‘Oh, yes,’ sighed Effy, remembering their own too recent poverty.
‘I felt I had been cheated and I accused you – oh, my shame! – of having taken her money and jewels. How can I make up for my terrible rudeness? When I saw you there with your beautiful silver hair shining in the candlelight and looking so fragile, like a crushed flower, my heart went out to you.’
A slow feeling of delicious warmth started to grow inside Effy. It seemed such a long time since any man had paid her compliments. Mr Callaghan, who only recently had seemed such a pathetic figure of fun with his tight lacing and ridiculous clothes, now seemed almost handsome. When a man looks at a lady with a world of admiration in his eyes, it is very hard for her to consider him a poor creature.
‘I have already forgiven you,’ said Effy, fluttering her lamp-blackened eyelashes. ‘Do not distress yourself further.’
‘Alas, if only your sister would be so womanly – so forgiving. But I feel she hates me.’
Effy felt a little uncomfortable. Amy would indeed be in a towering rage if she knew that her sister were even exchanging two words with the enemy. Amy had not yet told Effy of Mr Callaghan’s call on Fiona. Mr Callaghan, studying her expressive face, decided he had better explain his call.
‘I have another confession to make,’ he said, smiling ruefully and, he hoped, boyishly into Effy’s eyes. ‘Did your sister tell you that I called on Miss Macleod?’
Effy’s eyes grew hard. ‘No, she did not.’
‘You see, I needed some excuse to see you again. I knew I might be taken as just another of Miss Macleod’s suitors, although I have no interest in the girl. Too immature.’ He looked down modestly. ‘I had been watching the house, you see, and knew your sister was absent, but unfortunately, I did not know that you, too, were gone from home.’
‘Mr Callaghan,’ said Effy firmly, trying to hang on to the remains of her common sense, ‘I cannot believe that a young and fashionable man like yourself could be in the slightest bit interested in an old woman like me.’
‘Old! How can such monstrous lies escape your fair lips. Old! Look in your glass and you will see what I see. Your gentleness, your delicacy of movement. The young misses of today are too farouche, too hurly-burly.’
Effy always prepared for a social outing in the dimmest of candlelight. She remembered herself as she had looked in her glass before she had set out that evening, with the smoky, greenish glass washing away all wrinkles. Every spinster of fifty, however sensible, has the soul of a seventeen-year-old virgin. Effy’s heart beat quicker. Her vanity had stopped her from seeing her own proper image in the glass, and now her vanity changed the weak and shifty Mr Callaghan into a dashing and handsome cavalier.
Several glasses of champagne and some heady compliments later and Effy, feeling like the heroine of one of her favourite romances, had agreed to meet Mr Callaghan in St James’s Park the following afternoon at three o’clock.
While Effy was absorbed in the attentions of her new beau, Amy was at the far end of a chain of saloons, chatting happily to Mr Haddon. She had him all to herself and she did not care what Effy was doing or, for that matter, Fiona. Mr Haddon was talking about his experiences in India and Amy was hanging on his every word. And Mr Haddon, who was often damned as a funny, dry old stick, was blossoming in front of the best audience he had ever had. He did think at one point that they should be searching in the crush for Fiona to find out what she was up to, but Amy had told him all about the girl’s revelations and how good and affectionate she had become, and so he eased his conscience with the thought that Miss Macleod was probably at no risk from anyone.
Fiona was trying hard to please, but she was becoming heartily bored with Lord Aubrey, who showed no signs of leaving her side. She felt small and insignificant. She wished Amy had not overridden Yvette’s choice of gown. Fiona knew that the white muslin she was wearing made her look washed out. She suddenly felt she could not bear Lord Aubrey one minute longer, and with a cry of dismay said that one of the flounces of her gown needed mending and excused herself, thrusting her way through the press with an energy as great as that previously demonstrated by Mr Callaghan. She made her way down to the hall and into an ante room reserved for the ladies. There she sat down wearily on a stool in front of a looking-glass and fiddled with her hair and powdered her nose and tried to summon up courage to plunge back into the crush.
With a little sigh, she stood up and went back out into the entrance hall. Lord Peter Havard, who had just arrived, was swinging his cloak from his shoulders. The two stared at one other, each with a sensation of shock. Fiona was thinking that she had forgotten how devastatingly handsome Lord Peter was with his intense blue eyes and midnight-black hair and powerful, athletic body. Lord Peter was thinking that Fiona was a poor-looking dab of a girl and wondered why he had ever become so enraged, upset, and attracted by her.
She was no longer a threat to his peace of mind and so he smiled on her, and said, ‘Good evening, Miss Macleod. May I escort you upstairs?’
Fiona felt crushed. She had seen shock, followed by wariness, followed by amused relief in his eyes. She had meant to behave well and to practise on him the gentle arts of flirting and conversation as taught by the sisters. Some imp prompted her to say, ‘Are you sure you wish to be seen with me, my lord? I am even drearier than you remembered, is that not so? I did not choose this wretched gown.’
Annoyed that she had guessed what he had been thinking, Lord Peter said crossly, ‘Either you are going to accept my escort or not, Miss Macleod. I do not want to stand in this draughty hall all evening.’
He held out his arm.
Fiona put her hand on his arm. That slight physical contact sent a thrilling charge of emotion through Lord Peter’s body. He led her up the stairs, looking down at her curiously, not knowing that Fiona was trying to stop herself from trembling, for she was suffering from the same violent physical reaction.
Lord Aubrey came up to them as they entered. ‘Havard,’ he cried. ‘Help yourself to food and drink and leave me to look after Miss Macleod.’
‘Evening, Aubrey,’ said Lord Peter. He disengaged himself with relief from Fiona and then immediately wanted to touch her again. He was annoyed at the admiration in Lord Aubrey’s eyes and by the possessive way he crowded in on Fiona, monopolizing her and cutting her off from the rest of the company. Lord Peter took a glass of champagne and talked to some friends, all the while edging back in the direction of the door. He hated crushes like this and wondered why he had come. A Miss Dryden, doing her second Season, was eating him up with her eyes, and kept moving closer to him as she spoke, egged on by her doting mama. He backed away and then suddenly felt as if someone had applied one of the new galvanizing machines to his back. People were pressed against people all round the room because of the crush. But he knew, before he twisted about, that his back was pressed against Fiona’s. He wondered what they would all think if he suddenly turned about and jerked her into his arms.
And then she moved away. He felt her move away. He heard Amy Tribble’s loud voice making the farewells and Effy Tribble saying ‘Come along, Fiona,’ and Lord Aubrey begging permission to call.
He realized Mrs Dryden had asked him a question and that she and her daughter were waiting for his answer. He said, ‘Yes,’ and then found to his horror that he had accepted an invitation to an al-fresco meal in the gardens of their Kensington villa.
He bowed and managed to get away. Surely such a strange and disturbing creature as Miss Macleod should be avoided at all costs. But perhaps he would just call on the morrow to reassure himself, to prove that his mind had been playing tricks, and to find she was every bit as ordinary as she had looked when he had seen her earlier in the hall.
6
Swans sing before they die – ’twere no bad thing
Should certain persons die before they sing.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Lord Peter Havard dispatched his servant with his card the following day.
He had no intention of ever speaking to Fiona again. Hadn’t he told her so when she had been so insolent to him in the Park? He should have cut her dead in Aubrey’s hall. That physical excitement he had felt at her slightest touch was simply caused by anger and dislike.
He was sure Aubrey would call in person. He walked to his club to banish that picture of Lord Aubrey being entertained by Fiona.
The picture would not go away and was so annoying that it was with relief he saw his old friend, the Honourable Geoffrey Coudrey, known to one and all as Cully.
‘I thought you were rusticating in the country,’ said Lord Peter, looking at his large, bearlike friend with affection. Cully was very hairy. He was the despair of his valet, who barbered him as often as his master would let him. Cully’s thick thatch of nut-brown hair grew low on his forehead, and his chin always seemed to be dark blue. Lord Peter had seen him stripped for boxing and knew that Cully’s chest was like a carriage rug.
‘No, I’m weary of the country. Town’s the place for me,’ said Cully. ‘Didn’t work. Being the squire, I mean.’
Cully had, the previous year, bought a fine property and land down in Kent. He had been disappointed in love and had convinced himself that society was all a sham and that he was more suited to a bucolic life.
‘So what happens to the place now?’ asked Lord Peter, sitting down opposite him.
‘Oh, I’ll sell it, of course. Land’s in good heart and the old house is quaint and pretty if you can bear the Tudors, which I can’t. Give me something modern every time.’
Lord Peter, unlike his eldest brother the marquess, did not own any property of his own. He had made his money by shrewdly speculating in various business ventures. As the younger son of a duke he was free of responsibilities. He had a comfortable house in Town and during the winter he stayed in the country, either at his parents’ home, or at the homes of his many friends. He had served in the army right up until Waterloo, a battle which had sickened him, as it had his commander, the Duke of Wellington. Like many of his class, he had still managed to attend the Season during various leaves, when he usually quickly found a suitable matron to dally with until it was time to go back to battle again.
‘I’ll buy it from you,’ said Lord Peter and then wondered how those words had managed to pop out of his mouth.
In fact, he looked every bit as surprised as Cully, who said, ‘Why? Someone turned you down?’
Lord Peter wanted to say he had been joking, he had not meant it, but the novel idea of having a home and land had quickened his pulses.
‘No, I mean it,’ he said. ‘I’ve really done nothing much since I left the army but ruin my health. You know what it’s like, Cully. Overheated drawing rooms and boring misses on the one hand, and prize-fights on the other and silly races and trying to break one’s neck.’
‘Lovely,’ said Cully, half closing his eyes. ‘Missed it all. Who’s the lady?’
‘There isn’t one.’
‘Don’t believe it. When a goer like you suddenly wants to put down roots, there’s always a lady.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Lord Peter, but he wondered whether Aubrey had marriage in mind.
Fiona was feeling very cross indeed with her chaperones. She could not understand why one of them was not present. Lord Aubrey was prosing on, and there were various other gentlemen in the drawing room who had come to call. Fiona was bored with them all and felt that either Amy or Effy should have been there to speed them on their way.
But Amy had been asked to go riding with Mr Haddon and was fearful of Effy coming too and so had said she would be back soon, only off for a quick trot. Effy had not wanted to confess to her meeting with Mr Callaghan or even to say she had an appointment, lest the curious Amy demand to know where she was going. And so Fiona had been left alone.
But calls were only supposed to last a quarter of an hour, and one by one the gentlemen took their leave. Lord Aubrey seemed determined to stick it out. Fiona flashed an agonized look at Baxter, who went over and tapped the clock and said loudly, ‘I hope this isn’t broken, miss. It seems as if my lord has been here almost half an hour, but since that cannot be the case, the clock must be running wrong.’
This was too broad a hint for Lord Aubrey to ignore. He got reluctantly to his feet and begged Fiona to go driving with him the following afternoon. Fiona replied, truthfully, that she did not know what social arrangements her chaperones had made for her. Lord Aubrey bowed and said with meaning that he would be calling on the Misses Tribbles soon to ask them an important question. Fiona’s heart sank, but then she remembered that she could tell the Tribbles the truth. It had never been possible to tell her aunt she just did not want to marry anyone, least of all any of the suitors who had come calling. It had been necessary to let them get as far as proposing and then frighten them off. If she had told her aunt that she had no intention of accepting any of the proposals she had seen looming on the horizon, then there had always been the danger that the Burgesses might have stepped in and arranged a marriage with the man’s parents before Fiona had a chance to scare him off.
Her last caller gone, Fiona dismissed Baxter and went and looked moodily at her own reflection in the glass. Wide blue eyes stared back at her. Yvette had made her a pretty gown in blue tabinet and had dressed her hair in a becoming style. Now there was no one to see it, thought Fiona sadly, but she would not admit to herself that the ‘no one’ was Lord Peter.
It would soon be five o’ clock. Everyone who was anyone would be in the Park. No one made calls at five.
Fiona picked up a tambour-frame and sat down by the window and stuck the needle viciously into the cloth. Embroidery was not one of Fiona’s accomplishments, a fact she had kept hidden from the sisters. The other day, Effy had asked her where her needlework was and Fiona had lied and said she had left her silks and frame in Tunbridge Wells. Effy had promptly bought her the necessary materials. Fiona was just wondering whether it would really be too low a trick to bribe Yvette to do some of it for her when Harris announced, ‘Lord Peter Havard.’ The butler looked surprised to see that only Fiona was in the room, but he left the door open and hoped that would be enough to satisfy the conventions. A young unmarried lady must never, ever be alone in a room with a gentleman with the door shut.
Lord Peter advanced on Fiona. He did not know why he had come. Perhaps to reassure himself that she was as plain and uninteresting as he was determined she should be. But her eyes were blue, he realized with surprise, and her hair was really pretty.
‘I am sorry to come so late,’ he said, ‘I have been buying a property.’
‘Where?’ asked Fiona.
‘In Kent. I have a mind to be a man of property.’
‘That I cannot imagine,’ said Fiona, sitting down and picking up the tambour-frame again.
‘Why, pray?’ asked Lord Peter, sitting in a chair beside her.
‘I always imagine you wasting your time in ephem-eral pursuits.’
‘What a very low opinion you have of me, to be sure.’
His hair was very black and glossy, his face lightly tanned, his blue eyes deep and searching. He exuded an air of power and virility. Fiona’s hand holding the needle trembled and she pricked her finger.
‘I do not think you can sew, Miss Macleod,’ he said. ‘Most odd. All young ladies can sew.’
‘Not this one. I thought you were never going to speak to me again,’ said Fiona.
‘I was very angry with you, and with reason.’ Her mouth was soft and pink and sweet. He stared at it, fascinated.
Fiona wished he would look away. She felt hot and prickly and she had a nasty pain in the pit of her belly. She looked up with relief as Harris entered bearing cakes and wine.
‘Thank you,’ said Lord Peter. ‘We will serve ourselves.’
Harris bowed and retreated. There was a sudden embarrassed silence. Lord Peter rose to his feet and poured two glasses of wine. Fiona breathed deeply and tried not to look at his legs.
Baxt
er came down the stairs and saw the drawing room standing open. From the silence within, she supposed the room empty. The day was chilly and that open door was letting all the warmth from the drawing-room fire escape. She closed the door.
‘You had better open it again,’ said Fiona, taking a glass of wine from Lord Peter.
‘I don’t bother about such silly conventions,’ he said, sitting down again. ‘You are quite safe with me.’
How many women? thought Fiona, looking at his mouth. Forty? Fifty?
‘Now what are you thinking?’ he asked, amused.
‘I was wondering how many women you have had,’ said Fiona.
‘Miss Macleod!’
‘Well, I did wonder,’ said Fiona huffily.
He turned in his chair and leaned towards her. ‘Does it matter to you, Miss Macleod?’
His eyes were warm and his voice caressing.
‘You are flirting with me,’ accused Fiona. She set down her glass on a side table beside the discarded tambour-frame and glared at him.
‘When you are angry, Miss Macleod,’ he said wonderingly, ‘your eyes turn silver. What colour would they turn, I wonder, were I to . . .’
‘No!’ said Fiona.
He set down his glass as well and leaned forward and took her chin in his hand. His knees were pressed against the side of her legs and she could feel her legs beginning to shake.
He stood up and put both arms on the arms of her chair and stooped over her. She stared up at his approaching mouth. His leaned closer and closer and his mouth found hers.
He was dimly reminded of the Peace Celebrations in Hyde Park – cannons firing, fireworks going off, noise and tumult and gladness. The war is over and I am come home. The only parts of their bodies that touched were their lips. His mouth sank deeper against hers and the room began to spin faster and faster until he was whirling off into a strange blackness, held to the earth by the feel of the warm young lips pressed so hard against his own.
Perfecting Fiona Page 8