“You are a coxcomb,” she said.
“If I were, I should not have been surprised at your knowledge of my dance partners. Yet I’m altogether amazed... and flattered. This is a far cry from invisibility.”
She returned his gaze, her face expressionless. “When I cross the street,” she said, “I look up to make certain no vehicles are bearing recklessly down upon me. I also look down, to make sure no noisome object lies in my path. I have found it necessary in recent weeks to observe similar precautions at social events.”
He laughed. “A reckless vehicle is apt enough—but the other? I am put in my place, just goddess. Your hair curls naturally, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said, uncomfortable to find the talk redirected so speedily to her person.
“I thought so. You’ve never had to suffer the indignities of curl papers or scorching tongs.”
“Not those, no.”
“But others? What were they? Steel corsets when you were but a babe?”
“We will not speak of such garments, if you please,” she said in her best grande dame manner. “I meant applications of lemon juice, three times a day, day after day, week in and week out.”
“Ah, freckles,” he said. “Ghastly things.”
“Well, they were.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m sure you were adorable with your freckles.”
“I was not remotely adorable. I was too tall and too skinny, and my hair was too red, and I had forty-seven freckles upon my nose alone.”
“Then I wonder they never stood you in a field to frighten away the birds. You might have made yourself useful,” he said in tones of reproof. “Still, it is a relief to know you, too, had a misspent youth.”
She bit her lip, but the vision of a gawky, adolescent Lilith standing haplessly in a field of newly seeded corn was too much for her, and what began as a titter swelled into laughter.
“Mrs. Davenant,” he said sternly, “a misspent youth is nothing to be giggling about.”
“A scarecrow,” she said, still smiling. “Isn’t it odd that I’m one now? Flapping my arms to frighten off any wicked gentlemen birds from my nieces.”
“Protecting the tender young crop.”
“Yes.”
“Someone must, I suppose.”
“Yes.” Her smile faded. The mischief was gone from his eyes, and compassion had taken its place.
“That is why,” he said almost inaudibly.
She pretended not to hear, though she knew what he meant and what she had, unwittingly, revealed to his too-keen perceptions.
“Thomas will be wondering what’s become of me,” she said coolly enough, though her voice sounded shrill to her.
Lord Brandon returned Mrs. Davenant to her intended, then, more perturbed than he’d ever expected to be, left the Fevis house.
He’d known about the nieces and their Seasons with then-widowed aunt. He hadn’t suspected she financed these ventures single-handedly, though now he recollected that there had been some oblique reference to the matter in his conversation with Higginbottom.
He should have realised. If Mrs. Davenant was too proud to let him cancel Charles’s debt, she must be too proud to accept Bexley merely for her own financial security. She must have more compelling reasons for so ludicrous a match.
Still, this information changed nothing, Lord Brandon reminded himself. He’d never intended to break up her engagement. There was no reason Bexley should not marry her... after. No reason she should not continue presenting nieces until she had daughters of her own to bring out. A dozen daughters if she liked. A dozen fiery-haired, tall, passionate creatures like their mama.
He frowned. Or bland, tiresome, priggish, prating creatures like Bexley.
Gad, what did it matter? She would dote upon them even if they all looked like Lady Shumway’s unfortunate granddaughter.
“You will not,” he told himself firmly as he headed for the Cocoa Tree, “contemplate the getting of these grotesqueries.”
Chapter Twelve
“The blue silk?” Sally said, aghast. “But Mrs. Davenant don’t wear blue. Brown, grey—”
“If you know what Suzette makes for her, then you must know as well why she doesn’t give Suzette her custom any more,” said Madame Germaine as she nudged her assistant towards the rack in the sewing room.
“That was because Suzette sent some tart’s negligees, and Mrs. Davenant is very prim and proper,” Sally answered stubbornly. “She’ll take a fit if you show her the blue, mark my words.”
“Seeing you’re so wise, I wonder you don’t open your own shop.”
Thus silencing her assistant, Madame Germaine drew out the slate-blue gown she’d made for Lady Diana Stockmore before her ladyship had discovered she was increasing. “They’re nearly a size,” she went on thoughtfully. “We can do the alterations in a minute.”
Sally groaned. “But, missus, we’re over our ears as it is.”
“The others can wait. Everyone knows Mrs. Davenant pays her bills as soon as she gets them.”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Davenant when the slate-blue silk was displayed. “Nothing for me. My niece only.”
“And Sally’s measuring her at this moment, isn’t she? Such a lovely girl Miss Glenwood is. I’m sure anything we put on her will do us credit. Still, it takes time to measure properly. There’s no careless haste in my shop, Mrs. Davenant.”
“I shall be content to look at your pattern books,” said Lilith, though her glance lingered upon the tempting silk.
“Madam,” said the modiste. “I scorn flattery. I will not say this gown was made for you. It was made for another lady. But just once I’d like to see it on a proper figure before I have to cut it to pieces for some dab of a creature and trick it out with ruffles to make it look dainty.” She spoke disparagingly, though she had a score of petite customers whom she happily garbed.
“I suppose we giantesses are few and far between,” said Lilith wryly.
“Giantess, indeed. And you so slender and well-proportioned—-and with such posture.” She led Lilith to the dressing room. “I’ll assist you myself,” she said as though she were bestowing the Order of the Bath.
The slate-blue silk appeared at Lady Gaines’s ball that evening.
“I was sure my eyes were playing tricks on me,” said Lord Robert, glancing past Cecily towards a comer of the room. “I couldn’t believe that woman was your aunt, even when I heard her speak.”
“You did stare, rather,” said Cecily.
“Everyone’s staring—not that you can see her for the crowd about her. Why, she looks ten years younger. What a difference a frock makes!”
“And to think we have your naughty friends to thank for it,” said Cecily. “If they hadn’t played their joke, Aunt Lilith wouldn’t have changed dressmakers. Madame Germaine must have a gift for managing her customers. She managed my aunt beautifully. Still, I’ll take some credit, because I did persuade Aunt Lilith to let Mary cut her hair a bit.”
“Well, I never thought I’d say so, Miss Glenwood, but your aunt is a stunner. No wonder Julian—” Scarcely missing a beat, he went on, “Is that a new scent? You remind me of a garden after a spring shower.”
“Damp and mouldy, you mean. What a pleasant compliment.”
“That isn’t what I meant at all. Clean and sweet and fresh.”
“I’m glad you think so. Your cologne is much more agreeable than Mr. Ventcoeur’s, so I’m sure your judgment must be sound.”
Lord Brandon stood by the French doors leading onto the terrace. The doors were open now. Prinny having come and gone, the company might at last inhale fresh air. The marquess might have stood nearer Lilith Davenant half the night without calling undue attention to himself, since there was a respectable crowd of gentlemen about her. He’d tried that already, and didn’t like it.
Unlike the others, Lord Brandon had not needed to see Mrs. Davenant costumed in a becoming gown to know she was desirable. Nonetheless, he could not have
guessed the impact such a gown would have upon him.
At first, it was her hair he’d noticed. The tightly braided coils had disappeared the night of her niece’s comeout. Even so, the widow’s style remained far too severe for a young woman of eight and twenty. Tonight, however, gleaming auburn curls danced wantonly about her face. The rest was caught up loosely behind, so that she looked tumbled, as though she’d just risen from her pillows.
Then he’d bent over her hand, and a creamy, silken expanse of bosom swam into his vision in swelling curves. He’d caught his breath... and remained breathless as his gaze slid discreetly over the smoky blue fabric that gleamed softly against alabaster skin and clung lovingly to her long-legged, supple figure. A wave of hot impatience had washed over him then, and he told himself he’d waited long enough.
Yet the marquess waited now, standing idly by the terrace doors, his habitual expression of lazy boredom masking the discontent within.
He’d grown wary of this restiveness. More than once it had led him to rush his fences, which had meant time wasted repairing the damage. He knew himself better now. He must not seek her out when he was chafing. If she wouldn’t come to him, he’d let it go this evening and entertain himself elsewhere. All the same, knowing he wanted no elsewhere, no other, he willed her to come to him.
An hour passed while he watched his friends gravitate to her. In that time he saw a dozen expressions cross her face. They were unreadable to others, perhaps—the faintest trails of expression crossing her cool countenance.
All the same, Lord Brandon comprehended her confusion and surprise, and every phase leading her gradually to understand that the gentlemen suddenly found her very attractive. He read the widow’s feelings as easily as if they’d been writ out in bold letters above her head. Then, as he perceived the faint flush of pleasure and slow, beguiling curve of her mouth, he found himself smiling as well. Whatever else he’d wanted of her, it was not her unhappiness. Her own kin first, then Davenant, had given her enough of that. Yet it never ceased to amaze the marquess that so desirable a woman should have so low an opinion of herself.
Before the hour elapsed, Brandon watched her stand up with her betrothed and be taken from him in the next set by Lord Worcester, who relinquished her in the next to Brummell.
It was Brummell brought her to the marquess when the dance had ended. This was to settle a dispute.
“Mrs. Davenant insists it is not milk baths,” the Beau announced, “but the consumption of vegetables and exercise in the open air accounts for her flawless complexion. Bexley will not tell me whether this is cruel teasing, for he is blasting Hamilton about some tiresome political triviality. You are better acquainted with this lady than I, Brandon. Is this irony or fact?”
“I certainly have no notion of her bathing habits,” his lordship said wickedly. A rosy tint glowed upon the widow’s high cheekbones.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Davenant,” said the Beau. “This was my fault. An injudicious choice of phrasing.” He returned to Brandon. “I only wished to ascertain whether you had ever seen Mrs. Davenant eat vegetables.”
“Indeed I have. Moreover, I am informed by reliable witnesses that she rides, several times a week, in the early morning air.”
Brummell’s face fell. “I have an open mind,” he said bravely. “I shall take a turn about the terrace. But vegetables. Good heavens!” He sauntered through the French doors.
“Does he never eat vegetables?” Lilith asked.
“He claims he once ate a pea. You’re very beautiful tonight, Mrs. Davenant.”
Slowly, her mouth curled into a delicious smile.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ve been terrified into it, you know.”
“Have you indeed?” he asked, intrigued, charmed. “I’ve never heard of anybody’s being terrified into beauty.”
“Then obviously you’re not acquainted with Madame Germaine. I’ve never been so scolded and threatened—not since I was in the nursery, I’m sure.”
“Good grief! What had this dread female to say?”
“You are not to repeat it,” said Lilith, lowering her voice.
He bent his head to listen and caught a whiff of jasmine.
“She said Cecily’s beaux will wonder whether she’ll take after me.”
“But you’re not her mama. You’re not even a blood relation.”
“Her mama wears nothing but ancient riding habits, which is worse, I daresay, and I’m on the spot to be taken as model.”
“You did not tell this upstart shopkeeper you’ve already riveted several nieces successfully?”
“I did,” said Lilith, her blue eyes dancing with an amusement as enchanting as it was rare. “In my best set-down manner. She only shook her head pityingly and sighed and answered, ‘But only think how much better the dear creatures might have done.’”
“If you will excuse me,” said Lord Brandon. “I believe I must depart now—to set fire to her shop.”
“You don’t approve my transformation, then, despite the compliment.”
“No, I do not. All these weeks I’ve feasted upon your beauty in solitary dignity. Now I must dine with a mob,” he complained. “I shall be forced to listen to Brummell rhapsodise about your complexion. I must endure Byron’s odes to your eyes and Davies’ puns upon your lips. No doubt there will be violent quarrels whether your hair is Bordeaux or sienna, copper-tinted or russet, and one numskull will call another out on the issue.” He paused. “Now, there’s a thought,” he said. “Perhaps they’ll all kill one another.”
“So long as a duke or two remains standing to marry Cecily, I can’t object,” she said. “Madame Germaine won’t be satisfied with any lesser rank, I’m afraid.”
“I wonder, if you dance with a marquess, whether that will send one peltering after Miss Glenwood. Then, seeing the marquess give chase, perhaps a duke will join the pursuit. All of which is to say I wish you’d dance this waltz with me.”
There was a heartbeat’s pause, enough to send a shiver of anger through him, but she consented, and the only vestige of rage remaining was with himself, for being so shaken at the prospect of refusal.
His hand clasped her waist—and encountered something altogether unexpected. “I shall burn down her shop,” he muttered, “and throttle her with my own neckcloth.”
“What on earth—” Her eyes must have caught the mischief in his, because she became flustered. “You will not—”
“Stays,” he said grimly. “That wretched female has persuaded you to crush your rib cage in one of those fiendish instruments of torture.”
“My lord, you have an annoying habit of referring to exceedingly intimate matters,” she said with a touch of asperity.
“I am appalled to find you have acquired an even more distressing habit.”
“I had to wear it,” she said, vexed. “The gown was indecent otherwise. Oh, stop looking at me in that aggravating manner. Why did I ever agree to dance with you?”
“An attack of conscience. You haven’t danced with me in an age. I daresay you finally decided I’d been punished long enough.”
“I was not punishing you.”
“It felt exactly like punishment.”
Her face became shuttered, and he cursed himself silently. “You needn’t poker up,” he said. “It’s simply that you’ve found me in bad temper.”
After a moment, she asked what had put him out of temper.
“Who knows?” he said. “Talk to me and make me forget. Quiet my mind with some tranquil image. Tell me of your place in Derbyshire.”
“It isn’t very interesting,” she said. “In Derbyshire, I’m a farmer.”
“Very well. I shall give up Athena for the moment and transform you in my mind to Demeter. Tell me of sheep and cows and corn and—oh, above all, tell me of drainage.”
He watched her face soften and her eyes light up with enthusiasm as she described the vast, ill-maintained estate her grandparents had given her as a wedding gift and of the
years spent making it productive again. She could not suppress her pride in her accomplishment. Not that she should, he thought. She deserved a great deal of credit. She’d educated herself about modern agricultural methods, single-handedly set about persuading her tenants from their old-fashioned ways, and managed the whole herself.
She’d had time enough on her hands, hadn’t she? No social life until after her husband died. No children, except those she adopted temporarily for some three or four months of the year.
The estate, his lordship knew from conversations with Higginbottom, was at present let to a retired military officer, who would very likely make a purchase offer at the summer’s end. That, Brandon realised as he studied her animated countenance, would probably break her heart.
The waltz ended and Mrs. Davenant went on talking, like an eager girl. He continued to ask questions, and she answered happily, even after he led her back to Bexley.
This would do no harm in Bexley’s view—if he were paying attention, which was not altogether certain. Still, the spirited discussion of agriculture must silence the gossips, at least temporarily. Moreover, it was not a topic to excite her new admirers. Those who owned property preferred to leave the business of maintaining it to others. They knew less of modern agriculture than their sheep did.
Fortunately, the marquess knew something – more than something, actually. Thus he enjoyed the added pleasure of watching surprise, then growing respect, brighten her beautiful eyes.
The following day, Mrs. Davenant met in her study with her butler.
“Certainly, madam,” said Cawble when she’d done explaining. “It can be managed discreetly. I shall send Jacob with the centre-piece, the two larger candelabra, the great coffee urn, and the other items you suggested. They will not be required, unless you plan a large entertainment in the near future.”
“I am sure we shall redeem them long before I plan such an affair,” said his mistress.
“Yes, madam. This is a regrettable necessity, yet one cannot plan for every emergency, I am sure.”
All the same, the loyal butler could not help reflecting disapprovingly upon his employer’s man of business. Mrs. Davenant should not be placed in the mortifying position of pawning her silver, simply because men who were supposed to sign pieces of paper chose to dawdle over the matter. They had no business dawdling, Cawble reflected indignantly. They had little enough to do. That a lady of her means should not be able to put her hands upon ready money the instant she required it was an affront to the British Constitution.
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