by Lauren Smith
Outside, Gideon took a deep breath. Would the dowager take Lady Moira to the country? Some families did when their daughters had been ruined. Yet, was Lady Moira truly ruined? She hadn’t actually done anything scandalous. She’d only uttered a few ill-chosen words and captured the attention of every member of White’s.
He glanced in one direction and then another. There were other balls, and if he were serious about finding a wife, he should be making an appearance somewhere else. Yet Gideon wasn’t in the mood. It wasn’t as though there wouldn’t be dozens more balls before the Season ended and he certainly wasn’t going to go back inside the Davenports’. He’d experienced more male companionship during the height of shopping on Bond Street.
Gideon took the watch from his pocket and checked the time beneath the streetlamp. Midnight. Not exactly early, but not late enough to return home. Besides, he was far too restless to sleep. Where would everyone else be if not at a ball? White’s, of course.
“I don’t know why they left, and so suddenly.”
Gideon turned as voices drew near. Lady Moira’s older brother and his lovely wife were walking toward him.
“It doesn’t matter. I am glad to be free of that place,” Hearne grumbled and signaled for his carriage.
“Ainsely,” Hearne acknowledged.
“Hearne.” There wasn’t much more to say.
“Do you happen to know where Lady Moira and her mother went off to?” Lady Hearne questioned him.
“We don’t need to worry. Just be glad we can go home,” Hearne insisted.
They didn’t know. Should he tell them? Obviously Hearne new about the bet, but what of his wife? He caught and held Hearne’s eyes for a moment.
“What do you know?” Hearne practically groaned.
“Perhaps it is better discussed in private.”
The woman’s eyes grew wide and she looked at Hearne. “Your mother learned about the bet.” It was more of a statement than a question.
Apparently, Hearne didn’t bother to shield his wife from gossip or betting books.
“I am afraid so. I overheard two ladies speaking.”
“We should go to your sister,” the countess urged.
“Moira can weather this storm without me. I will call on them first thing in the morning.”
Lady Hearne bit her bottom lip.
“Trust me. Moira is made of sterner stuff than the two of us put together.”
Hearne focused on Gideon. “Thank you for telling us.”
Gideon simply inclined his head. Even though Hearne wasn’t rushing to his sister’s side, he did admire the man’s concern.
“Where are you off to? Could we offer you a lift?”
“White’s, and my carriage should be here in a moment.”
Lady Hearne placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “Perhaps you should go with him.”
“Why? I want to go home.” Hearne’s eyes bored into hers.
Gideon could even see her blush in the pale light, so he averted his eyes. If I had a wife, I would be at home, in bed and not standing on some street.
“What if...” She bit her lip.
“If Moira is the subject of another bet?” Hearne finished her sentence.
The countess cringed. “She did reject Lord Lydell tonight.”
“Bloody hell,” Hearne muttered.
“I’m headed there anyway. You go home,” Gideon found himself offering. “If another bet appears, I’ll come by in the morning.”
“Thank you,” Hearne clapped Gideon on the shoulder as two carriages pulled up to the curb.
“But, Nyle, what if...” the countess protested.
“There isn’t anything I can do about it tonight.”
Chapter 7
“What were you thinking?”
Her mother had been ranting ever since they stepped through the door. All Moira wanted to do was change into her night clothing and crawl into bed. No real harm had been done. It was a stupid bet, which she had dealt with rather well, and it would soon be forgotten. Then she could find her Scot.
“What was I thinking to send you to that Broadmoor Academy?” Her mother practically gulped from her glass of wine. “The four of you were inseparable in your studies and in mischief. It appears now you will all face ruination together.”
Oh yes, that was right. Poor Patience had also earned a place in the betting book. Something about being bedded but not leg-shackled. It was quite horrible, and Moira had to wonder again about gentlemen in Society and their need to make ridiculous and harmful bets.
“Really, Mother, you make it sound as if—”
Mother wheeled around, shaking her finger at Moira. “Do not interrupt me. You have no idea the embarrassment I faced tonight to learn that my daughter intends to compromise a gentleman.”
“It was made in jest,” Moira mumbled.
“When will you ever learn that even the slightest remark that can be taken as scandalous is the only thing Society hears? Your sister never behaved this way. She was the perfect, dutiful daughter.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“Well, at least you didn’t fall as far as Lady Philippa.” Her mother shuddered. “That gel will be lucky if any true gentleman actually considers her this Season.”
Moira opened her mouth to point out that one particular gentleman did seem to take interest but thought it wiser to hold her tongue.
“And you had the perfect opportunity to make a good impression on Lord Lydell this evening, but the gentleman couldn’t get away from you quick enough after you spoke.”
“Mother,” Moira stood. “He was the other subject of the bet. He only sought me out because he is broke and needs an heiress.”
“There is nothing wrong with marrying for those reasons. He is a marquess, after all.” Her mother poured another glass of wine. “In fact, it is far better to marry on those terms than for a silly emotion.”
“What is wrong with marrying for love?”
Her mother looked up at her, a wave of pity flashed across her face. “Oh, Moira, please do not tell me you are holding out for love.”
Moira sat back down and played with the fringe on her shawl. “What is so wrong if I wish that there be some affection?”
“Oh, dear.” Her mother settled on the seat beside Moira and picked up her hand. “Be happy with your role of providing an heir and a spare and tuck your heart away. It will only be broken.”
That was the same advice Mother had given Beth, Moira’s older sister. Beth seemed quite content, living in the country, producing a child approximately ten months after her husband bothered to visit. Even now Moira’s brother-in-law was in Town while her sister was not. It was what Moira expected for herself, but not what she wanted. Her sister had wanted a marquess and a quiet home in the country. She had her home, and one day her husband would hold the title, but Moira wanted someone to care for her. Was it too much to hope for love and affection in a marriage?
If so, then her desire for Scotland had just increased. If she were going to be miserable, she’d not have it compounded by regular visits from her mother to make certain she was doing her duty and being a good wife. A person could only take so much criticism in their life and Moira had already suffered enough for two lifetimes.
Her mother set the half-empty glass of Madeira on the table. “First thing tomorrow, we begin work.”
“On what?” Moira held her breath while she awaited the answer. It could be anything from a day of needlework to a new wardrobe.
“Your hair first. That ghastly color will not attract any gentleman, especially after the shame you have brought to this family.”
Not my hair again. “I don’t know what you would have me do. Dip my head in tar?”
“Don’t be cheeky.” Mother finished off her second glass of Madeira. She never had more than one glass in an evening.
“There are a number of remedies, and we will try one after the other until we get it right.”
“If you wish.”
There weren’t that many, a couple dozen or so, and they were small. Why couldn’t her mother just leave them alone?
Hopefully whatever salve her mother found would smell better than the others she’d tried.
“Lastly, we are going to bind your breasts.”
Moira sat up. “What?”
“They attract far too much attention. The wrong kind of attention.” Her mother lifted her eyebrows in a knowing manner, which was lost on Moira. “If you want a gentleman, you can’t have those—” she gestured to Moira’s chest “—distracting them. True gentlemen prefer dainty women. Perhaps we should bind your hips as well.”
Her mother had now moved beyond any reason.
“We will discuss the rest tomorrow. Off to bed.”
Thank goodness. Moira stood to make her exit.
“And one more thing.”
Moira stopped without turning around.
“Do not expect to leave the house for a few days, or longer. Not until this scandal dies.”
Days trapped in the house with her mother? Lord Lydell was beginning to hold some promise. At least he would leave her alone.
Chapter 8
Lord Alston bets Mr. Fiske fifty pounds that Mr. Garson, who does not have an estate near Bath, will allow himself to be compromised by Lady Moira Kirkwood and hie off to Scotland within a fortnight. ~ April 20, 1813
Gideon stared at the open page of the betting book. Who the bloody hell was Mr. Garson?
Two gentlemen behind him were in a heated discussion over a Miss Vandercourt, and Gideon stepped out of the way so they could write their own bet. Hopefully the one involving Lady Moira would be buried within the pages soon enough.
White’s was overly crowded this evening. No doubt because all the gentlemen had invitations to the Davenports’ and preferred to be here instead. Still, it wasn’t as though it was the only ball in Town. So why the crush in here?
He shrugged, not overly concerned, and scanned the room for a place to sit. Coming toward him was a young gentleman barely old enough to be out of Harrow. Round face, boyish grin, and a cravat tied so high and tight it could be used as a noose. Gideon stepped out of the way, but the man halted in front of him.
“Lord Ainsely, I am Mr. Garson.” He stuck out his hand.
Well, that answered one of his questions.
“Mr. Garson,” Gideon nodded in introduction. He really didn’t want to encourage a conversation with the stranger.
“Lydell suggested you could help me.”
“How is that?”
“By way of an introduction to Lady Moira Kirkwood.”
Gideon looked past Garson to Lydell, who was coming up from behind.
“I don’t see why Lydell can’t perform the service himself.”
“How would that look?” The man questioned. “Lady Moira rejected him tonight. Should a gentleman be expected to introduce the lady in question to his replacement?”
How young was this pup?
“Besides, I won’t talk to that simpleton again,” Lydell added as he drew up beside them.
Gideon arched an eyebrow. Lydell apparently did not take rejection well.
“Bath,” Lydell muttered as he passed Gideon and exited White’s.
“Will you do it, Lord Ainsely?”
Though every instinct warned Gideon to advise young Garson to speak with Hearne, he didn’t. “The next time the three of us are at the same function, I will endeavor to arrange an introduction.”
His eyes lit as if someone had just given him a treat. “Oh, thank you, Lord Ainsely. You will not regret this.”
Gideon simply nodded, moving past the young man, already regretting the offer.
When did I turn into a blasted matchmaker?
“Where is Mother?” Nyle asked as he entered the morning room.
Moira looked up from her book. “She has gone to the apothecary.”
A look of worry flashed over his features. “Is she ill?”
“No,” Moira laughed. “She is in search of something to rid me of my freckles.”
Nyle rolled his eyes and settled in the chair across from Moira. “Is this her punishment because of the betting book?”
“She’s convinced once we’ve taken care of my ghastly appearance, no one will remember.” Moira blinked back tears. She normally didn’t allow her mother’s words to upset her so. Why was she so sensitive today?
Nyle leaned forward and looked Moira in the eye. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with your appearance. In fact, you are rather pretty.”
“You’re my brother and are required to say nice things, on occasion.” Though, when they were children such had not been the case. She smiled at the fond memories of a much more pleasant and less complicated time.
“I know your value. And—” he straightened “—I can assure you there is not one gentleman in society who would ever consider you ghastly.”
“Thank you.” Moira smiled and looked down. It was nice to hear, but she didn’t truly believe him. When she married, it would be because the gentleman had an estate in Scotland and needed her wealth. Such gentlemen in need of a settlement usually didn’t have the option of marrying a diamond of the first water.
“Why did you stop by? It isn’t like you to be here so early and looking for Mother. Is something wrong?”
“I am not looking for Mother and hoped she was still abed.”
“Why?”
“Ainsely came to see me this morning.”
Moira’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of his name. Oh, why wasn’t he Scottish?
“Apparently there is a new bet in the books.”
Moira sat straight. She did not need this. Not now. “Why? Who?”
“As you rejected Lydell simply because his estate is near Bath, a bet was wagered with regard to a new gentleman who does not have an estate near Bath. A Mr. Garson, or so I understand.”
“Do you know him?”
“No.” Nyle pushed his fingers through his hair. “What is your objection to Bath?”
Moira pursed her lips. How much should she tell her brother? Should she even tell him anything further. “It is a lovely place to visit, but I do not wish to live there.” She shrugged. It was better not to tell Nyle of her plans just in case he wished to object. He would be the one making the marriage contract on her behalf. Only if it became necessary would she divulge her reasoning. Apparently Alvina hadn’t told him either, or he wouldn’t have asked. At least her sister-in-law could keep a secret from Nyle when it was begged of her.
“Well, you can’t discount a gentleman simply because of where he lives.”
“I won’t, if the gentleman is worth considering.” And a gentleman wasn’t worth considering if he didn’t live in Scotland.
The front door opened and closed, and Moira could hear her mother. “Please don’t tell her,” she begged in a whisper.
“And ruin my own day?” Nyle scoffed.
“Nyle, what a pleasant surprise,” her mother exclaimed as she walked into the room carrying a bag.
Her brother stood. “You do have servants to do your shopping and help carry your purchases.”
“Oh, I couldn’t trust these procurements to just anyone.” She put the bag on the floor and settled onto the settee as Nyle resumed his seat.
Mother reached into the bag and began withdrawing items. “Rose-water and borax.” She set the bottles on the table. “It is for the complexion.” Then she removed two more items. “Ammonia and muriatic acid for the hair.”
Nyle frowned. “Mother, your hair is a lovely shade without even a hint of gray or white as so many women suffer at your age.”
“I know, dear.” She patted her chignon. “These are for Moira. If we cannot make it blonde with these, I have ingredients for a walnut dye to make it brown.” She looked over at her daughter. “Anything is better than that red.”
“Mother, there is nothing wrong
with Moira’s hair color,” Nyle argued, growing irritated with the woman. If anything, her older brother could always be counted on to defend her.
“What do you know?” she dismissed him. “You are a man.”
“It is a gentleman who will be choosing her as his wife,” Nyle pointed out, bringing a smile to Moira’s lips.
“I also purchased blistering liquid.”
Moira sat forward. “What is that for?”
“Freckles,” her mother answered matter-of-factly. “Once the blister dries, the skin is lifted away and the spot will go with it.”
Moira’s hands went to her face. Her mother wanted to purposefully cause blisters.
“Are you insane?” Nyle yelled as he came to his feet.
“I hear it works wonders,” their mother defended and blinked up at her son as if she couldn’t understand his concern.
“That, I highly doubt.” Nyle folded his arms over his chest. “Several ladies who have tried that so-called cure for freckles have been left scarred. Do you really wish to leave Moira looking as if she suffered a horrible case of smallpox on account of freckles?”
“Well, I hadn’t really thought—”
“No, you didn’t,” he cut her off and reached forward, grabbing Moira’s hand and pointed to the small scar on her wrist. “This is from a blister she received from hot water. I don’t want to imagine what that stuff would do to her face.”
Moira glanced down at the scar. It wasn’t that large, no bigger than the tip of her pinky, and didn’t bother her since it was covered in gloves whenever she was out of the house. Yet, it would never do to have her face be covered in similar scars, especially if it was brought about on purpose. She’d never land a Scotsman, or anyone else for that matter.
“Very well,” her mother sighed. “The apothecary also suggested a mixture of mustard powder, lemon juice, and oil of almonds twice a day.”