A Lady of True Distinction

by Grace Burrowes

  That lonely, bewildered, half-wild girl had deserved better than Lucas’s heated fumblings, and now she was to have better. Much better.

  “Hawthorne, stop.”

  He paused, his neckcloth undone. “You’ve changed your mind?”

  A world of wary male forbearance colored that question, and again, Margaret felt herself falling more thoroughly in love. If she had changed her mind, Hawthorne would button up, finish his apple tart, and make no mention of her fickleness.

  The opposite of Lucas with his importuning and cajoling. Also the opposite of Charles, who’d viewed moments of passionate arousal as precious gifts not to be squandered merely because his wife was in the middle of a rare and much-needed midday nap.

  “I have not changed my mind. I need help with my dress.” Margaret spun on the blanket, swept her hair off her nape, and presented him with her back. “If you’d oblige me?”

  She had one instant’s warning—a hint of warmth on her neck—before Hawthorne whispered in her ear.

  “I will oblige you until we are both spent and dazed, then I will oblige you again. I might oblige you so thoroughly you’ll ask me to carry you back to the house.” He kissed Margaret’s nape, sending shivers down her arms.

  The pretty day became beautiful, the future luminous. “We will oblige each other.”

  Hawthorne was good with buttons, a fine quality in a man one intended to marry. His touch was brisk, he didn’t snag Margaret’s hair, and neither did his hands wander. The fresh air touched her between the shoulder blades, and then Hawthorne hugged her from behind.

  “You must be honest with me to the point of ruthlessness, Margaret. Don’t humor me if I’m going about matters in a manner not to your liking.”

  She kissed his forearm. “This is a beginning, Hawthorne, a place to start. I don’t expect perfection, and neither should you.”

  “Practical,” he said, kissing the top of her head and sitting back. “I do adore your level-headedness. Perhaps you’d like to undo my falls?”

  Well, no. Margaret would rather have ripped them loose instead of carefully undoing each button as Hawthorne lounged on his back, not a care in the world. When she’d undone both sides, she sat back.

  “Now what?”

  He sat up enough to shrug out of his coat and drape it over the picnic blanket. “Waistcoat next?”

  “Lie down.”

  Margaret had valeted Charles, as many wives did for their husbands. Charles had been self-conscious of his appearance, envying more vigorous men their muscles and appetites. Undressing Hawthorne was nothing at all like assisting Charles.

  Hawthorne’s frame was robust and in excellent condition. Supple muscles wrapped around big, long bones, and the whole came together in a testament to the species at its finest. Margaret ran her hand over Hawthorne’s chest, sparing a thought for how justified Charles’s envy had been. Illness had denied him so much, and for the most part, he’d borne his tribulations quietly until the end.

  But I did not die with him, and for that I am grateful.

  “Will you take your shirt off for me?” Margaret asked, undoing the last of Hawthorne’s waistcoat buttons.

  “Little would please me more.” He pulled his shirt over his head, the muscles of his belly flexing as he sat up.

  Margaret was still more or less fully clothed, though the buttons at the back of her dress were undone. Stupid of her not to have dressed for seduction. She’d dressed for a walk through the countryside, hoping Hawthorne might steal a few kisses or take her hand when they crossed a stile.

  “I’m wearing stays.”

  “Not for long, you’re not.” Hawthorne got her dress off over her head and started on her laces, and in this, too, he was competent.

  “You’ve undressed other women.”

  “A few, none recently. I got off on rather the wrong foot with a woman at university who presented herself as widowed, until having a large, jealous husband was a more lucrative status. One learns caution with the ladies after such an experience.”

  “There’s more to this tale.”

  “Which I will happily tell you some other time. Suffice it to say, I made a gold-plated fool of myself, got my arm broken for my trouble, and didn’t make the same mistake twice. Is that loose enough?”

  Margaret had to stand to wiggle out of her stays. “I feel daring to be parading around in my chemise out of doors.” Daring, but also, for the first time in ages, like her true self.

  “What you are,” Thorne said, tugging on her wrist, “is luscious. Make love with me.”

  Margaret had initiated this seduction, though where she’d found the courage was a mystery. Perhaps Hawthorne had given her the inspiration, with his combination of good humor, pragmatism, and roaring male vitality. For him, the situation was simple: They were to be married. They desired each other. They had privacy and time.

  Margaret lowered herself to the blanket and kissed him, though for her, this whole situation was not simple at all.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The most secluded path in the most secluded corner of Hyde Park was not nearly isolated enough for the thinking Valerian had to do. London was driving him mad, or perhaps close proximity to Casriel and his new countess was having that effect.

  Sycamore was already housing Ash and hadn’t invited Valerian to join them, which meant Valerian spent his days watching Casriel, a generally sensible and self-possessed man, make sheep’s eyes at Lady Casriel for the duration of every meal, carriage ride, and casual encounter in the foyer.

  “If I weren’t so jealous, I’d find it amusing.” That confidence could be safely placed in the keeping of Valerian’s horse, a cantankerous bay gelding by the name of Clovis. The horse was no happier than Valerian to be cooped up in London, but a morning hack went a long way toward subduing Clovis’s misanthropic tendencies.

  They’d had their gallop for the day, and still, Valerian did not want to return to breakfast at the town house.

  “More tea, my love?” he muttered, pitching his voice low. “Thank you, dearest,” he replied in a soft falsetto. “Until I’m ready to cast up my toast and run howling from the premises. Hawthorne knows not what he’s asked of me…”

  Clovis’s ears pricked forward as voices came from around a bend in the path.

  “I tell you, Briggs, the wretched habit is the problem.”

  A female, and an annoyed female. Exactly what Valerian’s morning did not need. The path ended at a fountain tucked away beneath the maples, so turning around would result only in Valerian being trapped without a means of escape.

  “Onward,” he whispered to his horse.

  Clovis sauntered around the bend and came to a halt.

  “Miss Pepper.” Valerian tipped his hat. “Miss Briggs.”

  The companion sat upon a beast just above pony size. She and her mount wore identical expressions of martyrdom, and if they had a groom, he’d abandoned his duties.

  “Mr. Dorning.” Miss Pepper left off fussing with the skirts of her riding habit as her mare snatched at the reins. “Good morning. If you overheard my unladylike language, I trust you will ignore it.”

  “Not a chance,” Valerian said, swinging to the ground. “Stand, Clovis, or we’ll go home by way of the knacker’s yard.”

  Clovis assayed his innocent-little-pony look, which he did nearly as well as Valerian impersonated a charming gentleman.

  “Have you perchance misplaced your groom?” Valerian asked, approaching Miss Pepper’s mare.

  Miss Briggs sniffed, much as a horse might have snorted at the sight of an unwelcome pasture mate.

  “I ordered him to leave us some privacy,” Miss Pepper replied. “I want no witnesses to my humiliation. I also gave an order to cut out Briggs’s tongue unless she swore a blood oath of silence.”

  “My lips are sealed,” Briggs said. “Until we regain the privacy of the town house.”

  The girths were properly adjusted, the bridle as well. Valerian took hold of the neare
st rein. “What’s your mare’s name?”

  “Poppy. She came highly recommended as a lady’s mount.”

  “She’s not to snatch at the reins like that. Speak sharply to her the next time she does it.” The habit of instruction came naturally, though usually Valerian was instructing young lads on how to survive the ordeal of asking a lady to dance.

  Poppy snatched at the reins again.

  “Madam,” Valerian said in his most menacing tones, “your unseemly conduct disgraces your upbringing, brings shame upon your stable, and risks a dire fate. Cease immediately.”

  “Oh my.” Miss Pepper took a firmer hold of the reins. “You have hidden depths, Mr. Dorning.”

  “She’ll be good until my back is turned,” he said, moving to Miss Pepper’s side. “A gentleman typically aids a lady to adjust her skirts after assisting her to mount, the lady being necessarily concerned with control of the horse. A groom is not as willing to take such a liberty, which is foolishness when a woman’s safety is at issue.”

  He tugged a length of fabric free of the stirrup leather and draped it straight down, then walked to the other side of the horse. “Stand up a bit in the stirrup. If all you can manage is to lean forward, do that.”

  Miss Pepper complied, and he pulled another wad of velvet from beneath her seat, then freed a fold from between the saddle and pad.

  “More comfortable?” he asked.

  “Thank you, yes. Now if only I can avoid the near occasion of death on the way home. I had my heart set on trotting today, but Briggs has forbidden it.”

  Valerian climbed back into the saddle and gave Clovis a pat for standing as if he routinely respected his rider’s orders. Clovis would dispel that fiction sooner or later.

  “Ladies riding aside generally avoid the trot,” Valerian said. “They prefer to canter or walk, those gaits being smoother.”

  Briggs made a noise that probably translated from Companion into English as I told you so.

  “But one must learn to stay on at the trot,” Miss Pepper replied, “trots sometimes occurring between the canter and the walk.”

  A well-trained horse, especially a lady’s mount, could transition smoothly from walk to canter and back again, provided the rider knew how to give the cues.

  Valerian nudged Clovis forward, and the mare fell in step beside him. “You don’t know how to ride.” Miss Pepper was not a particularly gifted dancer either, though Valerian had stood up with her for only one minuet. Bancroft Summerfield had claimed a waltz with her on the two occasions that Valerian had observed.

  The results had been uncomfortable to watch.

  “I did know how to ride, once upon a time when a girl could sit astride her pony. I took a tumble and sprained my wrist when I was eight. I love horses, and I’ve spent many a happy hour with the grooms—I’m a competent groom myself—but then I was too busy learning French, deportment, algebra, German, Italian, pianoforte—”

  The mare jerked her head up, which had the effect of pulling the reins from Miss Pepper’s hands.

  “Scold her,” Valerian said as the mare took advantage of her own bad behavior and tore a mouthful of grass from the verge. “Shorten the reins and threaten her with mortal doom.”

  “Bad girl, Poppycock,” Miss Pepper said in tones that might have got the attention of a particularly shy kitten. “Shame upon you.”

  Valerian reached over and took a firm hold of the mare’s reins. “You shameless little baggage, if you misbehave in a similar fashion even once more, I will sit upon you myself and deliver a course in etiquette you will not soon forget.”

  “You sound like Briggs on the subject of unruly lapdogs.”

  “Briggs is clearly a woman of intelligence, for horses and dogs both benefit from sensible rules consistently enforced.”

  “I do not benefit from sensible rules consistently enforced,” Miss Pepper said. “I cannot blame the mare for testing the limits on her freedom.”

  “Poppycock is not a well-educated, self-possessed, articulate young woman. She is a domestic animal with a job to do. She can test limits all she pleases when she’s in a nice cozy stall, knee-deep in straw, a pile of hay at her hooves.”

  Miss Pepper fiddled with her reins. “You think I’m self-possessed and well educated?”

  In a ballroom or at a card table, that question might have been flirtatious. From a lady perched awkwardly in the saddle, nobody to overhear her but a loyal companion, Miss Pepper’s query suggested a hint of uncertainty.

  “I have firsthand proof that you are a gifted conversationalist, witty, and astute. Think, though, of the demands of the waltz. When your partner knows what he’s about and conducts himself with confidence and tact on the dance floor, your role is much easier to fulfill. When your partner fumbles about, can’t find the beat, and nearly tramps on your hem… life is much more difficult. You must be the leading partner in the dance with Poppycock. She will be a happier horse when that is clear to her.”

  Clovis took leave to debate that theory on occasion, lest a rider get overly confident. Brothers were another reliable source of humility in Valerian’s life, and sisters… sisters were a realm of complexity unto themselves.

  So why did he miss both of his?

  “You’ve seen me waltzing with Mr. Summerfield,” Miss Pepper said, letting Valerian hold back a branch for her. “I am not exactly a paean to grace.”

  “The gentleman takes responsibility for the dance as the partner who leads. I myself have attempted to teach Mr. Summerfield the rudiments of the waltz. He has not been gifted with natural ability in some regards.” Bancroft had brought neither humility nor humor nor tenacity to the endeavor either.

  Briggs had allowed her cobb to fall several yards behind, though Valerian wasn’t sure if that was by design or default.

  “You and he are neighbors,” Miss Pepper said. “He mentioned that. Are you cordial?”

  “The Dornings are on good terms with all and sundry. We’re not exactly impoverished these days, but as a family, our stores of charm are more reliable than our fortunes.”

  “So you don’t have a profession or occupation?”

  What an uncomfortable, insightful question. “As it happens, I do have responsibilities. My family is developing a legacy of botanical treasures into a commercial enterprise. My brother Hawthorne will be in charge of producing the goods in Dorset, and my other brothers and I will see to the London end of things.” A suitably vague but honest response.

  “My legacy is fabric,” Miss Pepper said, as if that inheritance was a sentence of transportation. “Silks and satins, wools and linen. I can tell you the value of a bolt of velvet to the penny, and my eye for lace has made Papa more than one fortune. We avoid cotton, because the best quality is to be had from the Americans, and Papa says their situation is unstable and morally repugnant. In fact, the whole cloth business can turn on a whim of fashion, which is why Papa is so keen to enter the propertied classes.”

  “Land has its challenges too. Agriculture is a vast and changing science, and rents are not what they once were.”

  And this was not idle chitchat. But then, Miss Pepper studied algebra, an unusual addition to a lady’s curriculum. Chitchat probably bored her witless.

  They had reached a wider path, where a fellow in workingman’s garb sat atop a hairy, unrefined hack that probably did double duty hauling the cook to market.

  “Your groom?”

  “The long-suffering Diller, who prays nightly for me to be married off. I am a trial to his nerves.”

  “And mine.” That, from Briggs, who rode past Miss Pepper to join the groom.

  “I’ll wish you good day,” Valerian said. “If you’d ever like a few pointers about how to remain in the saddle, or make a better impression when turning down the ballroom, I am happy to oblige.” He usually charged for those instructions, but in her case…

  “Thank you, but I believe my dancing is hopeless, Mr. Dorning, and if Bancroft Summerfield is to be my partner, I am
not much motivated to improve. You aren’t perchance returning to Dorset anytime soon, are you?”

  “I am charged with finding a commercial property here in London for my family to acquire or rent, the better to further our business interests. Until that task is complete, I am doomed to bide in London. Why?”

  “I have a job too, Mr. Dorning.” She spoke softly and not happily. “Mr. Summerfield has invited us to return to Dorset with him. While I enjoy the countryside immensely, the journey will be long.”

  With marriage as its destination? Was that her job, to become Mrs. Bancroft Summerfield? Valerian did not know her well enough to ask that, and her plans were none of his business, except insofar as Bancroft Summerfield appeared to be courting her, and Bancroft was very much his business.

  “Dorset is beautiful, Miss Pepper, and Summerfield House is situated in the midst of congenial neighbors. Has Mr. Summerfield offered a general invitation, or something of a more specific nature?”

  “We’re to leave on Wednesday of next week, weather permitting, and he will escort us to Dorset himself. In deference to my supposed delicacy, we’ll take the journey in easy stages, but Papa is determined to have a look at the property before the situation progresses further.”

  “You are not looking forward to this journey.”

  She turned her face up to the morning sunshine. “We do what we must, Mr. Dorning. Perhaps we’ll be neighbors one day soon.”

  Valerian did not want to be her neighbor, not if that meant she had to marry Bancroft Summerfield.

  “Summerfield House is a lovely residence.” The equivalent of telling a woman, You could do worse. It struck him that his circumstances were something like hers: He was attempting to ignite a spark of commercial potential on the dry tinder of his father’s botanical obsession. The task was one he neither enjoyed nor intuitively grasped, and yet, he must make the attempt.

  We do what we must.

  “I have a lovely residence, Mr. Dorning. Several of them, if I’m to be honest. You should call upon my father. He holds title to all manner of odd properties here in London. He’s a conscientious landlord and a sound businessman. He might know of something suitable for your family’s enterprise.”