Her dresser, threading garnet ribbons through the curls she had so artfully tumbled, sighed deeply. “This gown was a marvelous choice, milady. The pink do set off your dark hair.”
“Thank you, Curtis. You have done an excellent job.”
Psyche gave herself one long last look and nodded in satisfaction. Lady Bluestocking was ready to face the world. Or at least as much of it as was present there at Tall Oaks.
* * * *
Moments later Psyche descended the stairs, her nerves well in hand. She would never have admitted it to anyone, of course, but she had been so long away from society that she was a trifle anxious about this house party. She squared her shoulders. If she meant to help Amanda to a proper marriage, she must get herself back into circulation, become accustomed to the banter and sport of the ton.
Overton met her at the door to the dining room. “Psyche, there you are. Do come meet our other guests.”
He led her first to a short man with reddish hair and a round cheerful face. “The Viscount Gresham, my cousin Lady Psyche Veringham.”
The viscount grinned. “May I say you look lovely tonight?”
Psyche nodded. “Of course. You may say it to every lady here.” She smiled, at least her ability to trade repartee was still intact. “And no doubt you will.”
The viscount chuckled and bowed.
“Here,” Overton said, leading her on. “I want you to meet Southdon.”
The earl turned and regarded her from jet black eyes.
“Southdon,” Overton said. “My cousin, Lady Psyche Veringham.”
One of the earl’s black eyebrows lifted the merest smidgeon and the corner of his mouth inched upward. As he bowed, a strange breathlessness seemed to afflict her.
Bending low over her hand, the earl smiled to himself. She had long graceful fingers, just as he’d pictured them. He straightened. The rest of her was perfection, just as his mother had written to him.
He recalled the letters so well. He’d pored over them, there in the misery of Spain, till he could remember every word.
“She is tall and willowy,” his mother had written. “With dark, dark curls and eyes like deep purple pansies. Her nose is perhaps a little too aristocratic, her chin a little too determined for a woman. But she’s a beauty, a real beauty.”
He had treasured those words and every scrap of information his mother had sent him about the daring and legendary exploits of Lady Bluestocking, treasured them and imagined
her.
In a very real sense Lady Bluestocking had kept him alive through a long and difficult campaign.
And so at last he’d come home, to search for her, the darling of his heart. And now she was standing in front of him, in the flesh, the beautiful flesh.
But Lady Bluestocking hated men, his mother had written. Lady Bluestocking wanted nothing to do with marriage. Still, he was not going to let that stop him. His mother had posited that Lady Bluestocking had hated the individual men presented to her, not marriage to one she loved. And that was what he had come to believe.
She had been wounded, his beautiful, feisty Lady Bluestocking, by her overzealous and title-conscious maternal parent, but she could be healed. And he was the man to do it.
Psyche, returning the earl’s gaze, felt the color rush to her cheeks. He regarded her so steadily, as though he were looking for something in her face. And then it struck her that the earl knew. He knew she was Lady Bluestocking. She’d been foolish to think the old stories would be forgotten. Gossipmongers were always ready to spread tales, new or old.
Overton dropped her arm. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said. “Mama is calling me.”
And, indeed, across the room Aunt Anna, a mountainous figure in a waterfall of mauve ruffles, was urgently waving a huge gilt fan.
Left alone with the earl, Psyche tried to think of some way to move off, but her slippers seemed stuck to the floor. “Have you known Overton long?” she asked finally.
The earl nodded. “We were at Harrow together. He was below me, of course.”
“Of course.” For the life of her she could think of nothing more to say. All her social skills seemed to have deserted her.
The earl regarded her seriously. “Overton tells me he’s asked you to manage his ward’s come-out.”
Trust Overton to blab the thing about. He should have kept quiet till he had heard her decision. Psyche glanced toward Aunt Anna. “Yes. But I have not yet agreed.”
The earl smiled and for some strange reason the room seemed suddenly brighter. “I think you should do it,” he said.
Surprise made her stare at him. “You do? But why?”
He took her gloved hand in his. “If I may—”
Slightly shocked but fascinated, she nodded assent. “First,” he touched her index finger with his, “you can obviously do a better job than — That is, it takes a younger—”
She chuckled. “There’s no need to skirt the obvious. We all know Aunt Anna does not manage well.”
He smiled again. “Lovingly put. So you must step into the breach.”
“Perhaps.”
“And second,” he touched another finger, “and more importantly, London should not be denied your presence.”
The compliment took her quite by surprise; it was done so skillfully. She mustered her defenses, terribly conscious that her hand still rested in his, and that she was reluctant to withdraw it. “You’re very kind, milord. But there are definite disadvantages to my undertaking the task.”
His eyes grew warm—oh, he was a master at this kind of verbal repartee. “Strange,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, “I cannot think of a single one.”
She forced herself to frown. “You forget who I am.”
He shrugged. “You are Lady Psyche Veringham.”
She gave a little gasp—he had pronounced her name the Greek
way—See kay.
No one but Papa had ever done that.
“You know classic Greek?” she asked.
He nodded, the end of his mouth curling up again. “Oh yes, a little. And I know your name means ‘soul.’ I am much interested in antiquities, you see.”
“Indeed.” She was hard put to understand why this news should set her heart to racing. Or perhaps that was because he was still holding her hand. Regretfully, she withdrew it.
“So,” he went on, “you have not told me why you are unfit for this task.”
“I am—” But perhaps he didn’t know. She hesitated, reluctant to face the old trouble.
“You are Lady Bluestocking,” he said cheerfully. “I know that. Though I was in Spain at the time of your escapades, I heard all the tales.”
“So you must see—”
He shrugged, his expression nonchalant. “Surely there is no scandal in refusing to wed. The world knows you could have had offers enough.” His eyes narrowed. “And yet you took none of them. I wonder why.”
She did not consider evading his question. “The thing was—I wished to marry for love.”
“And?” His eyes seemed to bore into her very heart.
“And I did not find it.”
“I see.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “A pity, that. A lovely woman like you.”
Psyche smiled. “Really, milord, your style of compliment is excellent. But aren’t you doing it up rather brown?”
He sighed in exaggerated fashion. “Alas, they were right. They told me you had a wicked sharp tongue.”
She couldn’t help herself, she had to ask him. “Who? Who told you that?”
He grinned, looking suddenly much younger, and even more attractive than he had before. “Why, the Lindens, of course. The inestimable and excessively ample Lady Linden and her stickish daughter.” He frowned. “They have already revived stories of every Lady Bluestocking escapade—and probably added a few of their own devising.”
She regarded him seriously. “And yet you urge me to return to that?”
The earl shrugged, a gesture that automatically took her gaze to the breadth of his shoulders. “Yes,” he said dryly. “I urge you to return to town and live down this Linden-induced infamy.”
Psyche had to return to London, otherwise how would he be able to win her? He wished he could ask her then. But he would have to go slow. In a sense, she had fought her wars, too. With her addlepated mama pressing foppish witlings or doddering old lords on her just because they had titles. And with the tattle-bearing Lindens and their ever-present innuendoes making her life unbearable.
Yes, Lady Bluestocking had her wounds, but they would heal. He would see to it.
Overton, of course, didn’t know that the idea of Psyche managing his ward’s come-out had
not
been his own, but had been planted in his mind by his good friend, the earl. Overton knew nothing of the earl’s fascination, infatuation, captivation with the fabled Lady Bluestocking. Only Georgie knew that. And Georgie had promised not to tell, but to help.
“You
can
face the Lindens,” he said, giving Psyche an admiring gaze.
Psyche frowned. How could the man be so sure? “I don’t know. I have been long in the country.”
He shrugged. “I have confidence in you.”
Psyche flushed. “Is it true they have called me bracket-faced?” This man was having the strangest effect on her. What a ridiculous question to ask! After all, vanity was not for spinsters.
The earl coughed delicately. “I’m afraid it’s true.” His gaze met hers, his eyes full of laughter. “They have quite departed from the truth in saying it, of course. As any fool could see.” He smiled. “But after the last set-down you gave me I dare not offer another compli—”
“Psyche!” Georgette rushed between them to envelope Psyche in a hug. “How good to see you!” When she withdrew and settled her gown, Georgie was smiling. “I see you have met Southdon. Be careful of him. He’s got quite a name with the ladies.”
Psyche managed to go on smiling. Not for the world would she have admitted wishing that she hadn’t suggested to Overton that he invite Georgie to this house party. Dearly as she loved her, Georgie could be a trifle overwhelming—and sometimes she was far from sensible. But she was also extremely attractive to men.
Georgie was the little petite sort and her recent widowhood had hardly dampened her perennial good spirits. Of course, her dear departed husband had been some forty years her senior. And now Georgie, who had married first to please her family, meant to marry second to please herself. Or so her letters had proclaimed.
“Dear Georgie,” Psyche murmured. “How good to see you. I have found the earl a most fascinating conversationalist.”
His eyes twinkled and he grinned brashly. “But can you imagine, Lady Standish, Lady Psyche does not relish my style of compliment?”
Georgie actually giggled and put her gloved hand familiarly on the earl’s coat sleeve. “Poor Psyche’s been too long in the country,” she said. “But come, Southdon. You may compliment
me.”
And she thrust her arm through his and led him off.
Watching them go, Psyche struggled with the urge to turn tail and run. Little Amanda was right. Southdon
was
the catch of the Season. And that meant Overton’s ward was going to face some brisk competition.
Of course, Georgie had always enjoyed the company of men. In fact, her youthful reputation had marked her as rather fast. But she had listened to her family—married where they chose. The first time. Now she was a widow and able to do as she pleased.
Perhaps, Psyche couldn’t help thinking, perhaps
she
should have done the same. Though she was financially as well off as Georgie, she was still Lady Bluestocking, still the subject of gossip. And still a spinster. It hardly seemed fair.
But Psyche had never been one to feel sorry for herself. She had chosen to be Lady Bluestocking. And in its time the role had served her well. It had saved her from marriage to more than one foppish fribble, and several men old enough to be her grandfather. She could thank Papa for Lady Bluestocking. It was, after all, his study of antiquities that had given her the idea.
“Why so serious?” the earl inquired, appearing at her side again. “Surely the decision is not that difficult to make.”
Psyche looked at him in surprise. “Where is Georgie?”
He smiled. “I believe Lady Standish is talking to Gresham over there. And I have come back to reiterate my plea that you consent to manage Miss Caldecott’s come-out.”
He glanced across the room to where a radiant Amanda stood talking to several people. “The girl’s a good sort and deserves a decent chance.” He smiled. “Besides, Overton’s my friend. He’s a decent chap, too. And he’s really been in a twitter over this.”
Psyche nodded. “Yes, I know. Do—” She hesitated, but then decided to plunge ahead. “Tell me, Southdon, what sort of man do you think Amanda should marry?”
He looked a little surprised, but he stroked his chin again. “Someone older, I suppose. Someone who’s been on the town for a while and is ready to settle down. To take care of her.”
Psyche nodded. “Yes, I suppose she will need taking care of.”
His eyes were so dark, they seemed to be hiding some secret. “Not all women are as well equipped as Lady Bluestocking for the unmarried life,” he remarked.
She schooled her face, hoping to keep her expression from betraying her. If the man only knew the nights she’d cried herself to sleep, wondering if she should have accepted one of Mama’s awful candidates. But there had been no one she could . . .
She drew herself up. “I suppose a woman may go through life alone as well as any man.” She fixed him with a stern eye. “You, milord, for instance, you are yet unwed, but that does not seem to concern you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Concern? No, I should say not. In fact, it makes me quite happy. But I shall have to marry—eventually. My mother is adamant on that point.”
Psyche swallowed a little sigh. “She probably wishes to have grandchildren.”
The earl grinned. “So she tells me, repeatedly. I do not know why women find children so attractive.” His eyes gleamed with merriment. “It seems to me that they incite a great deal of anxiety.”
* * * *
After a delightful dinner, which Psyche spent in conversation with the earl regarding the Elgin Marbles, she retired with the other ladies to the drawing room.
Before she could even settle into a chair, Amanda appeared at her side. “Well, what do you think?”