Improper Ladies

by Amanda McCabe

  Lord Morley sat down on a chair uncomfortably close to Rosalind’s settee. She resisted the urge to pull her skirts closer, to tuck herself away for some measure of safety. She so hated it that whenever he came near, whenever he was even in the same room, she became someone who was—was not herself. Not sensible Rosalind, who had taken care of herself and her family with no assistance for so many years, who was always calm, always competent. Always the one her friends and pupils looked to to provide an example of propriety.

  When she was near him, as she was now, she became someone she could not know and did not like. Someone who felt foolish and fluttery, and very young. Which was silly in the extreme, since she was lately turned thirty, and he was probably younger than her by some years. A young man who wrote romantic poetry about love and passion and the physical world, who brazenly flirted with women in ballrooms and school drawing rooms.

  Rosalind resolutely put the satin fan down on a nearby table and folded her hands in her lap. She was very glad that she wore one of her own serviceable garments, and not one of the colorful frocks Georgina was always pressing on her with the excuse that she had ordered them from the mantua-maker and now did not like them. Even if Rosalind did not feel like herself, she could look like herself, and perhaps that would be enough to fool the people around her.

  If only Lord Morley would not stare at her so intently! It was as if—as if he tried to look past the yards of plain gray muslin and see into her very heart.

  Rosalind thanked heaven for Georgina, who kept up a steady stream of polite chatter, and for Elizabeth Anne, who insisted on serving the tea herself and caused a great distraction by spilling it on the inlaid chinoiserie tea table.

  Once the refreshments had been safely distributed, Elizabeth Anne came to sit by Rosalind, and leaned against her side. Rosalind put her arm about her, and breathed in her sweet, powdery, little-girl smell. It was comforting, real, and it reminded her of all she had to protect—her school, where girls just like this would be waiting for her when the holiday was finished.

  “I’m going to go to Aunt Rosalind’s school,” Elizabeth Anne told Lord Morley. “That’s where I am going to learn to be a grand lady. Mama says Aunt Rosalind is the best at turning little hoydens like me into grand ladies, though really I would rather be a bareback rider at Astley’s.”

  “I will be most honored to have a future bareback rider at the Seminary,” Rosalind said with a laugh. “Though you are too young right now, Elizabeth Anne. Perhaps in a year or two.”

  “I am sure you will enjoy it at Mrs. Chase’s school, Lady Elizabeth Anne,” Lord Morley said. “My sister is a pupil there, and she speaks very highly of your—Aunt Rosalind.”

  “You have a sister?” Elizabeth Anne looked at him with wide, wondering green eyes, as if she could not imagine he could possibly possess something so ordinary as a sister. Rosalind sometimes wondered at that herself. “Is she like me?”

  “She is as pretty as you,” he said. “But she is several years older. She will soon be graduating from the Seminary, and making her bow next Season.”

  “How is Lady Violet?” Rosalind asked, watching Elizabeth Anne as she took another cake. “I have been hoping to see her while I am in Town, but I am sure she has been quite busy.”

  “We have been to the theater, and to a few suppers at our aunt’s home, but she has not been as busy as she would like. I am sure she would enjoy it very much if you were to call on her. In fact . . .” He broke off, and gave her an uncertain glance.

  “Yes, Lord Morley?” she asked.

  “I was just going to say that I am taking Violet to Gunter’s this afternoon for ices. Perhaps you would care to join us, Mrs. Chase? And the duchess and Lady Emily, of course.” He sounded oddly shy as he offered the invitation.

  Rosalind saw Georgina and Emily exchange a significant glance between them, and she felt her cheeks heat again. In these last two days, she had blushed more than she had in the last ten years! And right now it was all due to those two incorrigible matchmakers. They spent hours gossiping and scheming about all their friends. They probably imagined there was something untoward between herself and Lord Morley. It would have been angering if it was not so laughable.

  “Oh, Emily and I have an appointment at the—at the milliner,” Georgina said. “But I am sure Rosalind would welcome the chance to escape such a dull outing.”

  “May I go, too, Mama?” Elizabeth Anne begged. “I love Gunter’s!”

  “No, darling,” Georgina answered. “It is a grown-up outing.”

  Rosalind studied Lord Morley closely, trying to gauge the sincerity of his invitation. Did he truly wish her to come along? Or was he just being polite?

  And what did she truly wish to do? She wanted to see Violet again, to be certain the girl was faring well in Town. And the thought of an entire afternoon looking at bonnets she could not afford to buy was not appealing, though she was almost certain Georgina had just made that up as an excuse. After all, who made an appointment to see a milliner? Ices at Gunter’s with Violet sounded much finer.

  But the thought of an entire afternoon with Lord Morley was—unsettling, even if he proved to be sincere in his invitation.

  Rosalind prided herself on being a generous lady. Surely Lord Morley deserved a chance to atone for his bad behavior, and she deserved the chance to ask him to leave Allen alone. To try to fulfill her mission in London, which was to restore the rules and the proper order of things.

  Yes, she decided, she would allow him to make amends. With a strawberry ice.

  “Very well, Lord Morley,” she said. “I would be happy to join you and Lady Violet at Gunter’s this afternoon.”

  He smiled, a wide, white grin that dazzled as the sun breaking forth on a dreary winter’s day. “Excellent! I am sure Violet will be in alt when I tell her. Would two o’clock suit?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Rosalind answered politely. “That would suit very well.”

  She had surely just completely lost her mind. The moment the acceptance passed her lips, she had the wild desire to pull it back, to stay safely alone in the house for the rest of the day.

  It was too late, though. Georgina and Emily were chattering again, asking Lord Morley about his newest volume of poems. Elizabeth Anne was pirouetting around the furniture. And, as if it was all not cacophonous enough, the door opened and Allen appeared.

  He was paler than usual, but otherwise did not appear to be damaged in any way by his escapade at the Portman ball. He was even rather better groomed than usual, with clean boots, unwrinkled trousers, and a crisply tied cravat. If only he did not look quite so morose.

  “Morley!” he cried happily, his strained, white face transformed from melancholy to avid interest in an instant. “By Jove, but it’s good to see you again. Didn’t know you were expected.” He stepped forward to shake hands with Lord Morley, and added, in a quieter tone, “I’m afraid I made a bit of a cake of myself last night.”

  A bit of a cake? Rosalind almost choked. Her brother had made a veritable pastry kitchen out of himself. She held her tongue, though. It would not serve her cause if she embarrassed Allen in front of his hero Lord Morley. It would not serve her cause at all.

  She would just have to bide her time—until this afternoon.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Always be gracious when introduced to new acquaintances.”

  -A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior, Chapter Eleven

  Do you really mean it, Michael? We are going to see Mrs. Chase today?” Violet practically bounced on her toes in her enthusiasm, her hands clasped under her chin. A delighted giggle bubbled from her lips.

  Michael couldn’t help but smile at her happiness. She had smiled a few times since they came to Town, and even laughed at the play they had attended. But he had not seen her eyes sparkle so in—well, in a very long time. And it was due to Mrs. Chase. Somber, straightlaced Mrs. Chase, who was not quite as prim and proper as she would like everyone, including herself, to be
lieve.

  Violet almost spun about in a joyous circle, but then, with a visible effort, brought her exuberance under control. She folded her hands in front of her, and recited, “ ‘A lady never displays her joy in an unseemly, physical manner.’ ” Then she gave a tiny jump and another smile. “Do you mean it, Michael? Mrs. Chase is in London and we are to see her?”

  “Of course I mean it, Vi,” Michael said, with a laugh to cover his irritation at her rule-spouting. “She is going to Gunter’s with us. I met her at a ball last night, and she asked after you.” He decided to omit the quite unnecessary details of everything that had happened after his initial encounter with her at the Portman ball.

  “A ball,” Violet sighed. “It must have been lovely.” Her smile turned wistful.

  Michael put his arm about her shoulders and gave her a comforting squeeze. She did not draw away, as she had so often of late when minding the rules. “Next Season, you will attend more balls than you could count,” he said. “So many you will be longing for a quiet evening at home!”

  Violet laughed, a strangely bitter sound, unlike her earlier happy giggles. “I cannot imagine ever longing for that.”

  Michael frowned. “Has Father been bullying you?”

  “No, of course not.” She pulled away from him and went to look into a mirror hanging on the morning room wall. She fluffed up her pale curls, not meeting his reflected gaze. “I have been trying to educate him on some of the rules. Just because he never leaves the house is no excuse for him not to be civilized. He took exception to one of them this morning and threw his stick at me.”

  “He did what?” Michael shouted. “Did that old barbarian hurt you?”

  “Oh, no, no. I am quite adept at dodging. And I am certain there must be a rule against stick-throwing. I shall have to look it up.” Violet reached for her bonnet and tied it over her hair, tucking stray curls up into its confinement. She was trying so hard to be calm and casual, but her movements were stiff.

  Michael longed to storm into his father’s room, grab that blasted stick out of the old man’s gnarled hands, and break it over his head.

  Violet obviously sensed his inner turmoil, for she reached out and laid her hand gently on his arm. “Oh, la, Michael, but you have turned all red! Please do not mind it. I hardly see him, really, for you and Aunt Minnie keep me so very busy. Soon enough I will be back at school. And this afternoon I will see Mrs. Chase! Speaking of which, shall we be going? She will be expecting us.”

  She picked up her shawl and handed it to him for him to drape over her shoulders. Then she took his hand and guided him to the front door, obviously trying to hurry him out of the house.

  Michael went along with her maneuverings. It would be too bad of him to start yet another quarrel in this house, when she so badly wanted this outing. But one day—one day soon—matters in this family would erupt.

  Right now, though, they had this afternoon. And he was going to make very sure it was enjoyable for his sister, and for Mrs. Chase. Surely the woman just had to see that he was not the lout she thought him. An hour or two in Gunter’s, with the warm, sugary smells of pastries around them and a luscious strawberry ice to savor, would be just the thing.

  She was making a great mistake. She should stay home and work on her writing, or her embroidery, or anything rather than go out with Lord Morley.

  But that would be cowardly, Rosalind told herself, and it certainly would not help her in her cause at all. She had to make Morley see the error of his rude ways, and she could never do that by hiding away in the house. She truly wanted to see Lady Violet, too, and be certain the girl was faring well.

  She paced back to the window for the tenth time to peer down at the street. Lord Morley was not there yet, but many pedestrians and carriages crowded on the pavement outside Wayland House. She studied the passersby, fiddling idly with the braid trim at the wrist of her spencer. For just one instant, she wished she had borrowed one of Georgina’s walking dresses, of vivid blue or wine red or tawny gold. Her sensible dark blue wool, with its pale yellow braid trim, was just so very—sensible. That was the only word for it.

  Of course it is, she told herself sternly. You are a sensible lady.

  She half-turned to pluck up the hat Georgina had convinced her to borrow, then peered down again at the street as she pinned it to her curls. It was the same swirl of humanity, but, as Rosalind’s gaze moved over the crowd, it was somehow caught by the figure of a man across the street. He leaned idly against the fence that hemmed in a small park in the square, apparently just a careless man-about-town with nothing better to do than lounge about, observing passing females. There was nothing remarkable about him at all; he was of middling height, slim, well-dressed but not ostentatious. The brim of his hat concealed his features.

  Rosalind would not even have noticed him, except that he had been there for rather a long time—ever since she herself had come down and begun her vigil at the window. And he was oddly intent. He gave the appearance of watching the other people, yet he never really turned his attention from Wayland House.

  Rosalind frowned. She was strangely reminded of that evening at her school, when she had been looking out the window of her sitting room and thought, or imagined, she saw a movement in the garden.

  “Don’t be silly,” she whispered aloud. “You are becoming delusional.”

  Perhaps what she needed was a seaside holiday, away from all the distractions of Town. Away from Lord Morley.

  She gazed down again at the man. If he was there again tomorrow, she would tell Georgina or the duke. Today, though, she would just enjoy her time with Lady Violet.

  As she watched, a carriage drew to a halt below her window. It was a proper open landau, driven by a coachman in livery, not Morley’s usual dashing phaeton. But she would have recognized the figure who leaped jauntily to the pavement, even if he had arrived in a stuffy old barouche. His head was uncovered, his dark hair tossed about, a glossy blue-black in the sunlight. His coat fell back as he turned to offer his hand to his sister, revealing a waistcoat embroidered with red flowers and a cravat of deep yellow.

  “Good heavens, Rosalind!” she said to herself. “Imagine that. You are about to go out in public with a man who wears yellow cravats. And forgets his hat.”

  That ought to fill her with horror, ought to make her run into her chamber and lock the door. But instead it gave her a tiny, tingling thrill that had nothing to do with horror at all.

  Rosalind pushed all these thoughts away, and turned to make her way down the stairs just as the butler opened the door to admit Lord Morley and Lady Violet. Rosalind paused to be sure her hair was still pinned neatly beneath the hat, then went down to greet them properly.

  “Lady Violet, Lord Morley,” she said. “How delightful to see you.”

  “Mrs. Chase!” Violet cried, and rushed over to take Rosalind’s hand. The girl was obviously trying to behave with the utmost propriety, but her eyes sparkled, and her gloved fingers curled tightly over Rosalind’s own. It was quite a relief to see the girl looking so well. “I could scarcely believe it when Michael told me you were here, in London. I thought I would not see you again until I returned to the Seminary.”

  “The school is far too quiet with all of you girls gone,” Rosalind said. “I am very happy to see you, too, Lady Violet. You seem very well indeed.”

  “My brother has been keeping me busy, taking me to the theater and such,” Violet replied. “It has been very merry! This will be the third time we have been to Gunter’s. I am quite in alt over their strawberry ices!”

  “Well, I have never been there before, so I shall rely on your guidance in making my choices,” Rosalind told her.

  “You have never been to Gunter’s!” Violet cried in evident horror. “Then we must go there now, at once. You will adore it, I vow! Won’t she, Michael?”

  Rosalind reluctantly turned her attention from Violet to the girl’s brother. Lord Morley gave her a wide grin, and said, “Oh, yes, we s
hould hurry. Some pleasures, Mrs. Chase, should never be delayed.”

  Before Rosalind could respond, Violet took her arm and drew her to the front door, with Lord Morley following behind. She was so caught up by the feel of his gloved hand on hers as he helped her into the carriage that she quite forgot to see if the lurking man was still there.

  Gunter’s was crowded with well-dressed members of the ton, gorging themselves on pastries and ices and glancing about avidly to see who else was there. It was exactly as if the Portman ballroom where Rosalind had first encountered Lord Morley in London had been moved in toto to the café. All the same people were there; the same snatches of conversation floated through the sugar-scented air. Only the jeweled hair combs and feathered turbans had been replaced by bonnets here.

  As Lord Morley opened the door to usher Rosalind and Violet inside, Rosalind reached up to be sure her own hat was straight. It was one of Georgina’s pieces of millinery, a tall-crowned, fashion-forward affair made of dark blue velvet and satin, with a flirtatious half veil of blue tulle. Rosalind had not been too sure of it when Georgina pressed it on her; unlike a proper bonnet or a cap, it left too much of her red hair exposed. But she had given in and worn the thing.

  Now she wished more than ever for one of her own bonnets, preferably one with a concealing brim. When Michael stepped into the shop and offered an arm each to Rosalind and his sister, everyone turned to stare. A small hush fell over the café, but it was quickly dissipated, like a puff of smoke. Conversation resumed—yet people still watched. Rosalind saw Lady Clarke, who gave a tiny finger wave to Morley before leaning forward to whisper to her friends.

  Rosalind stiffened her spine until she stood at her full, not inconsiderable height, and tilted up her chin. She absolutely refused to let anyone, much less Lady Clarke, make her feel as if she did not belong here, on the arm of Lord Morley.