Joanna Maitland

by Rakes Reward

  Emma rapped her fan across his knuckles. ‘Ungentlemanly, indeed!’ she said, trying not to laugh. ‘The lady’s name is Beaumont, Kit, since you appear to have forgotten. And you really should not attend musical evenings if you are not prepared to try to listen to the performances.’

  Kit bowed, trying to appear suitably contrite.

  Emma was not taken in. ‘For your penance, brother dear, you shall stand by my side for Miss Beaumont’s next song. And, at the end of it, I shall expect you to give me a considered opinion on both the music and its performer.’

  Kit groaned theatrically but did not attempt to escape. He leaned back slightly against the pillar, feigning a lack of interest that he did not feel.

  Miss Beaumont’s second song was quite different from the first. It was an Italian ballad that had been much in vogue in Vienna, though Miss Beaumont—Marina?—adopted a considerably faster tempo than had been usual in Austria. The added pace seemed to turn it into a different piece altogether—gay, infectious and bursting with life. Kit wondered whether Miss Beaumont knew how much of her inner self she was exposing by singing as she did. Underneath the prim, proper and rather serious exterior of the companion, there was a completely different person, a woman full of joy and laughter.

  As he listened, rapt, Kit decided that this other Miss Beaumont needed to be brought out into the light of day. The stern Miss Beaumont appeared never to laugh. It was time that she learned.

  Marina bowed her head in acknowledgement of the applause. She knew she had performed well, in spite of her relative lack of practice since arriving in London. She had been taking a chance on that first song, but it was unlikely that anyone in polite Society would ask her about it. They would not wish to admit that they did not recognise it. Marina smiled to herself, just a little. It had been Grandmama’s favourite song, written especially for her, and Marina had every right to sing it whenever, and wherever, she might choose.

  Lady Stratton came to join her as she rose to leave the instrument. ‘Miss Beaumont, that was delightful,’ she said, pressing Marina’s hand. ‘I cannot tell you how moving it was. Even Kit was touched by the power of your song.’

  Marina followed her hostess’s glance. Kit Stratton was still leaning carelessly against a pillar, as he had been throughout Marina’s performance. He had looked anything but moved. Every time Marina had looked in his direction—and she had tried very hard to resist the temptation—he had seemed to be resigned to enduring a far from pleasurable experience.

  Marina’s doubts must have been obvious, for Lady Stratton said impulsively, ‘You do not believe me? Come. You shall hear it for yourself.’ She put her hand through Marina’s arm and steered her across the room to where Kit was standing.

  Marina swallowed hard and steeled herself to greet him with easy politeness. He straightened as the pair approached.

  ‘Kit,’ began Lady Stratton, ‘I was just telling Miss Beaumont how much you had enjoyed her singing. I fear she was not convinced.’

  Mr Stratton looked narrowly at his sister-in-law. Marina felt instinctively that he did not welcome her arrival at all.

  ‘Miss Beaumont,’ he said with a tiny bow, ‘I congratulate you on your performance. I have never heard that Italian piece performed in quite that way before. Most…diverting.’

  Marina had not truly expected effusive praise from Mr Stratton but, in this case, she would have preferred it if he had said nothing at all. His manner was more than a little condescending. She might owe him thanks for swearing his brother to silence about their meeting in the park, but she would not permit him to treat her with disdain. He acted in that way with all his other women—if Lady Luce was to be believed—but Marina was not prepared to become one of their number. Mr Stratton must be made to realise that.

  Lady Stratton forestalled Marina’s reply. ‘Oh, dear. My Aunt Warenne is signalling to me. I fear that can only mean that she has detected something amiss with my arrangements.’ She smiled warmly at Marina. ‘Pray excuse me, Miss Beaumont. I am sure I can trust Kit to entertain you in my absence.’

  An awkward silence ensued while Marina tried to think of an excuse to leave. It would appear unpardonably rude if she simply deserted him. Yet—

  ‘May I ask you about that first song you sang, Miss Beaumont? My education must be much at fault, for I cannot say that I remember hearing it before.’

  Oh, dear. What could she possibly say? If she told him that she was the composer, good manners would force him to compliment her on her talent, even though it would be a downright lie. She could imagine exactly how he would behave—in that insufferably superior way of his, assessing whether she merited the attention that the great Kit Stratton was bestowing on her, deciding whether she was worth bedding.

  Heavens! What had made her think of that?

  It was the way he was looking at her. His gaze was intent. His eyes were much bluer than she had remembered. In the gloom of the carriage, she had seen little. Here in the light of dozens of candles, it was different—quite, quite different. He could not attack her here, in the sight of all his sister’s guests.

  Marina found that she had raised her hand to her lips, as if reminding herself of how it had felt to be kissed by Kit Stratton. How could she have done such a thing? With all his vast experience of women, he was bound to be able to read her every move. Marina began to feel very hot, in spite of her low-cut gown. She hurriedly clasped her hands together, where they could do no more mischief. She felt the heat rising up her neck. She must…must think of some way of replying to him.

  Mr Stratton was all chilly politeness. ‘Are you quite well, ma’am?’ he said evenly, ignoring her lack of response. ‘It is very hot in this room. Perhaps you would like a little air?’

  Was he proposing to escort her outside? Surely not. Publicly agreeing to a tête-à-tête with Kit Stratton would ruin her for ever. ‘I…I am quite well, sir, I thank you.’ She had regained control of her voice at last, thank goodness. ‘And I do not think it will be necessary for me to take the air.’

  ‘No?’ He frowned briefly. ‘I find myself wondering if it is the air or the company to which you object, ma’am.’

  Marina’s eyes widened. Surely a rake could not be insulted by a lady’s refusal to be alone with him? But it seemed that he was. He had stiffened quite perceptibly.

  Without thinking what she was doing, Marina reached out and laid a consoling hand on the smooth cloth of his evening coat.

  It was as if her fingers had touched a living flame.

  She jerked her hand away with a gasp. Under that silken exterior, there were tense muscles and warm, breathing flesh. She felt she had reached through to his naked skin.

  This time, she blushed to the roots of her hair. Her whole body seemed to be on fire. She could hardly breathe.

  He, of course, was fully in control. Confound him!

  After a moment, he bowed with impeccable politeness and said, ‘Will you allow me to fetch you something to drink?’

  ‘I…I am a little thirsty after singing,’ she said at last.

  He nodded. ‘Champagne?’

  Wordlessly, she shook her head. Her fingers were twisting at her ring, as usual.

  ‘No, perhaps not. Lemonade, then. Excuse me for a moment.’

  Marina was left alone, trying to marshal her wayward thoughts. Being close to Kit Stratton was very dangerous. He was temptation. She could not stop thinking about the feel of his body, and the touch of his lips on hers. In spite of herself, she had wanted it to happen all over again. Here! It was madness. This was a man who had mistresses by the dozen, the most beautiful women in Europe. His only reason for kissing Marina had been to prove that he could, and that she could not help but respond to him.

  It was not Kit, but his brother who came to join her. She tried to be glad of it. Kit Stratton was handsome, charming, but cold as ice. Ladies made fools of themselves over his perfect face, as Miss Blaine had done earlier. At least Marina had not done that.

  ‘
Miss Beaumont,’ said Sir Hugo genially, handing her a goblet of cool lemonade, ‘you will forgive me, I hope, for taking my brother’s place. I wished very much to have a moment alone with you this evening, to tell you how much I valued your uncle’s friendship. And your father’s, too, though I did not know him so well. I had hoped to write to your mother after the battle but it…it did not prove possible. I hope you will believe that I am most heartily sorry for it. Tell me if you will, how does your mother go on? And you have a younger brother, too, I understand?’

  ‘A most interesting evening—even without the Baroness. I must say, child, that you performed very well indeed. Everyone said so.’

  Marina was not paying attention. The Dowager’s remark provoked her into betraying her thoughts. ‘Everyone except Mr Stratton,’ she said sharply. In an attempt to retrieve her slip, she added hastily, ‘I cannot think why he attended a musical soirée in the first place. He was obviously bored throughout. He did not even have the good manners to pretend to be entertained.’

  The Dowager looked hard at Marina but said nothing for a moment. Then she changed the subject. ‘I noticed you were deep in conversation with Sir Hugo. He was most taken with your performance. Heard him say so m’self.’

  ‘He was most kind, ma’am. He spoke to me of my father, and of my uncle, who was his great friend. He said that he had always been sorry to have lost touch with Uncle George’s family. He plans to write to Mama and—oh, ma’am, he says he should be able to offer Harry a living, once he is ordained. You cannot imagine how much that could mean to us. It is quite wonderful.’

  The Dowager raised her eyebrows. ‘Thought your brother already had the offer of a living,’ she said flatly, ‘from his London clergyman friend. His wife wrote to you, did she not?’

  Heavens! Why had she ever told that stupid lie? ‘The family have left London for the present. Did I not mention it, ma’am?’ Marina began, cudgelling her brain for a plausible story. ‘And it…it was not exactly an offer. There was no definite promise of a living, though there was a…a vague hope of something. Whereas Sir Hugo’s offer,’ she continued more confidently, ‘is real. I have Sir Hugo’s permission to write to tell Mama—and Harry—at once. I shall do so the moment we reach home.’

  Emma sank into her favourite chair with a sigh of relief and closed her eyes for a brief moment.

  Hugo smiled lovingly down at her. ‘Your evening was a great success, my love,’ he said. ‘I am sure you could become one of Society’s foremost hostesses if you chose.’

  Emma looked sceptically up at him. ‘That is not what Aunt Augusta thinks, I may tell you, Hugo. She blamed me for Tilly Blaine’s outrageous behaviour. Insisted that I do something about it. Though what that was supposed to be, when the girl’s mother was standing by, I cannot imagine.’

  ‘Your Aunt Warenne was, no doubt, somewhat put out by Kit’s arrival. You were lucky she did not insist on showing you the door, Kit.’

  Kit turned back from the window where he had been idly watching the carriages below in the light of the flambeaux. He grinned at them. ‘Emma’s Aunt Warenne terrifies most men, I admit, but I have found that she mellows on closer acquaintance.’

  Emma groaned. ‘Even Aunt Augusta is not proof against your brother, Hugo. He should be locked up. He is a danger to womankind.’

  Kit bowed ironically. ‘I take that as a compliment, sister dear.’

  Emma tried to look stern, but failed. ‘Oh, stuff!’ she cried inelegantly. ‘Seriously, though, Kit, what am I supposed to do if chits like Tilly Blaine swoon at the very sight of you?’

  ‘Ignore them,’ he replied harshly. ‘As I do. After a few moments on a cold hard floor, they tend to come to their senses.’

  Emma shook her head despairingly. ‘You have no heart, Kit Stratton. One day, perhaps, you too will discover how it feels to admire someone who does not return your regard. And you will be well served.’

  ‘If I have no heart, as you suggest, my dear Emma, I will be unable to experience any such thing.’

  Emma’s response sounded remarkably like a growl. ‘I never could abide logic-chopping gentlemen.’

  Hugo grinned at his brother. ‘I suggest you pour Emma a glass of wine, Kit. Perhaps if you present it to her on bended knee, she may be persuaded to forgive your impertinence.’

  Kit laughed. ‘The wine, by all means,’ he said, pouring three glasses and carrying one to Emma.

  She looked up at him, waiting, but he did not kneel. He gave her a dandy’s exaggerated bow instead. She shook her head and took the glass from him. ‘Hugo should have learned by now that you never take his advice, however good it may be.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Kit roundly. ‘He advised me to attend your soirée, and I did so.’

  ‘What? Hugo, you—!’

  ‘And I am heartily glad that I did. It was a most entertaining evening. I found some of the music beautiful…in spite of my tin ear.’

  Emma was looking daggers at her husband, who was trying to appear a picture of innocence.

  Kit grinned wickedly. ‘Come, dear sister, do not be angry. Hugo was only trying to reconcile Society to my outrageous behaviour. He appears to believe—I cannot imagine why—that they may be prepared to accept me if I do the pretty at gatherings like these.’

  ‘Society will accept any single man with a good pedigree and a substantial income,’ said Hugo cynically. ‘Now that you are become so much more eligible, your notorious affairs will simply be viewed as youthful indiscretions.’

  Kit said nothing, though he knew it was true. His recently acquired wealth had made a world of difference.

  Emma sipped her wine thoughtfully. ‘And do you plan to fulfil Society’s expectations, Kit?’

  ‘In the matter of a wife, do you mean?’

  Emma coloured a little at his blunt reply. ‘Yes, I suppose I do. You used to say—’

  ‘I used to say that I had no intention of marrying. Displays like Miss Blaine’s have done nothing to change my mind. How could any man wish to shackle himself to such a silly chit?’

  ‘Perhaps you would not think so harshly of her if she were a beauty. It really is not her fault that she is thin and plain, you know.’

  ‘That may be true, but she need not accentuate her lack of looks in the way she does. A woman may be thin and plain, and yet look remarkably well.’

  Emma looked up at him with her head on one side. ‘You are referring to the musical Miss Beaumont, I collect? And you are right. With that lovely gown and her more flattering hairstyle, she looked…not handsome, but…’ She was searching for the right word.

  ‘Striking?’ put in Kit softly.

  Emma paused before replying. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘She was certainly striking. Particularly when she sang.’

  Kit said nothing.

  ‘I think,’ said Hugo seriously, ‘that there are hidden depths to Miss Beaumont. She did not say so in terms, but it appears that her family have suffered considerable hardship since her father was killed. Mrs Beaumont has been forced to take in pupils. And there is a son at Oxford, which must put a strain on her resources. It is no wonder, really, that Miss Beaumont has had to find a place as a companion. They probably need every penny she earns.’

  ‘But you will help them, Hugo?’

  ‘I have already promised to do so, my love. I told Miss Beaumont that I would be able to offer her brother a living, as soon as he was ordained. If you had seen the look on her face, Emma…’

  ‘Which living did you promise her, Hugo?’ Kit enquired politely.

  ‘Why, Stratton Magna, of course,’ said Hugo. ‘It is the richest living in our gift, and the only one vacant, so—’

  ‘I think you mistake, brother,’ said Kit quietly. ‘Stratton Magna is not in your gift. You may be head of the family, but Stratton Magna belongs to me.’

  For a brief moment, Hugo looked nonplussed. ‘You are right,’ he said, with a thread of embarrassed laughter in his voice. ‘But you know how we are placed with regar
d to the Beaumont family. We…I permitted them—my friend Langley’s only kin—to live in penury for nearly ten years. Giving Harry the living of Stratton Magna would lift the family out of poverty—and without the appearance of charity. Would you have me withdraw the offer, Kit?’

  Kit looked at his brother, and then at Emma, whose beautiful eyes were filled with concern. He permitted himself a little smile. ‘No, Hugo. I would not. But have you considered how Miss Beaumont will react when she learns that she is beholden to me?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  En route to Fitzwilliam House once more, Marina leaned back into the velvet squabs of Lady Stratton’s carriage. Such luxury for a mere companion.

  She closed her eyes, relishing the moment. Lady Stratton, and Sir Hugo, too, were being so very kind to the penniless girl from Yorkshire. Not only had Lady Stratton persuaded the Dowager to permit Marina to visit Fitzwilliam House in the mornings, but she had also invited Marina to two of her evening parties. The Dowager had muttered a little at first, but had soon been forced to concede that she had no real need of her companion, since the evenings in question would be spent visiting the sort of gambling houses that were closed to gently bred young ladies.

  Marina was not at all sure how Lady Stratton had done it. But the effect was that Marina’s life in London was becoming more akin to that of a proper lady than a paid companion. And she had a wardrobe to match, for Lady Luce had gleefully made good on her threat to spend her son’s money at the dressmaker’s. She might exercise her scathing wit on the indecent modern fashions, but everything she had chosen for Marina was extremely flattering.

  Looking down at the dark blue pelisse she wore, Marina smiled. It was so very satisfying to be dressed in glowing colours and beautiful fabrics, even though the dressmaker who had made them was far from top of the trees. That did not matter a jot. To Marina, it still seemed like a fairy tale. The Dowager had gone so far as to ban any garment in grey or brown, so Marina had quickly packed away her Yorkshire gowns before they could be despatched to the workhouse. That would be very wrong, for Mama had worked hard to produce the money to pay for those gowns. Besides, Marina might yet be forced to return home by a change in the Dowager’s fickle temper.