Carola Dunn (26 page)

He’d show the harridan. He’d show them all.

* * * *

For the dinner party, Nerissa wore a new gown, with a short train. The amber crêpe over a white sarcenet slip was modestly trimmed with rouleaux of white satin, wide at the bottom of the skirt and narrow around the neckline. Miss Sophie had suggested that it was uncivil in a hostess to dress much finer than her guests and Nerissa agreed.

“A vulgar display of wealth,” Miles had added, “though you’d be surprised how many do it anyway.”

Though simple, the gown was quite becoming, Nerissa thought hopefully, before she was overcome by last minute nerves.

What did she, a theatre wardrobe mistress, think she was doing entertaining the gentry to a formal dinner? This was no casual morning call, potluck nuncheon, or afternoon tea. She was bound to make a mull of it.

“Why did I ever invite them?” she wailed as Maud put the last touches to her hair. “I shall do something dreadful and they will all know I am a mere seamstress aping her betters.”

“Nonsense, child,” said Miss Sophie, quite severely. “You are Miss Wingate of Addlescombe, granddaughter of a baronet, and all your guests are aware of it.”

“‘Tis every inch a lady you are now, miss,” Maud put in encouragingly. “What’s past is past and it don’t do to dwell on it.”

“Besides,” Miss Sophie went on, “a formal occasion is often easier than an informal, because the rules are laid down for you and all you need do is follow them.”

A knock on the door was followed by Miles’s voice. “Nerissa, are you ready to go down?”

“Just coming.” How typical of him to be there when she needed his support. The very sight of him, handsome and elegant in black and white, gave her confidence--and awoke her pride. She wasn’t going to let him or anyone else see her trepidation.

She smiled up at him, then noticed his worried look. Surely he had no reason to be nervous! She touched his arm. “What is the matter, Miles?”

“I’ve been thinking. You arranged with Snodgrass to provide cards and card-tables after dinner, did you not?”

“Yes. Miss Sophie said gentlemen, and ladies too, often like to play. But they will not be set out unless they are needed.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “The trouble is, while Clive Digby may be satisfied playing for fish, the rest will play for money, even if it’s only shillings. And if I’m asked to join in, I’m dashed if I can see a polite way to avoid it. I’ve never hosted anything but a card evening and supper for gentlemen before.”

“But you have been to plenty of dinner parties, or you could not have helped Miss Sophie teach me how to go on. You must have seen what your hosts did in that situation.”

“Sat down and played.”

“Oh.” She thought hard, then gave him a quizzing smile. “You know, I don’t believe you need be concerned. No one will wonder if you prefer flirting to cards, and between Anna Pettigrew and the Firston girls, there will be plenty of competition for your company.”

Miles laughed, ruefully. “True, though I am a coxcomb to say it. Bless you.” He dropped a swift, light kiss on her forehead as Miss Sophie came to join them.

“I was just reminding Maud of what she must do to look after the visiting ladies. Heavens, Miles, you have not combed your hair!”

“Wait for me.” He dashed into his chamber and reemerged a moment later, once more impeccable. “Let us go down, ladies.”

The Pettigrews, the Firstons, and the Digbys all arrived right on time. In the bustle of greetings, Nerissa lost what remained of her anxiety. She knew these people, and though there were one or two she could not like, she counted several as friends. It was a pity Clive Digby was so obviously in the sulks, but at least he had turned up and not spoiled her numbers.

She was glad that General Pettigrew’s rank entitled him to be seated on her right. He consumed his bowl of lukewarm soup without the least sign that anything was amiss, chatting cheerfully the while. Nerissa did her best to respond, but she abandoned her soup in dismay and she noted many another bowl being taken away half full. She was puzzled. They had come into the dining room on time, not kept the dinner waiting. Admittedly the kitchen was some distance away, but Cook usually managed to serve food hot. No doubt providing a formal meal with several removes to each course had flustered her, though she had extra help in the kitchen.

All the rest of the first course was equally cold. Nerissa caught Snodgrass’s eye. He made a helpless gesture and discreetly disappeared, to remonstrate with Cook, she hoped. Fortunately the main dishes were a fine turbot in aspic and a ham, and the lobster salad was delicious.

The second course hot dishes--game and vegetables and a fricassee of veal--arrived steaming, and the cakes, pastries and jellies all looked most appetizing. In relief, Nerissa reached for her wine, which she had scarcely tasted.

The glass toppled over, before she even touched it, she could have sworn. A red stain spread across the white damask tablecloth.

General Pettigrew stopped the flood with his napkin just before it reached the edge of the table and dripped onto his trousers. He patted Nerissa’s hand. “No harm done, my dear,” he assured her.

But people were staring, in surprise, sympathy, or disdain, according to their natures.

Snodgrass quickly covered the stain with clean napkins. Flurried, Nerissa turned to the gentleman on her left, Clive Digby’s father, and offered him the gravy for his roast pheasant. As she passed it to him, her sleeve caught on thin air. The gravy-boat emptied its contents into Mr Digby’s lap.

He sprang up with a cry. Once again Snodgrass was there, his soothing murmur promising clean inexpressibles, gently urging the ruffled gentleman from the room.

Nerissa began to think she must be asleep in her bed, dreaming. Any moment she would wake up, go down to breakfast, laugh with Miles over her dreadful nightmare. But there he was at the far end of the table, determinedly making conversation with old Mrs Firston. In between, on face after face, surprise turned to dismay, sympathy to pity, disdain to contempt.

She could not eat another bite. Somehow she stopped herself rushing out. When everyone seemed to have finished their dinners she caught Miss Sophie’s eye, Caroline Pettigrew’s eye, and rose to lead the ladies out.

As if the movement loosened them, her hairpins started to come out. A tress flopped down to her shoulder and she felt the rest begin to uncoil.

Her foot tangled in her train. She stumbled, all but sprawled across the besmirched table, saved in the nick of time by General Pettigrew’s strong arm and swift reaction.

“Bosky, by Jove!” said a male voice further up the table.

“Disgraceful!” said a female.

Head held high, face burning, Nerissa moved towards the door. There she met Mrs Pettigrew, who regarded her with unconcealed disapprobation and not a little alarm.

And somehow Nerissa’s foot landed on Mrs Pettigrew’s train just as that lady stepped forward. There was a horrid ripping sound. A gaping hole appeared between bodice and skirt.

“What can you expect of an actress?” enquired Euphemia in the smuggest of tones.

“General,” said Mrs Pettigrew frigidly, “Caroline, Anna, we shall leave at once.”

Nerissa fled.

Miles found her in her chamber. She stood half concealed by the flowered chintz window curtains, forehead pressed against the glass, white-knuckled hands clenched on the sill, dishevelled hair about her shoulders.

“Have they all gone?” she asked dully as his footsteps sounded on the polished floorboards.

He stopped just behind her. “Yes, all of them. Caroline Pettigrew and young Mrs Firston wanted to stay but...”

“Caroline had to obey her mother, and Jenny her mama-in-law. They are right, I am not fit for well-bred young ladies to consort with.”

“Balderdash!” Miles exploded. “Such a string of disasters didn’t happen by chance. I know perfectly well you were not bosky, and far from being clumsy you move with exceptional grace.”

“Theatrical training.” She turned and gave him a wavering smile, her grey eyes swimming in tears.

“It was your dear relations. They set it up, I’ll be damned if I know how but I’d wager a fortune on it. Don’t cry, Nerissa,” he said helplessly as the tears spilled over. “I’ll share your grandfather’s fortune with you, you know I will.”

He took her in his arms and held her while she wept into his shoulder, his heart aching for her.

“It’s not the m-money,” she said through sobs. “It’s knowing my family h-hates me, and being sh-shamed before all those people.”

“I’ll bring ‘em back,” he vowed. He’d think of a way. He had to. “I shall convince them none of it was your fault, if I have to go from house to house on bended knee, I promise.”

“Oh, Miles!” She raised her head and those lovely eyes gazed up at him. “How very, very kind you are.”

Kissing her was the most natural thing in the world. Her lips were tender, sweet, with a tang of salt tears. Her hair was silken-soft beneath his hand. Her body fitted to his so perfectly he could not believe he had ever wanted a shorter, plumper woman.

And want her he did. Desire burned through him, flamed in his loins. She clung to him and he clasped her tighter, her breasts crushed against his chest, the thunder of her racing heart echoing his own. Her lips parted...

“Stop, Sophie, you sapskull!” hissed a venomous voice. “Not yet!”

“Stop!” cried Miss Sophie, dashing into the chamber all a-twitter, leaving a ribbon from her sleeve in her sister’s grasp. “Oh dear, you simply must not, my dears.”

Miles found himself several feet from Nerissa, staring at his flushed face in the mirror. He smoothed his ruffled hair with a shaking hand, turned, and said with the best attempt at amused nonchalance he could manage, “I shan’t ravish her, you know, ma’am. Not with the door wide open.”

“I did not think so,” she said uncertainly, and crossed to the bed, where Nerissa sat with bowed head, shoulders hunched, hugging herself. Patting Nerissa’s shoulder, Miss Sophie explained, “But Effie was so sure...”

“Mrs Chidwell is all too apt to believe her own fantasies. I was merely comforting Nerissa. It was a friendly kiss, brotherly, not the sort that leads anywhere.”

“Of course, Miles dear.”

He appeared to have persuaded Miss Sophie of the innnocence of their embrace. What Nerissa thought he could not guess. He himself was quite aware he was lying. If they had not been interrupted, in another few moments he might well have carried her to the bed and let the tides of passion sweep him away--to ruin him, and doubly to ruin her.

He had to act as if the kiss had never happened.

Chapter 18

“You said we were to rush in, Effie.”

“Not until they were actually in the throes of passion!” Having summoned Sophie to her chamber, Euphemia sat solidly on her dressing-table stool like a magistrate on the bench, her erring sister standing before her. “I was just about to send you for Harwood when you ruined everything,” she added, exasperated.

“I misunderstood. Besides,” said Sophie spiritedly, “I was never married so how do you expect me to recognize when the right moment came?”

Bravo, Sir Barnabas silently applauded. If only he had persisted when Euphemia bullied Sophie into refusing his offer. Pride had refused to let him risk another rejection, or perhaps he could have been married to the dear girl these many lonely years. What a wife she would have made, what a gentle mother for Anthea, instead of dwindling into an old maid as unpaid companion to her fat, selfish tyrant of a sister.

Nerissa’s arrival had given her a new lease on life. She had welcomed the child with an open mind and come to love her enough to defy Euphemia for her sake--while he, her own grandfather, had done his best to ruin her.

Wincing, he recalled the dreadful dinner party. In an unreasoning fury he had wreaked havoc, left Nerissa’s dignity and self-respect in tatters, and again pride was to blame. He would not be proved wrong.

But he was wrong!

Nerissa had been brought up in the immoral world of the theatre, yet Anthea and the fellow she married had somehow succeeded in preserving her innocence. Nothing lacked in her conduct but a few paltry tricks of etiquette. She recognized Sophie’s worth, so long disregarded, and returned her affection. The servants--even Snodgrass!--respected and defended her. In spirit she was a lady through and through.

As for Miles, gamester and rake though he undoubtedly was, he had the self-control to keep his appetites in check when necessary. The boy was also a diligent landowner, a fair but compassionate landlord, and a staunch, generous friend. His offer to share a fortune with Nerissa, which had brought a mist to Sir Barnabas’s eyes, was all of a piece with his constant support and protection of his rival for the inheritance.

She had helped him, too. They would make a splendid couple, man and wife, but no, it was too much to hope for. Miles had more than once firmly stated that he was not a marrying man.

Sir Barnabas sighed. He should have put a clause in his Will to ensure that, in the event of Miles dying without legitimate issue, Nerissa’s eldest son should have Addlescombe. Of course, when he wrote the damned thing, he had been so very sure neither would inherit the place.

They still might not, if Euphemia had her way.

“Nerissa is out of the way,” she was saying, “but it just means Miles takes the lot unless we stop him. I fear it is futile to try to lure him into gambling. That nonsensical make-believe game Nerissa has him playing seems to suffice him. No, it must be a woman.”

“I am sure Mr Harwood will not permit you to invite a... a woman of easy virtue to the manor, Effie.”

“A pity, but you are right.” Effie ruminated, then brightened. “What has hampered us so far is Nerissa’s resistance, I am certain of it. Men are by nature more lustful than females, and Miles is a gambler. If he could have persuaded Nerissa to lie with him, he would have risked the consequences.”

“Oh, surely not!”

Rapt in her scheming, Euphemia ignored this negativism. “However, now Nerissa has nothing to lose by giving in to his importunities. All we have to do is confine them together for a few hours...”