by M C Beaton
Peregrine’s face uncreased, but he still clutched Lucy’s hand tightly. “With her?” he demanded.
“Her name is Miss Lucy Bliss, and I am sure Miss Bliss does not want to be saddled with a whining brat.” Peregrine’s face began to fold up again and Lucy said, “I was going to see the jewels in any case. Come along, Peregrine, but you really must not cry to get what you want, you know. The Tower is full of brave soldiers, and what on earth will they think of you? Why, they will think, that is not a boy at all, but a girl.”
Peregrine threw her a horrified look and then squared his small shoulders, released her hand, and strutted ahead with what he obviously thought was a martial air. The duke looked amused. He held out his arm to Lucy. “Shall we accompany the brat, Miss Bliss? We do not want him to run away again.”
Lucy gingerly placed her hand on his arm and they moved ahead, Feathers and the footman following on behind. “Is… is Peregrine yours?” whispered Lucy.
“No, Miss Bliss. As far as I am aware, I do not have children. What a naughty mind you do have! Fie, for shame. Do you remember Mr. Rufus Graham?”
Lucy nodded.
“Peregrine is his godson. In a weak moment I offered to entertain him and have been regretting it bitterly ever since. Do you usually ask gentlemen about their by-blows?”
Lucy stumbled in her embarrassment, and he put a strong arm about her waist to support her, and the feel of that arm caused all sorts of new and strange sensations in her body. She quickly disengaged herself as Peregrine shouted, “Hurry up!”
Peregrine was enchanted by the jewels, and Lucy, watching the duke holding the boy up to get a better view, wondered at his tolerance, for she was beginning to understand that Peregrine was sadly spoilt.
They then went together out into the sunshine. “Wannanice,” said Peregrine, dancing up and down.
“What did he say?” asked Lucy.
“Translated,” said the duke, “it means he wants an ice. No, Peregrine. Home.”
The child turned quite purple in the face with rage, and Lucy stared in amazement as Peregrine leapt up and down and shrieked in a piercing voice.
“Stop!” shouted Lucy. “Just stop this minute, young man. You are a disgrace to the gentlemen of England. Look at the soldiers laughing at you. There is nothing more tedious than the tantrums of a spoilt brat. Stop it, I say.”
Peregrine stopped in midshriek and stood looking up at her in comical bewilderment. “Much better,” said Lucy. “Now you will go home quietly to your mama, and you will behave yourself. Do you understand me?”
Peregrine hung his head, and his straw topper fell off, revealing a thatch of auburn curls. Lucy retrieved the topper and put it firmly on his head. “Now, quick march.”
“I am deeply indebted to you,” said the duke with a smile that seemed to turn Lucy’s bones to water. “Perhaps we shall meet again.”
“That I doubt very much,” said Lucy. “Good day to you. Come, Feathers; come, John.”
The duke watched her walk away and experienced a tinge of regret. Lucy was wearing a simple morning gown, high at the neck and with long sleeves. On her head was a wide-brimmed hat, untrimmed, shadowing her face. She moved lightly and with grace. He felt a pang of pity for her, quickly dismissed. The resolute Lucy Bliss, he thought, was in her way more than a match for her mother.
Peregrine, unusually subdued, clutched the duke’s hand as they walked into the main courtyard. Miss Lucy Bliss was standing by her carriage addressing her two servants, and her voice reached the duke’s ears very clearly.
“Now, remember,” Lucy was saying severely, “we did not meet the Duke of Wardshire, for if Mama knew of the encounter, she would use it to try to coerce him into calling. Think what a disaster for poor Belinda if he married her! With any luck, we will never see him again. In fact, I hope I never see him again.”
Oh, she does, does she? thought the duke crossly. He thought about that remark as he delivered Peregrine home. He thought about it as he walked to his club. And then he decided that Miss Lucy Bliss needed to be taught a lesson. He would call once, just for the sheer hell of irritating her, and would appear interested in Belinda. Then let Lucy Bliss try to cope with that!
Mrs. Bliss was in high alt. She had secured vouchers for Almack’s Assembly Rooms for both daughters. This she had done by calling on one of the formidable patronesses, Mrs. Drummond Burrell, when that lady had the headache. Mrs. Bliss was unsnubbable. She had talked and talked, saying there was no need to send the vouchers through the post, she would just take them with her, and the patroness ended up giving them to her, just to get rid of that hammering voice.
Society soon got to hear of Mrs. Bliss’s triumph and could hardly believe it. But through the grapevine they knew the duke was in town and had not called on the Bliss household. And had not Mrs. Tommy Watkins heard Mr. Rufus Graham talk about Mrs. Bliss’s visit to Sarsey, and had he not said that the duke had been horrified by Mrs. Bliss? So, stunned as they were by Mrs. Bliss’s success with the Almack’s vouchers, they nonetheless waited gleefully for her downfall.
The fact that the duke was in town and had not called was beginning to irritate Mrs. Bliss, although she did not discuss the matter with her daughters. She sent the duke letters telling him that Belinda was pining for him; she sent him presents of hothouse grapes and chocolates, just as if he were ill, and the duke sent them back. The first ball of the Season was looming perilously close. It was at Lord Harby’s in St. James’s Square. Everyone knew Wardshire had accepted an invitation to that ball. Mrs. Bliss knew her hopes would be ruined if he cut her in front of everyone.
She was just wondering whether to manufacture an illness to prevent her going when her butler came in with an embossed card on a silver tray. Mrs. Bliss picked it up wearily. She was starting to say crossly that she was not up to seeing anyone when the Duke of Wardshire’s name in curly script seemed to shriek up at her. She clutched her heart and gasped. “Oh, my stars! Fan me, ye winds! Belinda! Get Feathers. Finest gown. Pink sprig with the four flounces. Quick! Quick! Show His Grace up.”
As the duke was standing patiently in the hall and listening with an amused ear to all the frantic bustle abovestairs, a small gray man emerged from a room leading onto the hall and gave him a bow.
“Mr. Bliss at your service,” said the gray man.
“And Wardshire, at yours,” said the duke, returning the bow.
“Wardshire!” exclaimed Mr. Bliss in ludicrous dismay. “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” He backed into the room whence he had come, and then there was a click as Mr. Bliss locked himself in.
The butler appeared, and the duke followed him upstairs to a drawing room on the first floor. He was served with wine and told that the ladies would join him presently. So the duke sipped his wine and listened with relish to the continuing sounds of panic which were filtering down from abovestairs.
At last Mrs. Bliss appeared, shepherding Belinda before her. Behind them came Lucy, her wide eyes meeting those of the duke with a message of appeal. He knew she did not want him to mention that meeting at the Tower, and fought down a malicious desire not to oblige her.
“Your Grace!” Mrs. Bliss advanced on him as he rose to his feet. “We are honored. Girls. Make your curtsies.”
“I heard you were in London,” said the duke smoothly, “and am come to pay my respects,” just as if he had never received any of those gifts or letters from Mrs. Bliss.
“Charmed,” fluttered Mrs. Bliss. “Belinda, do but fetch your portfolio of watercolors to show His Grace.”
Belinda found her voice. “I am not the artist of the family. Lucy is.”
“Such modesty!” trilled Mrs. Bliss. The duke eyed Belinda speculatively as she went to fetch her portfolio. She was indeed a vastly pretty girl and appeared to have a sweet nature. But even with a more bearable mother, he could not consider her as a possible bride. She was barely out of the schoolroom. As Mrs. Bliss talked on, about the weather, about fashions, and about social tittle-
tattle, he turned his attention to Lucy. She had not curled her hair the night before and it was almost straight, fine as a baby’s, silver-fair, giving her an elfin appearance. He found himself intrigued by the strength of character he suspected lay under that fey exterior. Belinda shyly brought forward her drawings. He glanced through them. They were neat watercolors, fairly well executed, nothing out of the common way. But he praised them lavishly, feeling that if he did not, then Mrs. Bliss might make her younger daughter’s life a misery by inflicting long and tedious art lessons on her. Belinda thanked him and took the portfolio away and then came back with another. “These are Lucy’s,” she said. “I think them very fine.”
Ignoring Mrs. Bliss’s protests that he could not possibly want to see Lucy’s “little scribblings,” the duke opened the portfolio. They were very good indeed and not at all like the drawings and watercolors of a young society lady. At the top were a few conventional watercolors that he immediately felt sure Lucy had done to please her mother. Underneath them he came across some powerful sketches in India ink: an ostler flirting with a serving girl, a child with a hoop, an old beggar, and at the bottom, one that made him draw in a sharp breath. “I will take this to the light,” he said, and walked over to the window while Lucy, flushed and miserable, stared after him in an agony of embarrassment.
The picture portrayed Belinda holding hands with the Duke of Wardshire. Tears were running down Belinda’s half-averted face. The duke, although correct in morning dress, sported a neat pair of horns and a tail. Before them stood a large and triumphant Mrs. Bliss, her chubby arms raised in a blessing. Behind the duke and Belinda stood Mr. Bliss, reading a book. It was captioned: “A Mother’s Blessing.”
The duke swung round. Lucy clasped her hands in supplication, her large eyes wide with fright.
“You seem vastly interested in that picture of Lucy’s,” said Mrs. Bliss. “Let me see it, Your Grace.”
“’Tis nothing but a little watercolor, but it pleases me,” said the duke. He rolled it up. “May I have it, Miss Bliss?”
“By all means,” said Lucy faintly, frightened to protest.
“Well, there’s no denying Lucy is the clever one of the family,” said Mrs. Bliss. “Too much intelligence by half. A sad disadvantage, and the gentlemen never like it. Will you be at the Harbys’ ball?”
“Yes,” said the duke.
“How nice for Belinda,” commented Mrs. Bliss complacently.
He wished he had not come. He bowed slightly without replying and made toward the door.
“Never say you are leaving us so soon!” Mrs. Bliss almost looked as if she were going to bar his way.
“I am afraid I must.”
“Then we shall see you at the ball. Belinda dances like an angel.” Again that brief bow and then he was gone.
He was angry, thought Lucy. He’ll never forgive me. She wanted to shout at Belinda for having shown her paintings, but poor Belinda had not seen that last painting, so she could hardly be blamed.
When she finally managed to speak to Belinda alone, Belinda listened to Lucy tell of that picture and then began to giggle helplessly.
“It is not funny,” said Lucy. “He was furious. Mark my words, he took it away so that he could destroy it at the first opportunity. Why are you laughing?”
“Don’t you see?” Belinda mopped her eyes. “I was quite cast down when I heard he had called, for I feared he might want me after all. But now he has seen my dear sister’s portrayal of him as the devil, he will have nothing more to do with either of us.”
Lucy gave a reluctant grin. “Why is it you, the younger sister, have such common sense? You have the right of it. Good-bye forever, dear Duke of Wardshire!”
“You what?” exclaimed Mr. Graham.
The duke stretched out his long legs toward the fire. “You heard. I called on La Bliss.”
“What were you about to encourage that pretentious mushroom?”
“A whim, and I was well punished for it.”
“I am sure you were. Did she deafen you with her vulgar, hectoring voice?”
“I expected that. No, it was not that, dear Rufus, which was the punishment. Rather it was the artistic efforts of Miss Lucy Bliss.”
“The plain one.”
“I would hardly describe her as plain. Her looks are less obvious than those of her sister.” He reached down beside his chair and lifted up Lucy’s drawing, carefully unrolled it, and handed it to Mr. Graham.
“The minx!” he gasped. “But you must admit it is very good. She has you to the life.”
“Complete with horns and tail?”
“You can hardly blame her for that,” said Mr. Graham reasonably. “After all, you have spent years in fostering your vile reputation. What are you going to do with it? Burn it?”
The duke took the drawing from him and looked down at it thoughtfully. “I think I shall frame it. It amuses me.”
“There’s one thing for sure,” said Mr. Graham. “The Bliss girls don’t want you. A new experience for you.” He gave a little cough and, throwing the duke a sideways look, said airily, “You will never guess who I met in the park.”
“Now, how could I? I cannot read minds.”
“Lady Fortescue.”
The duke rolled up Lucy’s drawing with careful fingers.
“Indeed,” he said in a colorless voice.
“Yes, indeed, and she asked after you most particularly.”
“I am sure she did,” said the duke dryly. “Dukes are very interesting people, are they not? Much more interesting than mere army captains.”
“Meaning had you been a duke at the time you proposed, she would have accepted you?”
“Of course.”
“You may be wrong. Look at the Bliss sisters.”
“No, you may look at the Bliss sisters if you wish. I have done more than enough to encourage the horrible Mrs. Bliss. I intend to give her the cut direct at Harby’s ball.”
“Hardly fair.” Mr. Graham pursed his lips. “I mean it’s all your own fault for encouraging the woman in the first place. Don’t dance with her girls. Give her a common nod; that will be enough. Now I must go. A pressing game of cards awaits me.”
When his friend had left, the duke sat for a few moments. Then he rose and collected his hat and stick from the hall and made his way out to make a call. He did not need to ask where she lived. He had found that out as soon as he had reached London.
He marched up the steps of a slim town house in Manchester Square and knocked at the door and then presented his card to the butler, who retreated up the stairs with it, telling him to wait. The duke wondered what she would look like after all these years. The butler came hurrying back. “Pray follow me, Your Grace. Lady Fortescue will be delighted to receive you.”
He mounted the narrow staircase and then paused at the entrance to the drawing room. Clarinda Fortescue ran to meet him, both hands out-stretched. His kissed both her hands and allowed her to lead him to a sofa in front of the fire. She had not changed, he thought bleakly. Her hair was still as black and glossy as his own. Her eyes, Slav eyes, he used to call them, were as blue as ever, with that intriguing black ring around the iris. Her figure was a trifle fuller, but she was elegantly gowned, and the whiteness of her skin did not even betray one wrinkle.
He leaned back slightly and surveyed her. “So,” he said, “you decided not to wait for me.”
“I tried so hard to,” she said in a low voice. “Oh, if only you knew. But Papa and Mama were so stern. They forced me to marry Fortescue.”
He fought against the old spell of her attraction. He remembered her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Bellingham, as rather a quiet, timid couple who let their beautiful daughter do pretty much what she wanted. But what he wanted now, he realized, was revenge. He intended to make Clarinda fall in love with him and pay her back for some of the pain she had caused him.
“And was your marriage not happy?”
She took out a little wisp of lace-edged cam
bric and dabbed her eyes. “I was so unhappy,” she whispered. “All the time, I thought of you.”
He took her hand and smiled down at her. “Well, I am back and we are both free. Do you go to Harby’s ball?”
“Oh, yes. Will you dance with me?”
“Of course. I shall be the most envied man there.”
She gave him a glinting sideways glance and murmured, “All the gossips will have it that you are set on courting some provincial chit just out of the schoolroom.”
“I assume by that they mean Belinda Bliss. No, my dear, much too young for me. But I must not stay long. Your reputation…”
“My reputation will not be harmed,” she said. “All must know how I have pined for you.”
She modestly bent her head and so escaped seeing the flash of cynicism in the duke’s eyes.
“Nonetheless, we must not give the gossips any fuel.” He released her hand, rose, and bowed before her.
“When will I see you again?” she asked.
“At the Harbys’ ball.”
She pouted. “Not before then?”
“I am afraid I have much to attend to. But I shall count the hours.”
He felt slightly ashamed of himself as he walked away. It was all such an easy game when one was a duke. Except if your name happens to be Lucy Bliss, mocked a voice in his head, and he strode off round the square as if to walk away from it.
As soon as he had disappeared around the corner of the square, Lady Fortescue turned from the window and ran to a looking glass and patted her curls. “I shall have him,” she told her reflection. “I shall be a duchess!”
How fortunate it had been, she thought, that old Lord Fortescue had died so conveniently. Now she was free. She dimly remembered her parents’ protests when she had announced she meant to marry that elderly lord. But Fortescue had been rich and he had a title, and she had had a mind to be “my lady.” But she had worked for it. What a dismal old satyr he had turned out to be. But she brightened; the duke was a virile, handsome man, much more handsome than the young captain she had turned down all those years ago. Besides, his wickedness was exciting. Lady Fortescue then went to her bedchamber and summoned her maid. There was no time to have a new ballgown made. But what she chose from what she had must dazzle the duke.