Fran Baker (16 page)

“But, Rose, if
I
do not mind his connection with Mrs. Loveday, I do not see that
you
have any cause to complain! You must remember that ours is to be a modern marriage, like the French marriage of convenience.”

Rose stared unbelieving at Helen, then stated firmly, “Even so, I know that if he were
my
fiancée,
I
would not suffer the likes of Thalia Loveday.”

So saying, she retired with a slam to her own room to scheme with satisfaction all the cutting things she meant to say to his lordship on the morrow.

Chapter 11

Adroitly maneuvering his restive pair of grays through the heavy morning traffic on Bond Street the following day, Viscount Stratford was startled to espy a well-know ruffled mobcap progressing down the street, apparently quite alone. He pulled roughly on the reins, causing Jem to protest loudly, “M’lord! To be yanking at the horses’ mouths like that!”

“Get down and hold their heads,” Stratford ordered tersely as he leapt lightly from the curricle. Three swift strides brought him to the side of the tall, slender figure wearing the mobcap, where he said without preamble, “Come with me. I’ll see you home.”

Rose Lawrence turned slowly to face the owner of that hated voice. “Thank you, but I am not yet going home.”

“Where is your maid?”

“I have none with me.”

“Then you are most assuredly going home with me now.” The viscount put out a peremptory hand.

Rose saw no option but to take it. She was soon seated beside Stratford in his curricle as it proceeded toward the Thacker’s town house. As they drove through the crowded streets, his lordship rang a pithy peal over her head on the improprieties of young ladies strolling down Bond Street unescorted during the height of the season until at last Rose could no longer restrain the laughter burbling up within her.

“And just what are you laughing at?” he demanded in a thunderous voice.

“Why at you, my lord!” she answered through her merriment. “Anyone less suited to be lecturing on propriety, I cannot imagine!”

“Your reputation, Miss Lawrence, is no laughing matter,” he bit out.

“But, surely, Lord Stratford, I am well past the age of such considerations.”

“Well past . . . my God, you are worse than the greenest schoolgirl! If you’ve no more sense than to wander about town attracting the attention of the vulgar, then your reputation should be left to its own deserts!”

One glance was sufficient for Stratford to realize that Miss Lawrence was wholly insensible to the gravity of her morning’s solecism. The mirth clearly sparkled in her eyes and it appeared that only by pressing her lips firmly together was she able to refrain from again exhibiting a display of hoydenish laughter.

Rose was indeed amused. It was not in her nature to remain out of temper for long, and the white fury of the night before had dimmed with the first bright rays of sunlight. With calm reflection, she had decided that he best course lay in seeing as little of her sister’s fiancé during her stay in London as possible. That she had run almost directly into him on her first expedition about town was humorously ironic. That he should issue such a lecture was, to her view, nearly a cause for hysterics.

Though he managed to remain remarkably expressionless as he stood behind the fascinating exchange between m’lord and the lady, Jem had difficulty restraining himself when, as they pulled up before the Thackers’ tall town house, the viscount again jerked at the ribbons in a manner quite unlike his usual gentle handling of his grays. He was further surprised when the lady climbed nimbly down and attempted to forestall m’lord by thanking him for the ride.

“Although I do think perhaps I should make you explain to my cousin why I’ve arrived home without the lavender water I promised to procure for her.” Her humor turned to alarm as Stratford began to follow her down. “No, Sir, there is no need!”

“You mistake, Miss Lawrence,” he countered as he took one elbow and guided her along. “There is plainly a need for your aunt to be informed of your excursions. I’m quite sure she is completely ignorant of your doings.”

She had the grace to flush and allowed him to lead her up the steps. Pausing at the top, Stratford added, “And I had promised to call upon Helen today.”

“My sister . . .” Rose began before breaking off abruptly.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“Is much too good for you!”

“If you mean to argue with me, my dear girl, you must do better than that. It is a point which even I cannot argue,” he said with a provoking smile.

He held open the door and Miss Lawrence passed into the house without responding. But as she began to mount the stairs, she halted to cast a speculative look at him. “I did say, did I not, that you were no fool.”

With that, she continued on her way. Stratford watched until she had gone out of sight, a smile of appreciation tugging at his lips. He was recalled to his surroundings by the discreet cough of the servant behind him and was soon announced to Miss Helen.

Seated upon a long, low, armless settee of Egyptian design, as was the current rage, Helen favored her fiancé with a bashful smile as he entered and set aside the issue of
La Belle Assemblée
with which she had been occupying her time.

“Do you hope to find the fashion to perfect your beauty?” he asked when he saw the magazine. “You should not bother, for it cannot be done. Yours, my dear, is already the very perfection of beauty.”

She tried to laugh this off, for as always, his flowery tribute set her in an embarrassed quake. “No—no! I am merely passing the time.”

Stratford sat down easily beside her, watching her fingers nervously entwine themselves together. “About last night, Helen—”

“You need not explain!” she broke in. “I was not the least upset, I assure you!”

“I must nevertheless beg your forgiveness,” he persisted soberly.

“There—there is nothing to forgive,” she whispered.

“I give you my word, Helen, that you need never fear being put in such a position again.”

The young girl stared down at her hands, caught the glimmer of the diamonds about the glossy sapphire and seemed to gather up the courage to speak. Taking a deep breath, she raised her gaze to meet his and said, “My lord, let us understand one another. I do not intend to be a bothersome sort of wife. This is—this is to be a marriage of—of convenience, is it not?”

His downturned eyes seemed to slant even more than usual. Her direct speaking surprised and perversely annoyed him. He was in the habit of making women love him through no effort at all, and the thought that he was to marry one who, to all appearances, did not love him in the least affronted his vanity to no little degree. For no accountable reason, his lordship instantly blamed her sister Rose for this, and wondered briefly how he would bring the interfering Miss Lawrence to regret her negative influence upon his fiancée.

None of this showed on the viscount’s dispassionate face. He answered quite smoothly, “Of course it is, my dear. Have you, as yet, given any thought as to a suitable wedding date?”

“I have always thought the—the autumn a—a beautiful time for weddings,” she stuttered.

“Autumn!” He saw her face pale at his exclamation and swallowed his opposition. “Very well, if that is what you wish,” he said instead. “It’s longer away than best pleases me, but I’d not object to September.”

Helen rapidly assented to September, fearing the temper she saw lurking behind the hard glint of his eye should she put forth a suggestion of October or, more preferably, November. Stratford did not remain long after this, leaving Helen alone on the Egyptian settee, where she reflected with melancholy on how quickly five months could pass.

*****

From having seen, in Lord Stratford’s well-expressed opinion, rather too much of Miss Rose Lawrence, fashionable London fell to seeing practically nothing of her at all. She busied herself with the preparations for her sister’s ball, which she had been reluctantly persuaded to attend, and with keeping at a distance from the viscount. Other than trips to Elizabeth’s dressmaker for gown fittings, Rose’s few excursions were sightseeing outings with Daniel Baldwin.

It was on the afternoon of their tour of the Tower of London that the subject of his lordship’s recent grievous behavior was broached, Baldwin stumbling over an apology for his cousin.

“I expect someone said something to set him on,” Rose said thoughtfully. She read the question in her companion’s eyes and continued, “The wager about my sister—did you, perhaps, lecture Stratford about it?’

“I
spoke
to him,” Baldwin replied stiffly. “I could not stand by—”

“And this was before or after he actually followed through with this scheme?”

“Before, but—”

“There you see! It’s little wonder he’s as rash as he is, with you to spur him on.” She put up a hand to silence his protest. “It’s true, you know. It quite puts me in mind of Nell and Freddy. If they were to pass a tree walking to church of a Sunday, she would promptly adjure him not to dirty his good clothes by climbing that tree—a thing Freddy would have no thought of until that very moment. Naturally, Freddy would be climbing that tree directly. He’d need, you see, to prove himself to be his own person. It is the same, I dare say, with your cousin.”

“That may well be true, but Stratford had entered upon the wager before I spoke out against it. At least, I was there when Maret offered him the wager. I did protest, but . . .” Baldwin floundered into silence, remembering how his words had, indeed, seemed to encourage Stratford’s devilment.

“I did not mean to sermonize and must ask you to forgive my interference,” Rose said with an apologetic smile.

“What you have said, you’ve no need to apologize for. I’m only too afraid that you’ve hit upon a truth I should have seen long ago.”

They walked on, a meditative frown marring the set of Daniel’s straight mouth. After passing through the mint and the armoury, where they viewed with interest, among other things, the sword used to decapitate Anne Boleyn, Rose suggested they quit the Tower, having seen, she felt, quite all worth seeing therein.

Rolling home in the sensible equipage Baldwin had deemed suitable for the excursion, they conversed on various topics, lighting at length upon the upcoming ball.

“The great wonderment of it, for me, is that my mother has not spread word of the betrothal abroad, for she is the greatest rattle,” Daniel said with a good-humored smile.

She laughed. “Speaking of rattles,
I
have been overcome with amazement at Amelia’s discretion, for I fully expected her to trumpet the news throughout the
ton
.”

A guarded expression settled over Baldwin’s countenance. Rose studied him, an understanding gleam gracing her eyes, but it was with only the barest hint of amusement that she said, “I have noticed—I hope you won’t think me impertinent to mention it—but I thought I detected a certain warmth in your regard toward Amelia.”

With no little effort, she gradually drew the tale from her reluctant escort. It seemed that he had, indeed, once cherished a fondness for Miss Thacker. But he had been, he informed Rose, brought to his senses before matters had progressed too deeply.

“She has a levity of mind that I cannot admire,” he stated in a severe tone. “And she suffers a sad want of conduct.”

“Surely you judge her too harshly. She is but seventeen, and the delights of the season to one just out of the schoolroom can indeed be heady.”

“When I tell you that I once—just once, ma’am—asked her to forego the pleasures of a party to spend a quiet evening with my family, and that her answer was to dance the night away, you will readily see how little Miss Amelia Thacker cares for my regard!”

Rose turned her gaze upon her lap, hiding the ready laughter in her eyes from Baldwin’s outraged view. Judging it wisest to let the matter rest for the time being, she began to speak of inconsequential tings and so easily passed the rest of the journey home.

In the meantime, having at last prevailed upon Maret to accompany him on one of his daily visits to Brook Street, Stratford dispensed easy advice to Elizabeth Thacker on the methods best suited to make her ball that epitome of success, a dreadful squeeze, while leaving Helen’s company to his friend.

When a lull fell in their discourse, Helen took a deep breath and confessed on a rush, “I am exceedingly glad you have called today, Mr. Maret. I’d begun to fear that you were displeased with the thought of Lord Stratford’s marrying me.”

“How could you think, my dear Miss Helen, that I would ever be so foolishly lacking in taste as to be displeased with you?” he inquired with the drowsy smile which so fascinated her.

“That was prettily said.” Helen’s lovely lips parted in a smile far different from the strained one with which she received the viscount’s compliments and its effect on Maret was intense.

He exhibited no trace of his usual weary manner as he leaned toward her, his green eyes shining darkly. “I am not, in general, one to give advice, my child, but you wish to make a success of your marriage—”

“I do wish it,” she interrupted gravely. She stared at the magnificent ring flashing on her finger and added resolutely, “I would welcome any advice you honored me with, sir.”

Maret hesitated. Then, with a glance at the viscount sitting casually across the room, he said slowly, “Stratford does not respond well to criticism. Should you attempt to lecture or nag at him, he will invariably run counter to your wishes. At the same time, you must not be afraid to speak your mind. Do so, directly, then leave the matter, and Colin will respect you the more for it.”

“Do you know, sir, that my sister gave me much the same advice?” The faint lifting of a thin blond brow evidenced his interest, and she went on with a smile. “Rose told me that whenever the viscount does what I should not like, I should look him in the eye and tell him to quit being so nonsensical.”

“I begin to perceive, child, that your sister is a woman of extraordinary sense,” he said. “I must confess to a longing to meet Miss Lawrence.”