Lady Polly

“Your servant, Lady Polly. Shipley…”

Polly almost jumped. She felt a quiver of awareness along her nerves even before her hand was taken by Lord Henry Marchnight himself. Perhaps it was the drink, which she was now regarding suspiciously, or perhaps the effect of Lord Henry’s presence, but she felt suddenly light-headed.

“I am persuaded,” Lord Henry said gently, “that you would do so much better dancing with me, Lady Polly. Will you do me the honour?”

For a moment, as Polly’s startled dark eyes met Lord Henry’s narrowed, lazy gaze, she had the oddest feeling that he knew she had been thinking of him. Various thoughts jostled for dominance in her mind. Her first was that Lord Henry never asked her to dance. How could he, when he seldom even spoke to her? The second thought was that this was a waltz and the Dowager Countess would not approve. The third was that she was feeling ever so slightly odd—not unpleasantly odd, but definitely a little adrift…Which no doubt explained how she came to be waltzing in Lord Henry’s arms before she even had chance to think about it properly.

The lilt of the music was very seductive and Lord Henry was an exceptionally good dancer. After one circuit of the floor, Polly realized with some incredulity that she felt rather delightfully abandoned, like thistledown floating on air. Lord Henry was holding her at an entirely respectable distance from his body, but nevertheless the strength of his arm about her, the unfamiliar brush of his thigh against the slippery material of her dress, was peculiarly exciting. Polly blinked slightly, aware that she was not feeling quite normal, but the thought slid away, out of reach. Normal? She felt marvellous.

“You are keeping dangerous company tonight, Lady Polly,” Lord Henry said in her ear. The thought of his lips so close to the sensitive skin of her neck sent a delicious shiver through Polly. She tried to pull herself together. What on earth was wrong with her this evening?

“Are all the Seagraves courting scandal?” Lord Henry continued. “First your brother sets himself up as Lady Bolt’s new…” he hesitated “…new flirt, then you grant Sir Marmaduke Shipley a tête-à-tête and compound your daring by dancing with me!”

Polly looked up fully into his face for the first time. His words crystallised the thought which had entered her head when first he had whisked her from under Sir Marmaduke’s nose. Sir Marmaduke liked to consider himself a rake, but Lord Henry was the really dangerous one, a marauding tiger loose amongst the innocent flock of debutantes. Whatever was she about, to be dancing with him with such abandonment? Across the dance floor, she could see that the Dowager Countess had finally finished her conversation and was glaring at her most meaningfully. Polly felt exasperated. Why had her mother not objected to the unwelcome attentions of the odious Sir Marmaduke and yet had immediately perceived Lord Henry’s arrival? It was most unfair. She deliberately looked the other way.

Lucille had once said, without an iota of partiality, that Lord Henry Marchnight was the best-looking man that she had ever seen. Polly could certainly understand what she meant, for Lord Henry had the classical regularity of feature beloved of all sculptors and painters. His thick fair hair, immaculately ruffled in the Windswept style, made ladies long to run their fingers through it. The lazy appraisal of those grey eyes could, as one infatuated maiden declared, positively cause one to swoon, and his sporting pursuits had given him a physique envied by those less favoured.

“Are you really so dangerous then, sir?” Polly heard herself say. Surely that could not be her voice, so light, so teasing? She never flirted!

“I am accounted dangerous, certainly.” Lord Henry had given her a quizzical glance, no doubt as surprised by Polly’s flirtatiousness as she was herself.

“A real tiger, then, not merely a pussycat?”

This time Lord Henry’s look was rather more searching. “Have you been drinking the arrack punch, Lady Polly?”

“Certainly not.” Polly said with dignified aplomb. “I had some delicious fruit cup, but what is that to the purpose, pray?”

“Ah, the fruit cup,” Lord Henry murmured with a slight smile. “It is so refreshing, is it not? I see the Dowager Countess is looking daggers at us,” he continued indolently. “I must shortly redeem myself in her eyes and return you to her unscathed!”

“Oh, no!” Polly had suddenly remembered that she had promised Lucille that she would speak to Lord Henry about a matter of importance. She frowned in concentration, trying to remember what exactly the issue had been. It was something potentially difficult…embarrassing…but she did not feel embarrassed at the moment, only marvellously liberated. Her mind was a little fuzzy at the edges, perhaps, but she had not felt this confident in a long time! It was a moment before she realised that Lord Henry was looking at her with amusement.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Polly?”

“No, do not take me back just yet, sir!” Polly tried to grasp the appropriate words. “I…there is a matter I need…must discuss with you!”

“Indeed!” A faint smile touched Lord Henry’s firm mouth once more. “You intrigue me, madam! I am at your disposal, of course!”

The music was ending. Lord Henry gave her a mocking bow, taking her arm to escort her through the crowd and across to one of the silk-draped alcoves. It was sufficiently far from her mother to make Polly feel much more confident. She could deal with this matter without the Dowager Lady Seagrave even realising!

Lord Henry stood aside for her to sit down first, but she made no move to do so. He raised an eyebrow. “Well, Lady Polly? What is this urgent matter that demands our attention? Will you not sit down so that I may at least do the same?”

Polly discovered that her thought processes were suddenly beautifully clear.

“I meant,” she said deliberately, “that I needed to speak to you in private. Not here. There are too many people about!”

This time, Lord Henry did not scruple to hide his surprise. “A somewhat equivocal remark, my lady!” he said, with an ironic inflection. “Are you sure that is what you mean? It seems most singular.”

Polly frowned at him. She had no time for argument. All she was aware of was the single-minded need to fulfil her purpose.

“The terrace should suffice, my lord,” she said briskly, turning towards the door and praying that he would follow. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Dowager Countess getting heavily to her feet. It was a long way around the dance floor and the room was crowded, but it would take a determined Mama seconds only to rescue her charge. Polly saw one of the Dowager Countess’s acquaintance accost her and heaved a sigh of relief. Old Lady Odgers was notoriously chatty and would not be easy to shake off. She prayed that this would give her enough time.

The terrace was deeply shadowed and Polly purposefully made for the furthest corner, only turning back to Lord Henry when she had gained its seclusion. The cool evening air had helped to sober her a little, but she still felt remarkably buoyant and determined. Yet as soon as she opened her mouth the words seemed to desert her.

“I hoped…I wished…I wanted to say…” Suddenly it seemed incredibly difficult to frame the appropriate phrases. She had wanted to be so gracious, easily putting an end to five years’ embarrassment. At this rate she would cause five years’ more! And Lord Henry was not helping her, lounging against the parapet and watching her with the same thoughtful consideration he had already shown.

“Yes, ma’am? You have already implied that you had something of importance to impart to me. I should not be here else.”

Polly’s cheeks, already flushed with unaccustomed high colour from the punch, became even rosier. “Oh, you are the most odious man! I only wished to say that I wanted us to be friends!” Memory came to her aid. “I want us to be friends in future and I want us to be comfortable together!” she brought out, triumphantly. It had a reassuring sound, although comfortable was about the last thing Lord Henry made her feel. “And if you wish it too, then there is no bar—”

“Ah, but perhaps I do not.” Lord Henry was smiling a little now, for he knew that certain suspicions he had harboured about Lady Polly’s lack of sobriety had been confirmed. She was not drunk, precisely, he thought, but she was not perfectly sober. And she was evidently too innocent to have realised her state. Or her danger.

“Oh!” Polly had anticipated his compliance and there was no doubt that this refusal to conform had thrown her plans. Lord Henry watched in amusement as she tried to puzzle it out. With her tumbled curls, pink cheeks and bright eyes, she looked wholly enchanting. He felt a certain impulse stir in him and tried half-heartedly to stifle it. He straightened up and took a step closer to her. Polly did not appear to notice.

“Well, if you do not care to be comfortable with me—”

“No, ma’am.” Lord Henry was still immaculately polite, even as he calculated, quite coldly, what he was about to do. “Comfortable is not a word I could ever apply to our situation.”

“Then—” Polly was at a loss. “If you do not wish us to be friends, what…?”

Lord Henry made a slight, dismissive gesture. “What could a rake wish for from a lady on a providentially empty terrace?”

“Oh!”

Understanding came to Polly at the very last moment, but her head still felt as though it was stuffed with wool. Time seemed to pass very slowly. Indeed, she had time to reflect that she had never been kissed by a man, since she had always been exceptionally careful to avoid being alone with any gentleman who was not a relative. Then she remembered that when she had been in the throes of her infatuation, she had quite ached for Lord Henry to kiss her as long as it had been in a completely undemanding fashion. Some chaste but impassioned salutation had been the height of her aspirations.

This kiss might have been impassioned, but in no way could it be described as chaste. Lord Henry’s arm slid about Polly’s waist and brought her into sudden, shocking contact with his body. His mouth captured hers with the ruthless skill of the expert, parting her lips so that her gasp of outrage was lost. For several long, spellbinding seconds, Polly was swept up in a passion too complex and demanding for her even to begin to resist.

Lord Henry let her go very gently and Polly stared at him in silence. The combined effects of unaccustomed drink and strong emotion made her feel quite shaken and she put a hand onto the parapet to steady herself. The stone was cool beneath her fingers, already damp with the night’s dew. Polly frowned a little, confused. How could this have happened when she had intended so different an outcome? Then, utterly unexpectedly, Lord Henry took her hand and pressed a kiss on the palm.

“Do not look at me so reproachfully, Lady Polly,” he said quietly. “Remember that you took your part in making me what I am.”

He turned to go and was confronted once again by the Dowager Countess of Seagrave, rushing precipitately to the rescue. He gave her a most flawless, ironic bow.

“Lady Seagrave! How do you do, ma’am? I remember once telling you that I would never approach your daughter again. Alas that I am forced to contradict myself, for I find I have a most urgent need to make her reacquaintance! Your servant, ma’am!”

And he left the outraged Dowager spluttering for words.

Chapter Three

Polly woke up with the conviction that something was terribly wrong. Her head ached with an unaccustomed thick throbbing and her tongue felt furry. She rolled on to her back. The sun was streaming through the curtains and she could hear the sound of wheels in the street outside. It was late.

Through the woolly feeling in her head, Polly remembered the fruit punch, so apparently innocuous and yet so dangerous. Oh, how could she have been such a fool, she who had been out for five years! Drinking spirits, becoming flirtatious, crowning her folly with a drunken encounter on the terrace with Lord Henry Marchnight! No doubt he thought her the most unutterable fool! She squirmed, turning her hot face into the cool linen pillow in an attempt to wipe out the vivid memories which were flooding back.

“I’ve tried to wake her once already, my lady,” a voice was saying, and Polly shot bolt upright, suddenly terrified that her mother was at the door. But it was only Lucille, who came into the room and pulled back the bedcurtains with a resounding rasp that echoed through Polly’s head.

“Oh! Do not!” Polly’s groan was heartfelt. She slumped back on the pillows, feeling dizzy. Her sister-in-law paused in surprise.

“Polly? Are you ill? I thought that you were coming with me to Lady Routledge’s picnic?”