A Compromised Lady (6 page)

Puzzled at this very masculine inclusion, Thea helped herself to toast, poached eggs and ham, and made a pot of tea from the urn steaming in the corner.

She enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, and afterwards sipped her tea with lingering enjoyment, wondering what she might do with her day. A day in which she might do precisely as she pleased.

Contemplating this rare treasure, Thea poured another cup of tea. She might take one of the maids and go for a walk. She could visit Hatchards. She might—

Stare at Mr Richard Blakehurst strolling into the breakfast parlour as though he owned it! At this hour! Swallowing her tea with difficulty, she realised that his limp was far less noticeable these days, more a slight halt in the stride than a limp. The harsh lines pain had etched in his face made him look rather forbidding.

Until he smiled his familiar crooked smile.

Which he was doing now, the corners of his eyes creasing in the way she remembered. His whole face lightened. She remembered that too, Richard smiling at her as he clumsily partnered her in a country dance. But he’d always been just Richard. An extra brother. Someone dependable. A dear friend. She didn’t remember that she had ever thought of him as attractive…

‘Good morning, Thea,’ he said pleasantly.

She found herself smiling back.

Attractive? Surely not.

Oh, yes, he was. Even more so as his smile deepened in response to her own.

‘Good morning,’ she returned, confused. ‘Er, Lady Arnsworth is not yet down, sir.’

His brows rose. ‘Just as well,’ he said, strolling to the sideboard. ‘Or you would have to revive me with burnt feathers.’

A giggle escaped her at the image, and with a perfectly straight face Richard added, ‘No proper lady leaves her bedchamber before noon, you know.’

Laughter bubbled up. ‘Are you implying, sir—?’

‘That proper ladies bore me,’ he said, grinning. ‘That’s better. You should laugh more often. And stop calling me sir, Thea. It makes my teeth ache. Now, what have we here?’ He lifted the lid of one of the chafing dishes.

She glared at him. ‘A trifle early for morning calls, is it not?’ she enquired. ‘Especially when your aunt is still abed.’ Better to ignore the implication that she didn’t laugh enough.

He looked around, with a sudden frown. ‘She didn’t tell you?’

‘Tell me what?’

The frown deepened. ‘This isn’t a morning call. I’m staying here too.’

‘What!’ Her teacup clattered into its saucer. ‘Why?’

‘Heiress hunting,’ he said blandly, carving some sirloin.

‘I beg your pardon?’ she said icily.

‘Absolved,’ he said promptly. ‘I’m sure you didn’t mean to be rude.’

Her mouth twitched. She had forgotten his ability to turn the tables so neatly in any verbal sparring.

He helped himself to mustard, sat down and smiled at her again. ‘Don’t blame me. Curse our mutual godmother.’ He took a mouthful.

‘But why are you staying here?’ she asked, refusing to return that annoyingly infectious smile.

Smiles like that ought to be outlawed anyway!

He finished his mouthful and said, ‘Because I have business in London and Almeria invited me.’

‘Oh.’ His business was none of her concern. ‘Then—’

‘I am not pursuing you,’ he growled. ‘And so you may tell your fire-eating brother! You could have twice the fortune and I wouldn’t be interested in it! I have a little more pride than that!’

For a moment shocked silence hung between them.

Shame burnt her cheeks, and deep inside, coldness spread, leaching through her, a slow poison welling up. She fought it down, forcing herself to seem untouched, unmoved.

‘I suppose I must thank you for making your sentiments so plain,’ she said stiffly. It didn’t matter.

It didn’t! After all, she didn’t want him, or any man, to pursue her. The chill spread further. How had he known? Lady Arnsworth?

Then—‘Oh, damn!’ said Richard. ‘I mean, I beg your pardon, Thea. That was not at all how I meant to put it. What I meant is that I am not on the catch for an heiress. Any heiress.

Unfortunately for us, Almeria has other ideas.’

Thea took a shaky breath. She had thought—for one dreadful eternal instant—that he knew. ‘I…

very well…’ Then his remark about Lady Arnsworth’s plans crashed into her. ‘What do you mean, Lady Arnsworth has other ideas?’

He looked at her in disbelief. ‘Thea—stop wool-gathering. Think—her goddaughter with a fortune of fifty thousand pounds; her godson and favourite nephew, a younger son with no expectations whatsoever—clearly a match made in heaven.’

Her eyes widened as that stabbed home. Oh, God! Why hadn’t she seen it? No wonder Lady Arnsworth had assured her that there would be no swarms of fortune hunters! She took a couple of careful, deep breaths and met Richard’s gaze.

He was looking at her oddly. ‘Are you feeling quite the thing?’

She took a sip of tea. If she looked as shocked as she felt, then he had some cause for asking.

‘Perfectly well, thank you, sir,’ she lied. ‘Er, thank you for your honesty.’ At least he had been honest.

He frowned. ‘Thea, if you think I am going to call you Miss Winslow and stand upon ceremony with you, then think again,’ he said in rising irritation. ‘And stop calling me sir!’

At this inauspicious moment the door opened and the butler came in with a coffee pot.

‘Your coffee, sir.’ His tones oozed reproof.

‘Ah, thank you, Myles. That will be all.’

‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir.’ Myles placed the coffee pot before Richard and removed himself with all the air of a man removing himself from potential crossfire.

Thea met Richard’s glare head on. ‘Mr Blakehurst, you have been so kind as to make clear your position—mine is similar. I have no interest in marriage to you whatsoever. If you are concerned that your aunt wishes to promote a match between us, you may rest assured she will receive no encouragement or assistance from me. Good day. Sir. If you will take my advice, any familiarity between us will merely encourage any mistaken assumptions! In future I shall request breakfast in my bedchamber. It will be far safer for both of us if we are not alone together!’

She stalked out, leaving Richard contemplating his breakfast, furiously aware that he had displayed all the finesse of a cavalry charge. Nor had he made his position clear. Now that he thought about it, she had always been able to get under his skin with the greatest of ease, deflecting him from what he wished to say. And that knack she had of getting the last word was like to drive him insane.

But at least their argument had banished the shadows in her eyes. They’d been positively snapping sparks before she walked out. As though the waxwork doll had come to life or split to let out the old, passionate Thea…She was still too pale—or perhaps it was just the effect of the slightly too big, dull grey gown.

Muttering to himself, he poured a cup of coffee and stirred in several lumps of sugar. What really annoyed him was that in one sense she was right about them avoiding each other. The last thing Almeria needed was encouragement. She would be having a field day, dropping not-so-chance remarks about duty and commenting on all the advantages of the union—he paused, quite unable to think of any arguments Almeria would be able to advance in his cause beyond the purely mercenary ones. He didn’t, however, let that fool him into believing Almeria wouldn’t think of some.

He didn’t want to avoid Thea. Why the hell should he? They were friends, and how the devil could he discover if they would suit if they were avoiding each other?

T hea stared at the rose-pink gauze evening gown in the arms of the modiste’s assistant. She loved pink and this was, without a doubt, at the very forefront of fashion, but…She gulped—it appeared to be missing its bodice…and the sleeves consisted of the tiniest scraps of gauze…but the way the light shifted on it…as though it were alive. Delicate embroidered flowers decorated the rouleau at the hem. Temptation flickered; involuntarily her fingertips brushed over it. So soft, so fine—there was nothing of it at all…She drew back.

‘N…no. No, I couldn’t possibly wear that,’ she said cravenly.

‘Mais, mademoiselle,’ wailed the modiste, ‘it is of the finest, ze mos’ beautiful—madame!’ She appealed to Lady Arnsworth who had stepped away to examine a dress length in softest blue merino draped over a chair.

Lady Arnsworth looked up. ‘Excellent, Monique. Precisely what she should wear! With proper stays, of course.’

‘But, Lady Arnsworth!’ protested Thea, ignoring the reference to stays. She hadn’t worn long stays in years. They were impossible without a maid. ‘The bodice!’

‘Bodice? What about the bodice?’

‘It doesn’t have one!’ said Thea. The thought of appearing in such a gown, exposed to the gaze of all—her skin crawled at the thought of people, men, staring at her, leering. Touching her. No. It would be unbearable. But the gown really was very pretty…

Lady Arnsworth examined the gown. ‘Dreadful the way some females flaunt their charms,’ she said, subjecting the non-existent bodice to keen scrutiny. ‘If charms one can call them when they are exposed to every vulgar gaze!’

Thea nodded.

‘It is of the first importance that you should not draw attention to yourself,’ continued Lady Arnsworth. ‘But…’ She hesitated. ‘As an heiress, there will of course be those only too swift to be spiteful, whatever you do! It is a very lovely gown, Dorothea, but if you do not like it…’

Thea remained silent. That was the problem; she did like it. Very much.

The modiste, her mouth primmed in distaste, cast an affronted glance at Thea’s grey dress, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like sackcloth! and issued a stream of voluble instructions to her assistant, along with the pink gown, which was borne away.

Sackcloth? Thea considered her current wardrobe. Her gowns were all grey…or brown. Discreet, modest, and…dull. No doubt any gowns provided by Madame Monique would be beautifully cut, and the material exquisite…but, did she really want them to be grey?

Sackcloth? She swallowed. That was the word that came to mind when she thought of her wardrobe. And there were probably some ashes about somewhere as well.

The old, rebellious spark, dimmed for years, flared. After all, she had never meant to dress in grey for the rest of her life. It was just the way it had turned out after…after Lallerton’s death. There had been no money with which to purchase other clothes after her period of official mourning…

decreed by her father, and enforced by Aunt Maria…even a pink riband for her hair had been burnt.

The spark ignited. How was shrouding herself in more grey helping her to enjoy herself? She took a very deep breath.

‘If you please, madame—’ she directed what she hoped was a friendly smile at the modiste ‘—that pretty pink gown—I should like to try it on after all.’

Madame’s eyes brightened. ‘Mais oui! But of course.’ Now beaming, the modiste continued, ‘The colour will be ravissement, of course. It will bring out the pretty colour in mademoiselle’s cheeks.

We will put away ces robes tristes. One does not wish to cover oneself in sadness. The pink. Oui—

the pink. And there are others, mademoiselle!’ She rushed away.

Others? Thea gulped. What had she let loose?

No. She pushed the doubts away. She might feel alive again in the pink gown. A dangerous thing being alive, but the pink gown beckoned. She would enjoy the pink gown. As for the non-existent sleeves—well, she would be wearing long gloves. It would be concealing enough.

Madame came back, bearing the pink evening gown as tenderly as a babe. An assistant trailed behind, a rainbow of silks and satins cascading from her arms. Thea viewed it all with intense satisfaction.

Her gowns. Her choices.

Her life. To enjoy.

Lady Arnsworth gave an approving little nod. ‘Excellent. Very sensible, my dear.’

By the time Thea left the modiste she had ordered an entire new wardrobe from the skin out, and was garbed in a new walking dress and a pelisse of turkey red. She still couldn’t quite believe that she had spent so much money. And she felt completely different—just as Lady Arnsworth had predicted.

‘That bonnet,’ announced the other woman as she settled herself in the barouche, ‘is an abomination. It always was, I dare say, but it is far more noticeable with your new clothes. We shall have to buy you a new one. Several new ones. Now.’ She leaned forward to give directions to the coachman. ‘And afterwards,’ she said, ‘we shall drive in the park.’

Her old bonnet consigned to a dust heap, Thea found herself being driven at a snail’s pace through the leafy green of the park. Fashionable London had returned to life after the festivities of the previous evening and their progress was impeded by the number of times the coachman was obliged to stop so that Lady Arnsworth might exchange greetings with her acquaintances.

Just as Thea had expected, no one seemed terribly surprised to learn the identity of Lady Arnsworth’s companion; most remembered her from her first Season.

The carriageway was crowded, horses ridden by nattily turned-out gentleman and elegant women, weaving between the carriages, chatter and laughter filling the air as society preened itself. A show, she reminded herself. Like a peacock’s tail. Nothing more. And she wasn’t frightened of peacocks after all.

‘Oh!’ Lady Arnsworth’s exclamation pulled her back. ‘Goodness me—’ tis Laetitia Chasewater. I dare say given your connection, Dorothea, that she will call. Nothing could be more fortunate.’

Thea’s breath jerked in. The lady in question was seated in her own barouche on the opposite side of the carriageway a little further along. Elegantly gowned in soft grey, tastefully trimmed with black, the lady smiled and inclined her head.

‘There…there is no connection, ma’am,’ said Thea, her stomach churning. ‘I should not like her ladyship to feel obliged—’

‘Nonsense,’ said Lady Arnsworth. ‘Why, ’tis common knowledge that poor Nigel was by far her favourite child, and that she was very happy about the match between you. There! She is beckoning to you! Of course you must step over to greet her. Edmund…’ she indicated the footman perched up behind them ‘…will attend you.’