An Escapade and an Engagement

‘Of course you do not want anyone to say unpleasant things about your … friend. I shall be only too pleased to meet her, and help her in any way I can.’

In fact it would be quite wonderful to be the one giving advice to someone else, instead of constantly being on the receiving end of it. Even if it was only on matters of fashion and etiquette.

‘Somehow,’ he said with a smile, ‘I never doubted it.’

Was that a third compliment? She positively glowed with pleasure.

But then his expression turned hard and businesslike once more.

‘I have already told you that I am in Town primarily to find a bride,’ he said. ‘And, since our families would definitely approve of a match between us, I propose to make it seem as though I am trying to fix my interest with you. And you would do well to make it appear as though you reciprocate that interest,’ he said quite sternly, ‘if you want to continue seeing Lieutenant Kendell. Though I warn you, I will not allow this covert operation to interfere with my primary objective. Which is to find a woman who is worthy of holding the title of Countess of Lavenham. Is that clear?’

She turned to look out of the carriage as though somebody she knew had caught her eye. As though Lord Ledbury had not just cut her to the quick with one throwaway remark. After all those compliments, genuine compliments, she had begun to think that he quite liked her. But now he’d made it plain that he would rather not have to spend any time with her at all.

‘Abundantly,’ she replied coldly. ‘Though,’ she observed after a moment or two, ‘I cannot help but remark that I think you are carrying your sense of duty too far.’

‘By which I assume you mean you think I ought to marry for love.’

Yes! If he was in love with Milly then he ought to marry her, and that was that. Why, earls married widows with shady reputations, or even actresses upon occasion. It caused a bit of a scandal—but when had what others thought ever stopped a man of rank from doing just as he pleased?

‘It is the only reason one should marry …’

‘Well, there we will have to agree to differ.’

Oh, the man was impossible. But there was no point in trying to make him see how foolish he was being. Apart from the fact he was a man, and men always thought they knew best, they were only—as he’d put it—working together under a flag of truce.

And yet she couldn’t help feeling rather sorry for him. The poor man must be in hell, being in love with one woman whilst feeling duty-bound to marry another. True, she had been packed off to London to be married off, but at least her affections had not really been engaged elsewhere. He could not even elope, as her aunt had done—not when he had so many responsibilities. He was not that kind of man. She had only met him the night before, but already she could tell he was determined always to do the right thing. No matter what the personal cost. Why, he wouldn’t even take Milly shopping in case it gave rise to the suspicion that the woman he loved was his mistress. Even though most men of his class would have made her his mistress in reality, without batting an eyelid.

Well, she would not say any more upon that topic. Not only would it be like prodding at a decaying tooth, but they did not know each other well enough to share those kind of confidences.

Though she would do whatever she could to help his lady-friend. Apart from any other consideration, she relished the chance to be really, truly useful to someone for the very first time in her life.

‘Oh!’ she said, clapping her hands in glee. ‘I have just had a brilliant idea. I shall be in Conduit Street tomorrow. I have to purchase some new gloves. If you could arrange for Milly to loiter outside the front of Madame Pichot’s at about ten o’clock I could pretend to recognise her, and introduce her to Lady Penrose as an old friend.’

He looked at her with approval, making her swell with pleasure when he said, ‘Yes, I think that could work.’

Not for long. She sighed. The first thing Lady Penrose would do, upon her introducing a new friend, would be to write to her grandfather and enquire if Milly was proper company for her to keep. And as soon as he wrote back, disclaiming all knowledge of any such person amongst her acquaintance, the game would be up. But there was no saying how long it might take for a letter to reach him if he were not at Darvill Park for any reason. So they might have a few days before their ruse was discovered.

And in that time she would do all she could to help the pair who, for reasons of stupid custom—because he was all bound up with doing his duty rather than following his heart—could not be together even though they plainly should be.

‘Tell me how I might recognise her,’ she said. ‘What does she look like?’

‘Milly? Oh, she is …’ He looked at her, a puzzled frown on his brow. ‘She is quite a bit taller than you. Dark hair and eyes. Strong. Plain of face,’ he said, his eyes wandering over her features individually and softening. ‘Nothing much to look at at all, really.’

And yet he loved her. She was plain, and poor, and yet the eyes that could look as hard as chips of granite turned all soft and smoky when he thought about her.

Because they had shared all those hardships and she’d come through them all with flying colours.

Jayne knew she would never have been able to nurse a man through such a difficult time. She had no skills, no experience. And would never be allowed anywhere near a sick room in any case.

She turned her head away abruptly while she grappled with a fierce stab of jealousy for the girl who, despite all her disadvantages, had managed to capture the heart of a man like this. A man unlike anyone she’d ever met before. Now that she wasn’t quite so cross with him she could admit that she found his rough-hewn face ruggedly attractive. Even that terrible scar, which at first sight had made him look a bit scary, now only served as a reminder that he was a battle-hardened soldier, a man to be admired for his bravery.

She heaved a deep sigh. If any man in London deserved to find happiness with the woman he loved, then it was this man.

It was such a pity he couldn’t see it for himself.

Chapter Four

The next evening, Lady Jayne had barely arrived at the Cardingtons’ before Lord Ledbury came over.

He bowed to Lady Penrose. ‘May I claim the hand of Lady Jayne during the next waltz? Not to dance, but to take the air on the terrace?’

‘Oh, may I, Lady Penrose?’ Lady Jayne put in hastily, before Lady Penrose could object. ‘Lord Ledbury was terribly wounded at Orthez. He does not dance.’

She hoped that putting those two statements together might make Lady Penrose soften towards him. Not that she believed he could not dance if he wanted to. After all, he was fit enough to go prowling around public parks at dawn. But he clearly wanted to talk to her—and not many men, she had noted, were capable of carrying on sensible conversations while executing the complex figures of any dance, let alone the waltz.

‘It is rather warm in here,’ said Lady Penrose, after a visible struggle with herself. Having been given the information that Lord Ledbury did not dance, she had little choice but to relax her rigid rules just a little, or risk losing the first suitor in whom her charge had shown any interest. ‘Perhaps you might go and sit on that bench, just there.’ She indicated a spot just through the open doors, which would be clearly visible from where she sat. ‘It is a little unorthodox, but in your case,’ she said with a slight smile, ‘I think there would be no harm in it. I shall have a footman send you out some lemonade.’

Lady Jayne could barely stifle a giggle at the implication that nobody could get up to anything improper whilst drinking lemonade.

‘Phew!’ she said as they made their way to the open doors. ‘It is a good thing you are such a catch, or you would never have got away with that.’

Lord Ledbury flinched. It was just typical that the first woman to rouse his interest should dismiss him so airily. But what else could he expect? She was determined to marry for love. And he’d learned from the cradle that there was nothing in him to inspire affection. His own parents, who’d had no trouble at all doting on his other brothers, had seemed barely able to recall they had a third son. True, his father had only had time for Mortimer, while his mother had practically smothered Charlie, but that had done nothing to soothe the sting of their joint rejection of him. Or to lessen the impact of Lady Jayne’s indifference to him now.

He took himself to task as he took his place next to her on the designated bench. He had rank and wealth to offer a woman now. And there were plenty who would be perfectly satisfied with that. He only had to recall how they’d flocked round him at Lucy Beresford’s ball.

He had no need of love—not in the kind of marriage he intended to contract.

Particularly not from a flighty little piece like this.

‘You are looking very pleased with yourself this evening,’ he observed dryly. ‘I suppose I should have expected it. You are never happier than when you are up to your neck in mischief, are you?’

She turned to stare at him, wide-eyed, at the unfairness of that remark, and saw that he looked as though he was really annoyed with her about something. Though, cudgel her brains as she might, she could not think what.

That morning she had driven up to the front of Madame Pichot’s at the prearranged hour, in Lady Penrose’s town carriage, and, seeing a tall, dark-haired girl loitering on the pavement, gazing wistfully at the window display, had sat forward and said artlessly, ‘My goodness. Can that be Milly? Whatever can she be doing in Town?’

And then she had leaped out nimbly and darted up to the girl to make sure she was the right person. By the time Lady Penrose had exited the carriage with rather more decorum she’d thought enough time had passed for her to have extracted the news from her supposed friend that she had recently come into some money, quite unexpectedly, and had come up to Town to purchase a fashionable wardrobe.

Having imparted that information to Lady Penrose, she had then swept Milly into the shop, chattering about the newest fashions in that month’s La Belle Assemblée, and naturally the modiste, seeing the two on such good terms, had assumed Milly must be a somebody, and treated her accordingly.

‘Now you are looking at me,’ Lord Ledbury was saying, ‘as though you expect me to congratulate you for this morning’s work. Did you come here expecting me to thank you?’

‘Well, yes,’ she replied, growing more mystified at his ill humour by the minute.

Milly had certainly been thrilled at the way the morning had turned out. She had admitted that she would never have dared set foot in an establishment like Madame Pichot’s. But now she would be able to return whenever she wanted, after an introduction like that. Even if Lady Jayne was not able to go with her, Madame Pichot would never let one of her customers leave her shop looking anything less than elegant. Which was surely what Lord Ledbury wanted?

‘Well, I cannot thank you for issuing her with a false name. Milly informs me that she is now to be known as Miss Amelia Brigstock!’

Oh, so that was it. ‘That is entirely your fault,’ she retorted, stung by his determination to find fault with her in spite of all she had achieved on his behalf. ‘You omitted to tell me her full name.’ And she had not criticised him for his lack of foresight, had she? She had just plugged up the leak as best she could, to make sure the whole campaign did not sink before it even got underway. ‘Since she was supposed to be a long-lost friend, newly come to Town, I could hardly ask her what it was, could I? When Lady Penrose asked me to introduce her I had to come up with something.’