” Gillian demanded in a last-ditch effort. “I am not a ninnyhammer. I do not hop into shabby coaches with strange men, nor do I meet w
ould-be lovers at romantic rendezvous at midnight in the manner of a literary heroine.”
“But you do go to Vauxhall Gardens with only a young jackstraw for protection,” he retorted.
“We have already picked that bone, my lord!” she protested indignantly.
“So we have,” he agreed ruefully, “and I for one detest having my past errors constantly flung in my face. I cry pardon. Forgive me?”
It quite took the wind out of her sails. It was as though she had girded for battle only to have her foe suddenly and without warning throw down his arms. “I forgive you,” she replied gruffly, but she watched him warily, never having sparred with anyone quite like him before. She couldn’t believe he had simply capitulated.
Nor had he. He patted her hand. “I shall want your word that you will make proper use of your chaperone, my dear. And once I have it, I think we should find my sister. She will be dashed unpleasant later if we fail to do the pretty.”
“Can you not trust me, my lord? I would promise to be more careful.”
“I know you would,” he admitted. “But you are not yet up to snuff, and I admit candidly that this ‘Harris Heiress’ business worries me. I had heard nothing about it before, which means it has not yet reached White’s betting book. But I dare not let it escalate. Once there are heavy wagers laid, anything might happen. On the other hand, if it is seen that you are under my strictest protection, it should scotch matters before they get out of hand.”
Gillian stared at him in astonishment. “You can’t mean that someone might attempt to abduct me!”
“I mean exactly that. It has happened before, and will no doubt happen again. But not to you. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
She could not believe that such a thing might be possible, but she could tell from the set of his jaw that further argument would be useless. Consequently, she allowed him to lead her to his sister. Mrs. Periwinkle had already joined Lady Harmoncourt, and the two were deep in conversation when Landover and Gillian approached.
“Landover, how nice to see you,” her ladyship observed dryly, extending a plump, beringed hand in his general direction. He bowed over it obediently.
“Abigail, you are looking well. That gown suits you.”
“It does, does it not,” she agreed with a complacent look down the length of clinging emerald silk. “Claudette Moray did it. I expect her real name is Ethel Quince, or something equally common,” she added in a caustic aside to Mrs. Periwinkle, “but she is handy with a needle, and her designs are all the rage just now. I must say,” she went on with another glance downward, “she does know how to display one’s assets to advantage.”
It was true. Lady Harmoncourt was no longer the slender beauty who had taken London by storm at her coming-out, but she was by no means decrepit either. Her skin was still glowingly translucent, and a good deal of it was revealed by Mademoiselle Moray’s creation. Her breasts were high, plump, and edged in Alençon lace. Her arms, still firm if a trifle rounder than they had been in those earlier, golden days, emerged triumphantly from tiny puffed sleeves that many of her contemporaries, in Gillian’s opinion, might well have envied. And if the rest of her body was unable to compete, Mademoiselle Moray had disguised the fact admirably amidst cunning folds and draperies of the shimmering green silk. With her abundant chestnut hair piled atop her head and a magnificent emerald collar encircling her throat, Lady Harmoncourt presented an ideal advertisement for her dressmaker’s expertise.
“Ah, here is Sybilla,” her ladyship pronounced unnecessarily as an ethereal blonde in sprigged muslin approached, accompanied by a young gentleman who promptly made his bow and effaced himself. Sybilla curtsied to her uncle. “You will no doubt wish to dance with your niece, Landover,” her ladyship pronounced grandly. “Give him your card, Sybilla.”
“Oh, but …” The blonde, smiling shyly, seemed reluctant to relinquish her card. Glancing at it, Landover eyed his niece a bit searchingly. Her color heightened, and she looked nervously at her mother.
“Well, what are you waiting for, Benjamin?” Lady Harmoncourt demanded. “Her next partner will soon be along.”
Landover smiled at Sybilla and returned the card. “Your daughter is too popular, ma’am. Johnny-Come-Lately can’t sign where there is no space. I shall have to make do with Miss Harris’s card. Hand it over, Miss Harris. The next dance is a waltz, and in my new role as protector-general, I cannot in good conscience allow you to engage in such low activity with anyone but myself.”
Gillian obediently handed him her card, but not before she noted the look of gratitude cast him by his niece.
V
“WAS HER CARD REALLY full?” Gillian asked as Landover swung her into the dance.
“No,” he chuckled, “but I’m not so green as to fail to recognize wishful thinking when I come across it. There were two blank spaces, but our Lady Sybilla was clearly hoping for one particular name to occupy those spaces, and I fear it was not mine. I’d not be much of an uncle were I to dash such romantical hopes.”
“Well, I’ve no notion who it might be,” Gillian replied dampingly. “She’s said nothing whatever to me about any special beau. I think you must be all about in your head, sir. She merely didn’t wish to dance with you.”
“Attempting to depress my pretensions, Miss Harris?” he gibed. “And what of yourself? Do you object to dancing with her?”
“Since you asked me to dance with you only to prevent my dancing with anyone else, the question is hardly a fair one,” she retorted. He promptly whirled her into an intricate pattern of steps that necessitated her complete concentration, but when she could think again, she realized he had not pressed her for an answer, and that it was just as well for her own self-respect that he had not. For she thoroughly enjoyed dancing with him, although she would not have told him so for a wilderness of monkeys. He held her firmly and guided her steps with recognizable expertise, but it was not that alone which made the experience a pleasurable one. It was more that they seemed to fit, that she felt comfortable with him. Now that she came to think of it, even when he infuriated her, she still felt as though she had known him forever. It was not at all as though she had been scolded by a total stranger. And yet, before that morning, to all intents and purposes, that was precisely what Landover had been to her. It was all very odd, very odd indeed.
They parted company after that dance, and though she was aware of his gaze upon her from time to time, they did not meet again until their carriage was due. Consequently, Miss Harris returned to Landover House in perfect charity with her host. Unfortunately, that state of affairs was short-lived.
The following day, Landover presented himself in the drawing room with the first of her morning callers. He exerted himself to be genial, but nevertheless, his very presence could only cast a damper. And when she announced that an invitation had arrived as promised for her to drink tea with the Princess Charlotte the following day, Landover made it quite clear that he expected Mrs. Periwinkle to accompany her, despite the fact that the invitation had been addressed to Gillian alone.
“You’re being positively Gothic, Landover!” she protested.
“Be that as it may, it is perfectly proper for your chaperone to accompany you, and I insist that she do so. I do not want you striking up an intimate friendship with Charlotte.”
Gillian’s reply to that was an exasperated and very unladylike snort, but he was adamant, and so it was that the two ladies were ushered into the elegantly appointed drawing room at Warwick House the following day.
The princess professed herself delighted to see them both and behaved as naturally as any ordinary hostess. But Gillian was astonished by the number of ladies-in-waiting deemed necessary for the comfort of a royal princess and realized that even without Landover’s warning, it would have been difficult to lay any real foundation for an intimate relationship. Nonetheless, she and Mrs. Periwinkle thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Gillian was particularly gratified, Landover’s orders notwith
standing, when the princess took advantage of a moment while Mrs. Periwinkle’s attention was diverted to plead with her to return another day, alone, so that they might enjoy a comfortable gossip together.
“Or perhaps we might meet at Catherine’s hotel,” she suggested, stroking the elegant little crop-eared greyhound curled up at her side. “It would be much less formal.”
“I should adore to, your highness,” Gillian responded sincerely, smiling when the little white dog nudged the princess’s hand with its nose, “but it might prove to be difficult. My trustee—Landover, you know—does not wish me to cultivate an acquaintance with her grace.” The subject had not actually come up since the de Lievens’ rout, but she doubted that Landover would give his blessing to any sort of meeting with the Grand Duchess Oldenburg.
Charlotte grinned conspiratorially. “I, too, am hemmed about by those who would seek to deny me simple pleasures, Miss Harris. But we shall contrive to confound them, you and I. I think you are not a faintheart, and I am only just learning to fight for what I want. We shall be friends, I believe, despite those who would order it otherwise.”
With Mrs. Periwinkle’s eye once more upon them, Gillian was spared the necessity of replying to this extraordinary statement, but she could not help feeling flattered by the princess’s desire for her friendship. Besides, she liked Charlotte. One way or another, she decided, she would find a means to defy Landover’s unfair restrictions.
Her determination became even stronger in the days that followed, when he continued to oversee her every move. It seemed almost as though she could do nothing without his presence. Even a morning ride in the park found him at her side in place of her groom. She could not, in good conscience, pretend she disliked his company; nonetheless, she would have preferred to have less of it. The final straw came one evening when, having honored three separate routs and a dinner party with their presence, Landover, Mrs. Periwinkle, and Gillian found themselves at Harmoncourt House as her ladyship’s guests for a musical evening. Despite a collection of fine talent, the performers were nevertheless amateurs, and Gillian soon found herself fidgeting. Mrs. Periwinkle glanced at her reprovingly, and Landover picked that moment to lean forward apologetically.