Her Fateful Debut: A Regency Romance (Three Gentlemen of London Book 1)
Page 20
Lady Clarice, dressed in her usual flowing garments, secured his arm. “I see that you have met the excellent Mrs. Blakeley. Now you must meet our teachers.”
The drawing room was large and decorated by the holder of an enthusiastic taste that had ensured every square inch of wall be covered in paintings. There were so many chairs and sofas that there was barely room for the four ladies who stood in a circle in the middle of the room.
He approached slowly, listening for snatches of conversation, a maneuver that had served him well among the ton when nearing groups of females.
Her back to him, a tall woman, nearly his height, with shiny deep brown hair dressed in a plain bun twisted on top of her head, was saying, “I am very glad they are to be taught a trade. It is unfortunate that females in our own class are in large part taught only what they need to know to attract a husband, thereby supposedly obtaining fulfillment and security for the rest of their lives.”
“But then you admire Mary Woolstonecraft,” said a petite blonde with a winsome face and figure. Her words were spoken evenly and without evident guile. Perhaps this was Sophie’s friend, Miss Whitcombe. He hoped so. She was very comely and seemed amenable.
“No,” said the tall woman. “You forget. She is a hypocrite. She married when she said she would not. She gave in.”
“And is marriage such a deplorable state?” asked Shrewsbury as he joined their circle.
Lady Clarice made a clucking sound and intervened in the conversation to make introductions. It transpired that the curvy blonde was a Miss Hilliard, who was to teach deportment. It was she who answered his question, “Not at all, my lord. Am I right in assuming that you are the initiator of the idea for the orphanage?”
He gave a bow. “You are correct, though you have yet to meet many of the wealthier patrons who made my dream possible. Are you looking forward to your new position?”
She smiled. “I imagine that teaching these girls will be quite a challenge. But I am up to it, I believe.”
Lady Clarice next introduced Miss Flynn, a plain female with a bit of a squint, who said, “I will teach speech and reading to the youngest girls.”
Shrewsbury privately thought that a worse example of charm and charisma could not have been found and wondered at Lady Clarice’s choice.
Miss Flynn added, “I will also teach voice to those who wish to learn to sing.”
An uncomfortable inner nudge told him he was too quick to judge. After all, these were not potential partners at a ball. They were serious teachers.
A slender, graceful redhead was introduced as Miss Jackson. “I will teach the homemaking arts, which, unlike Miss Whitcombe, I do not hold in contempt.”
“You would do so if you had been compelled to keep house for seven brothers and sisters,” said the remaining young woman, whom he now deduced to be Sophie’s acquaintance, the vicar’s daughter. Indeed, Lady Clarice presented her as Miss Whitcombe.
As she turned to face Christian, her beauty smote him at once. Smoky grey eyes smoldered as they surveyed him above the most beautiful mouth he had ever seen. Large, full, and velvety pink, it was set in a perfect oval face. “Lady Clarice,” she said, “I beg your pardon, but I prefer to be addressed merely as Miss Bouvier. In this new post, I should like to go by my mother’s name, not my father’s.”
Attempting to stifle the attraction he felt, Christian told himself he would be wise to remember this beauty was an out-and-out feminist. She had condemned poor Mary Woolstonecraft, the foremost advocate of women’s rights, for marrying. Annoyed with Sophie for not mentioning the woman’s radical views, he said in his most silken voice, “Ah, yes. Your mother is French, I believe. I recall that Lady Trowbridge said you were the daughter of a noble émigré? Was your mother not known by her father’s name?”
She raised her chin and looked at him, a challenge in her deep gray eyes.
He smiled. “Unless you wish to be known only by your first name, you cannot escape being known by the name of some man.”
She raised the corner of her mouth in a half smile. “Perhaps I should invent a surname. I suppose Hodge would do as well as any other. Would you care to refer to me as Miss Hodge?”
“Miss Hodge it is,” he said with a grin. Taking her hand, he raised it and bowed over it. Though she wore gloves, he felt a thrill run from his fingertips up his arm to his heart.
By Jove, she would take the ton by storm. What a shame her position in life dictates that she be beneath my serious interest.
“Now, ladies, I believe that your excellent hostess has prepared the highest of teas. I will wager she has even obtained Devonshire cream.”
“I adore Devonshire cream!” The tall goddess smiled her full smile.
He was nearly shattered by the sight. Swiftly turning to the others, he said, “I feel I should offer someone an arm, but with four such ladies as you are, I would not want to offend by leaving anyone out. I will simply follow you to the tea table.”
To his discomfiture, during tea the conversation focused on him.
“Lord Shrewsbury, you are a Whig, I think?” Miss “Hodge” asked.
“I am.”
“What is your opinion of Voltaire?” she asked.
“I believe the man to have been very impressed by England, in comparison to his native land, so of course he is dear to my heart.”
“But in neither country are women recognized as people of any particular consequence.”
He should have expected the conversation to go in this direction. What an irritating needle-wit she was! “I hold women in a position of great consequence. Without them, the generations would cease. Life would not go on.”
“You think of us as breeding stock?” Miss Whitcombe-Hodge’s nostrils flared.
“No more so than men,” he said calmly.
Miss Flynn intervened. “Are you fond of music, my lord?”
“Very fond, as a matter of fact. My closest friend recently married a woman who is an accomplished violinist. So it happens that I have become very enamored of the violin. As a matter of fact, these friends have gone to meet Herr van Beethoven in Vienna. Are you fond of Beethoven, Miss Flynn?”
“I am! But I am particularly attached to Bach’s piano concertos. They are so . . . I don’t know. They put my world right somehow. Do you think we might have a piano at the school, my lord? Music is such a civilizing influence.”
“I think that is a splendid idea. I will see to it.”
Mrs. Blakeley’s cook had made scones that melted in the mouth. She also had acquired Devonshire cream, along with raspberry preserves, they all discovered with no small amount of coos and delight. Shrewsbury thought he saw a naughty small girl looking out of Hélène’s eyes for just a moment, as she surreptitiously stuck a cream-laden finger into her mouth.
“Is this not a fine tea?” he asked. “Mrs. Blakeley, you are to be commended.”
All the women agreed graciously. The stout woman blushed. “You are too kind.”
Miss Flynn said, “I have never seen Whitcombe enjoy anything quite so whole-heartedly.”
The feminist’s color rose. She bit her bottom lip, then straightening, she said, “Do you know, if I were a man, and allowed to sit Parliament, I would be a Radical.” She looked at him with those enticing smoky eyes and he read a challenge there. She smiled one-sidedly, obviously having regained her aplomb. “I should extend the voting franchise to include not only men who are not property holders, but women, as well.”
Shrewsbury felt he should have been prepared for this. “You are a Utopian, I see. An idealist.”
“Merely taking the Enlightenment forward to its natural end. I feel certain Voltaire would have agreed with me.”
“You are very fond of Voltaire.”
“My papa knew him. I have studied his essays, his poetry, his plays. He was a brilliant man.”
“So were Bentham and Locke, other voices of the Enlightenment.” Helping himself to another scone, he spread preserves upon it. “Sha
ll you be espousing your ‘enlightened’ ideas to these orphan girls? I am afraid that would be a bit beyond them, you know. They are hungry and ignorant. Until they have been filled, clothed, and educated, such things will be of no interest to them whatsoever.” Christian knew a moment’s satisfaction.
The goddess’s face fell and she made a delightful moue. “You are most likely correct,” she said. “’Tis a pity.”
Miss Hilliard spoke up. “Whatever do you want with the vote, Whitcombe? Women have enough to do, what with raising children, running the home, and making ends meet.”
Miss Jackson and Miss Flynn agreed. This began an uncomfortable argument. Lady Clarice finally spoke up. “Ladies, if you have finished your tea, we shall repair to the school and look over the final preparations.”
Lord Shrewsbury brought the pink linen napkin to his mouth. She is a feisty one. It could prove interesting to teach a firebrand like Hélène Whitcombe to rejoice in her femininity.
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About the Author
I realize that I am one of those rare people in the world who gets to live a life full of passion, suspense, angst, fulfillment, humor, and mystery. I am a writer. Everyday when I sit down to my computer, I enter into world of my own making. I am in the head of a panoply of characters ranging from a nineteen year-old Austrian debutante (The Last Waltz) to a raging psychopath (The Arthurian Omen) and four women at once in The Only Way to Paradise. Then there are the sassy heroines of my Regency romances . . .
How did this come about? I think I was wired to be a writer when I was born. There were a lot of things about my surroundings that I couldn’t control during my growing up years, so I retreated to whatever alternate existence I was creating. The habit stuck, and now my family finds themselves living in my current reality during dinnertime as I overflow with enthusiasm about Wales, Austria, Italy, Regency England, or World War II.
Formerly a traditionally published, award-winning author, I went Indie in 2012. In that time I have become an Amazon #1 best-selling author of Regency romances. I enjoy genre-hopping, having published a genealogical mystery series, two women’s fiction novels, three historical romances, two suspense novels, ten Regency romances, and a couple of non-fiction offerings.
With a BA from Stanford and an MA from George Washington University in International Relations, I somehow stumbled into finance. I worked for the Treasurer at Harvard, the Bond Analyst at Fidelity, and an International Banker at Continental Bank in Chicago. I have also taught at a number of colleges throughout my career. But, once my husband was through law school, I never wanted to do anything but write and raise kids. Now the kids are gone, but (even better) there are six grandchildren who provide my rewards for finishing a manuscript.
Aside from the grandchildren, my favorite things include: Florence, Italy; snow storms; Oreos; real hot chocolate; sweaters; Sundance Resort; lilacs; and dachshunds.