Kitabı oku: «The Incomparable Countess», sayfa 2

‘The Countess is the reason for our little gathering,’ Lady Willoughby went on. ‘The guest of honour, you might say, excepting your good self, of course.’

‘Indeed?’ he said again, lifting a well-arched eyebrow at Frances, a gleam of humour lighting his dark eyes. It totally bewildered her. Had he forgotten? Or was he, like her, pretending nothing had ever happened between them? ‘I am sure it is well deserved.’

Lady Willoughby appeared not to notice as she turned away and clapped her hands for attention. ‘My friends,’ she said. ‘This is not a formal occasion, so there will be no speeches, but I particularly wanted you to be the first to see this.’ And with that, she tugged the cover off the portrait. ‘It is the most recent work of the Countess of Corringham.’

There was silence for about two seconds, two seconds in which Frances wished the floor would open up and swallow her, and then there was a burst of applause which was soon taken up by everyone, followed by a babble of conversation. ‘She has caught you to the life, Emma.’

‘The flesh tones are superb.’

‘You can pick out every individual hair.’

‘The hands are good too. Not everyone can portray hands.’

‘I am flattered,’ Frances said, rising to receive the plaudits. It brought her standing uncomfortably close to the Duke.

‘Flattered?’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Methinks it is you who do the flattering.’

‘Why not? It does no harm,’ she whispered back, trying to ignore the frisson of something she refused to identify that coursed through her at his nearness. Seventeen years fled away as if they had never been. Mentally she shook herself, reminding herself that water never flowed backwards.

‘I believe it harms you.’

‘Fustian!’ Just in time she stopped herself adding, ‘And what does it matter to you what I do?’ The last thing she wanted was a personal altercation with him.

‘Are you so in need of funds that you must produce insipid stuff like this?’ He nodded towards the portrait.

‘Lady Willoughby is delighted with it. And that means others…’

‘Will want to fling money at you too.’

‘Nothing wrong with that.’

‘No, but I thought you had more spirit.’ He smiled at their hostess, who was bearing down upon them.

‘Lord Loscoe,’ she gushed. ‘What do you think? Is it not an excellent likeness?’

He bowed. ‘Oh, excellent,’ he said, ignoring Frances’s splutter of laughter at his duplicity. ‘Lady Corringham is indeed very talented.’

‘Have you ever sat for your portrait, my lord?’ her ladyship asked.

‘Not for very many years,’ he answered carefully. ‘It can be a very tedious business, and I have so little time for it.’

‘Ah, but now you are in town, you must surely have some leisure. I can thoroughly recommend her ladyship.’

‘Oh, please, Lady Willoughby,’ Frances put in. ‘You are putting me to the blush.’

‘Oh, you are far too old to be blushing,’ the woman said tactlessly, a statement which made the Duke chuckle. Frances felt colour flood her face, which only proved how wrong her ladyship was. ‘Now, my lord, you must come and talk to my other guests. And Felicity is dying to make the acquaintance of Lady Lavinia.’

He bowed to Frances. ‘My lady, your obedient.’ And then he was gone, followed by his daughter.

Frances watched his tall straight back moving away from her and then her attention was taken by other people who wanted to talk to her about having their portraits painted. She was kept busy for several minutes, making appointments to meet them again to talk about their requirements, and she did not see the Duke and his daughter leave. A few minutes later she left herself.

As a business exercise, the afternoon had been a great success, though she was left wondering why her ladyship was so enthusiastically promoting her. Did she think she needed the money? But she did, didn’t she? Every penny.

That evening she attended a concert arranged by Mrs Georgiana Butterworth in aid of the war orphans, one of her favourite charities, and enjoyed the music immensely. She had not given the Duke of Loscoe another thought and was taken aback to see him during the interval talking animatedly to one of the guests. He was wearing an evening suit of black cloth and a pristine white cravat, simple clothes, but superbly cut, she admitted to herself, while wondering if he was truly interested in war orphans or was simply doing the rounds in search of his new wife, though the company could hardly be classed as the haut monde and not one of the worthy ladies present seemed to qualify. They were either married, too old, or not from the upper echelons of Society and he would never marry so far beneath him, as he had proved seventeen years before.

It was some moments before he saw her and then his eyebrows rose in surprise as if she was the last person he had expected to see. He excused himself from the matron who was engaging him in conversation and made his way over to her.

‘Countess, I had not anticipated seeing you again so soon.’

‘Nor I you. It is not a gathering I would have thought would interest you.’

‘Why not?’ he asked sharply. ‘The plight of children orphaned by war is a worthy cause and you must think so, too, or you would not be here.’

‘Indeed, I do.’

‘Then we have a mutual interest,’ he said.

She did not reply, and he looked quizzically at her. ‘Do you find that unacceptable, my lady?’ he asked softly.

‘What?’

‘That we are both interested in the orphans and wish to improve their lives.’

‘Not at all.’ She forced herself to ignore the swift beating of her heart. She was behaving like a lovesick schoolgirl and her thirty-five years old in a few weeks! ‘The more help they have the better. Some of them are in dire straits.’

‘Good. I should not like to think my presence in any way deterred you from your good work.’

‘Now why in heaven’s name should it?’ she retorted, her voice rising a fraction. She immediately dropped her tone to add in a hoarse whisper, ‘You are insufferably conceited, if you think that your presence or otherwise makes the slightest difference to me.’

‘Then I beg your pardon for my presumption.’

Mrs Butterworth joined them before she could answer. ‘I see you have made the acquaintance of the Duke,’ she said to Frances.

‘Oh, we are old sparring partners,’ Marcus said, a remark which sent Frances’s thoughts flying back to her studio and the painting of the pugilist. ‘We have not met these many years and were enjoying a coze about old times.’

‘How delightful! You must be gratified, my lady, that the Duke has joined our little band of subscribers. His name on the list will encourage others, do you not think?’

‘I am sure it will,’ she murmured.

‘We are looking for a good property to give some of them a temporary home until we can find new permanent homes for them,’ the lady told him, while Frances surreptitiously studied his face for signs of boredom and found none. But then he was always good at pretending. ‘At present they are housed in a dilapidated tenement in Monmouth Street, but the lease is running out, so we must find something more substantial and comfortable very soon.’

‘Then you may count on me for a donation, Mrs Butterworth,’ he said with a smile which totally captivated the good lady. Little did Mrs Butterworth know, Frances mused, that his smile hid a heart as cold and rigid as stone.

‘Oh, thank you, sir. This concert has been such a success that we are thinking of holding a ball to raise more funds. May we count on you to purchase a ticket?’

‘If I am not engaged on the evening in question, then I shall be happy to do so,’ he said with a smile.

The orchestra began tuning up their instruments and everyone was moving back to their seats for the second half of the programme. Marcus gave Frances a thin smile and inclined his head. ‘My lady.’

‘Your Grace.’

Frances returned to her seat, her thoughts and emotions in turmoil. Was her every move to be dogged by the Duke of Loscoe? Was he to be everywhere she went? She had never dreamed she would come across him at this unfashionable gathering. It had been a severe shock, more than the shock of meeting him in the park, or the encounter at Lady Willoughby’s. Was nowhere safe from his odious presence? But she could not hide herself away at home, could she? She had told him his presence made no difference and she must school herself to make that true.

It had to be true. If he had not been so long absent from London, if he had always been in the forefront of Society these last seventeen years, she would have become inured, she told herself; it was his sudden reappearance that was causing the upheaval and reminding her of that summer in 1800. One summer. One summer could not possibly be important now. She was making a mountain out of a molehill. And there was far more to life than dwelling on the past.

It was when they were all taking their leave that she saw him again. She had just taken her pelisse from Mrs Butterworth’s footman, when she felt a hand helping her on with it. She turned to thank whoever it was, only to find herself looking into the amber eyes of the Duke of Loscoe, and like amber they seemed to have a light and depth of their own, as they surveyed her face. ‘Thank you,’ she said coolly.

‘You seem to be without an escort, my lady—may I offer my services?’

‘I have my carriage, thank you.’

‘Then I will say goodnight.’ He took his hat from the footman and clamped it on his head before striding down the path to the road where his own coach waited. ‘Take the carriage home, Brown,’ he told his driver. ‘I will walk back.’

It was a good walk, more than two miles through some of the less fashionable areas of London, but he felt in need of the exercise. Since coming to London he had missed the long walks and exhilarating gallops he enjoyed at his Derbyshire home; he was becoming a sloth and putting on weight. Perhaps he should take up sparring again. Was he too old for that now? It might be interesting to find out if he had retained any of his old skill.

Thinking of sparring made his thoughts turn to Fanny Randall—Lady Frances Corringham, he corrected himself with a wry smile. She had painted a picture of him stripped for a bout. He had been amazed at her skill and wanted it for himself, but she would not give it to him. ‘I did it for our eyes only,’ she had told him. ‘I will never part with it.’

But that was before… He shrugged his shoulders as he skirted the notorious Seven Dials district towards Covent Garden. Had she kept it or had his perfidy made her hate him and the painting along with it? He had behaved badly towards her, but how was he to know she was expecting an offer? He had been in no position to make one; the match between him and Margaret Connaught had already been negotiated by their respective fathers and there was nothing he could do about it.

He should never have sought her company so assiduously that summer, should never, never have told her he loved her, however true it was. But he had been a green twenty-three and not yet clever enough to hide his feelings, nor think of the consequences. He wanted to be with her, often compromised her by taking every opportunity to be alone with her, to hold her hand and smother her in kisses while declaring he could not live without her. And her eager responses had flattered him. He had even managed to take her on a picnic to Richmond, driving her in his curricle which had no room for anyone but the two of them, so they went without so much as a maid or a groom for a chaperon.

He had not given a thought to what he was doing to her until the whole Connaught family descended on London from their home near Edinburgh and he found himself having to escort his intended for the rest of the Season and escaping to see Fanny became almost impossible. And when at last he did, at one of the Duchess of Devonshire’s balls, they had quarrelled.

He had tried, after partnering her in a country dance, to explain about Margaret, telling her that it was an arranged marriage and did not in any way alter his feelings for her, but she would not listen. ‘If you think that I am such a bufflehead as to allow myself to become your chére amie—that is the term, is it not?—then you are glaringly abroad, my lord,’ she had hissed angrily.

He had been shocked at her language and tried to deny that such a thing had ever entered his head, but afterwards, in the cold light of the following day, with his head aching from the wine and brandy he had consumed, he realised that she had been right. There was no way he could marry Margaret and continue to enjoy the company and kisses of Frances, except to take her as his mistress. But one did not make light o’ loves of seventeen-year-old girls only lately out of school. He wrote apologising for his behaviour and that was the end of the affair.

Had she forgotten it? He did not think so, but she had certainly made a quick recovery because she had married Corringham almost immediately, making him wonder if the Earl had been waiting in the wings all along. And now they were both free again.

It did not make any difference; they had grown up, matured, their characters had been forged on the anvil of life; they had become different people, strangers. He smiled, as he strode past the back of Carlton House towards St James’s Street and home—the latest on dit was that he was looking for another wife, but that was far from his intention. He was enjoying being single and was in no hurry to be leg-shackled again.

If it had not been for pressing business, he would not even have come to Town, certainly not in the Season, but because he had to come and because his daughter was sixteen and behaved like a boy of twelve and it was about time she was taken in hand, he had brought her with him. He was even now awaiting the arrival of his sister from Ireland, whom he had asked to come over and give her some polish. Charlotte had been delayed by her children having measles and here he was alone in London with a far from acquiescent daughter. And he had not the faintest idea what to do with her!

What he needed was someone like Frances Corringham. Fanny was cool and urbane, in the thick of everything, known by everyone. She was fashionably attired, knew how to conduct herself. She also had a prodigious talent. He laughed aloud, making one or two people nearby look sharply at him. They probably thought he was foxed, he did not care; it had come to him in a flash of inspiration, a way of keeping Lavinia occupied. He would ask the Countess of Corringham to paint her portrait and give her drawing and painting lessons.

He need not be present and it would leave him free to go about the business which had brought him to London. But would she do it? Was she still angry enough to turn him down? But she did not seem particular about whom she painted and was prepared to flatter her sitters for a fat fee, so why should she treat him any differently, if money was all she cared about? Tomorrow he would call on her.

Chapter Two

Frances smiled as she left the door of the rundown tenement in Monmouth Street which was home to some twenty orphans. If her Society friends could see her now, they would have apoplexy, she decided—that is, if they recognised her at all. Hatless and dressed in a grey wool dress and a short pelisse, she looked the image of a very ordinary woman, the wife or widow of a clerk or some such, respectable but nondescript.

Although, as Countess of Corringham, she was in the forefront of the charity which raised money for the orphans, it was as plain Mrs Fanny Randall that she worked at the orphanage, rolling up her sleeves to help bathe the children, or serve them the plain food which her money helped to provide. She loved the work and the children.

‘A real pied piper, you are,’ Mrs Thomas, the plump matron of the home, had said, adding that she must be sorry she had had no children of her own. Frances had passed it off with a smile, but her childlessness was the biggest regret of her life and something she found difficult to talk about.

She climbed up beside John Harker, who had been instructed to come and fetch her at noon in her tilbury. He was used to her ways and made no attempt to stop her when she picked up the ribbons and drove them towards Oxford Street, which was lined with shops and businesses, its pavements full of pedestrians and street hawkers. She tooled the horses with consummate ease, weaving the light carriage neatly in and out of the medley of riding horses, carts and carriages of every description which filled the road. No one paid any attention to an unmarked vehicle being driven by a nobody, but the slight chance she might be seen and recognised led an added piquancy to the adventure.

Less than twenty minutes later she turned into Duke Street and drew up with a flourish at the door of Corringham House, only to discover the Duke of Loscoe, dressed for riding, standing on the top step, apparently having found she was not at home and about to leave. She would have driven on in the hope he would not recognise her, but it was too late; he was standing quite still, staring at her. Was it in distaste? She could not be sure.

There was nothing for it but to carry off the situation as if it were nothing out of the ordinary for ladies of the aristocracy to drive themselves about town in what was considered to be a single man’s carriage. Throwing the reins to Harker and instructing him to see to the horses, she jumped down with an agility which the ladies of the ton would have described as hoydenish if they could have seen her, and advanced towards him, smiling.

‘Your Grace, I did not expect you, or I would have been at home to greet you.’

‘Good day, Countess,’ he said, doffing his curlybrimmed hat and bowing, while at the same time his dark eyes appraised the simple clothes she wore and his eyebrows rose just a fraction. ‘If it is inconvenient…’ His voice tailed off.

She smiled inwardly to think that he was more discomfited than she was. She could easily have asked him to come another time when she was prepared to receive him, but she had to admit to being a little curious. Why was he visiting her? Surely they could have nothing to say to each other after all this time? ‘It is not inconvenient, my lord. Please come in.’

The door had been opened by a footman who stood on the threshold, waiting for her to step inside. She led the way. ‘Creeley, show his Grace into the green salon and ask Cook to bring refreshments.’ She turned to the Duke. ‘Please excuse me while I change. I will not keep you long.’

Once in her bedchamber, she stood and looked at herself in the mirror. She was a perfect antidote. The gown, although it had been clean when she left the house three hours earlier, was spotted and rumpled and some of her hair had escaped its pins and was curling about her neck. There was a smudge on her nose and a scratch on the back of one hand where the kitten they had bought to help keep down the mice at the orphanage had scratched her. It had been her own fault for teasing it.

Rose was waiting for her, clucking her disapproval. ‘And the Duke of Loscoe standing on the step,’ she said, pulling the gown over Frances’s head. ‘What must he have thought of you?’ Rose had been with her a very long time and considered that gave her the right to speak her mind.

‘I do not care a fig what he thinks, Rose.’

‘What shall you tell him?’

‘About what?’

‘This,’ she said, throwing the grey dress into a corner in distaste.

‘Nothing. It is none of his business.’

‘It will give him a disgust of you.’

‘Do you think that bothers me, Rose? Do you think I lay sleepless at night, wondering what people think of me?’

‘No, my lady.’

But there had been a time when she had lain sleepless because of the man who waited for her in her drawing room and that thought brought a wry smile to her lips. She had pretended not to care then for her pride’s sake, but she did not need to pretend now, she told herself firmly, she did not care.

But even so, she had a feeling her ordered way of life was about to be eroded by a man she thought she had left far behind in her youth. If she had not known him before, if they were only now making each other’s acquaintance, would she feel any differently? Would she find him elegant and charming? She did not know. It was not possible to rewrite history.

Marcus prowled round the room and wondered what the lovely Countess was up to. The house was furnished in exquisite taste, with carpets and curtains in pale greens and fawns. There were paintings by the masters on the walls and one or two that were unsigned and which he guessed she had executed herself. There was a cabinet containing some beautiful porcelain and vases of fresh flowers on the tables.

In his experience, when aristocratic owners of beautiful houses fell on hard times, it showed in threadbare carpets or peeling paint or walls bare of valuable paintings, but this was a room of quiet opulence, with not a hint that there was anything wrong with its owner. So why was the Countess so shabbily attired? The Earl had left her well provided for, hadn’t he?

But she didn’t own the house, he reminded himself. It belonged to her stepson, the present Earl of Corringham. Did he keep his stepmother on short commons? Was that why she had to paint those sickening portraits and teach young ladies to draw? Oh, poor, poor Fanny. He was glad he had decided to visit her. Teaching Vinny would add to her income and he felt he owed her something for the way he had treated her in the past.

He was standing at the window, looking out on a perfectly maintained garden when he heard her enter. He turned towards her, a smile on his lips which he only just managed to stop becoming a gasp of surprise.

She was dressed in a dark green silk day gown. It had bands of velvet ribbon around the skirt and a low-cut square neck. But what was so startling was that it showed her figure off to perfection: the trim waist, the well-rounded bosom, the long, pale neck and the raven hair, pulled into a topknot and arranged in careful curls at the back of her head. Without the least attempt to appear girlish, she presented herself as still a young woman of astonishing beauty and great poise. She wore no jewellery; her lovely neck was unadorned. He felt a sudden urge to bury his face in the curve of it.

‘Countess.’ He bowed towards her, realising his smile had become a trifle fixed, as if he were afraid he would let it slip and all his thoughts and emotions would be laid bare.

‘I am sorry to have been so long,’ she said, without explaining why. ‘I hope refreshments were sent to you.’

‘Indeed, yes.’ He nodded towards the tray which a maidservant had put on one of the tables and which contained a teapot, cups and saucers and a plate of little cakes. ‘I have been waiting for you to come and share them with me.’

‘Then do sit down.’ She sat on a sofa and indicated the chair opposite. ‘I prefer tea at this time, but if you would rather have Madeira or sherry…’

‘No, tea will suit me very well.’ He lifted the skirt of his coat and sat down, his long legs, clad in buckskin riding breeches, stretched out in front of him. There was no fat on him, she realised; the shape of his calves and thighs was due to well-toned muscle.

She poured two cups of tea and handed one to him, pleased that her hand was as steady as a rock. ‘Please help yourself to a honey cake.’

‘No, thank you, though they do look delicious.’

She sipped her tea with what she hoped was cool detachment, but this mundane conversation was driving her mad. What did he want? Why had he come? He appeared to be sizing her up, as if he was trying to make up his mind whether she had been pining after him all the years they had been apart. Surely he did not hope to take up where they left off? If that were so he was insufferably conceited and she would soon show him how mistaken he was. ‘It is a lovely day,’ she said. ‘I am surprised you are not out riding. I believe Lady Lavinia is very fond of that exercise.’

‘She is indeed. We had a ride this morning, and I took her home half an hour since, but she finds riding in the park somewhat restricting and, as I have not brought her mare to London, she has perforce to use a hired hack.’

‘She will be glad to return to Derbyshire, then.’

‘Oh, I have no plans to return in the immediate future, so if she wants to ride, she must learn to bear it.’ He was waiting for her to ask why he was visiting her, she decided, and she would not satisfy him on that score, even if they sat exchanging small talk all day. He put his cup down and she smiled and asked him if he would like a second cup of tea.

‘No, thank you,’ he said, looking round the room. ‘You have a beautiful home.’

‘Thank you. I have enjoyed refurbishing it over the years. Of course, it now belongs to the present Earl, my stepson, but he has said I may consider it my home for as long as I wish.’

It would be different when he came fully into his inheritance on his twenty-fifth birthday, when the Essex estate and the London house would be handed over to him. Then she would have to find somewhere to live; she did not like the idea of living there under sufferance and certainly not after he married. And before long he would. Her steady, unruffled life was about to change, but she had been putting her head in the sand and doing nothing about it. However, sooner or later, she must.

‘It would be an inconsiderate son who said anything else, Countess.’

‘He is far from inconsiderate, my lord. I cannot have wished for a better son, and, before you ask, I have not been so fortunate as to have children of my own.’

‘I would not dream of asking such a personal question, my lady.’

She was cross with herself for allowing her agitation to show and picked up his cup and saucer and put it on the tray to give herself something to do with her hands. ‘Stanmore House is said to be a very fine example of a London house,’ she said, doing her best to retrieve the situation with an easy smile. ‘I am told the staircase is unique and the decoration of the reception rooms superb.’

‘Yes, but old-fashioned. My late wife did not like London and never came, so it has remained as it was in my mother’s time.’

She longed to ask why the Duchess had not liked London, but that would be as personal a question as asking her about her childlessness and she would not give him the satisfaction of pointing that out to her.

‘My daughter has never been to the capital,’ he said, breaking into her thoughts. ‘And until now I did not feel she needed to, but next year she will be seventeen and must make her mark on Society if she is to take well.’

‘Surely there is plenty of time for that? I think seventeen is far too young for any young lady to make up her mind about marriage. Why, they are still only schoolgirls at that age and given to all manner of fits and fancies.’ That is one for you to think on, she thought, as she watched his face for a sign that he understood what she was saying; that she had been fanciful at that age and had recovered from it. But the years had taught him to mask his feelings and not for a second did his expression reveal that the barb had gone home.

‘I have no wish to saddle her with marriage before she is ready for it,’ he said, evenly. ‘But she must make her bow at court and I would not like it said she lacked polish.’

‘You propose to polish her, my lord?’ She spoke with the hint of a teasing smile which jerked him back seventeen years—the young Fanny Randall had had a finely tuned sense of humour—and made him stand up and go to look out of the window. The view was no different from the one he had been looking at earlier, but it was an excuse to keep his face turned from her until he had brought himself back under control. This was a business meeting and he must not allow emotion to gain the upper hand.

‘No, that would be foolish in me. I shall employ others to do it.’ He turned back suddenly. ‘You, for one, if you agree.’

‘Me?’ She could not hide the surprise and dismay in her voice. ‘I am persuaded you are jesting.’

‘Not at all. I am told one of the accomplishments a young lady needs, besides being able to sew a fine seam, play a musical instrument and dance the latest steps, is the ability to draw and paint and I can think of no one more suited to teach Lavinia that.’

He sat down beside her on the sofa, which did nothing for her hard-won control. He was so close, she could almost feel the warmth emanating from a body which was still lithe and muscular. Her own body seemed to want to lean towards his, to feel again the contact of thigh against thigh, his arms about her, lips on lips. Shocked to the core, she stood up and went to pull the bell for the maid to remove the tray.

Because she was on her feet, etiquette demanded he should rise too. She sat down abruptly and motioned him to the other chair. He sat down again, far enough away to allow her to breathe more easily. ‘It is true I have a certain facility, but…’

‘You are far too modest, Countess. You have an incomparable reputation…’

‘Fustian!’ She smiled, remembering those were the words that Lady Willoughby had used; she had probably repeated them in his hearing. ‘You have seen my work for yourself, at Lady Willoughby’s. And criticised it too.’

‘I would not presume to do so, my lady. I simply made a comment that you had flattered your subject.’ He smiled suddenly and his amber eyes lit up in the way she remembered; it made his somewhat sombre face come alive, the light in his eyes giving depth to his expression. ‘And considering your subject, you should take that as a compliment.’