Charlotte Louise Dolan (15 page)

“Have you ever tried Madame Celeste? She has been highly recommended by Lady Marshwood.”

There was a titter of laughter, then Lady Gilford kindly explained to the now-red-faced Miss Snelson. “Your mother should have warned you, my dear, that Lady Marshwood is so clutch-fisted, she will recommend anyone who gives her a cut rate. You have only to look at some of the creations she wears to know that the woman has no taste or discrimination.”

“As bad as that may be,” Lady Wottenham added, “her nip-farthing ways are absolutely putting paid to her daughter’s chances of forming an eligible connection. Did you see that atrocious concoction she had on yesterday in the park? Why, even my maid would not accept such a dress as a gift.”

Aided by comments from the ones who had had that dubious privilege, Lady Wottenham proceeded to elaborate on the various dresses and ball gowns worn by the unfortunate young lady. All were agreed that she might as well pack up her bags and go back to Yorkshire without even waiting for the end of the Season.

Preoccupied as she was with her desperate prayers that no new visitors should arrive before this group had left, Elizabeth scarcely heard the gossip around her. Not that she needed to pay close attention; she had heard the same
on-dits
repeated over and over all afternoon. The same scandals had been related in the same scandalized tones, the same dances had been described with the same words—”my dear, such a crush”— and the same speculations had been debated, will-he-won’t-he, will-she-won’t-she, did-he-didn’t-he, would-she-should-she-might-she ...

Elizabeth suddenly realized that everyone was staring at her expectantly. She had reached the point where she could not even feel embarrassed that she had been caught out not paying attention. Smiling slightly she waited, and after a brief pause her aunt, repeated the question.

“Lady Wottenham was inquiring if you have heard from dear Cousin Amelia?”

“No,” replied Elizabeth, her smile becoming strained. “But the baby is not due for another week, I believe.”

“I don’t know how you can be so calm,” Lady Gilford said. “I vow, if ‘twere me, I would be absolutely prostrate with nerves.”

The conversation then turned to the various ailments afflicting each of the women present, and from there it moved on to the difficulties each of them had undergone in bringing their children into the world. In that category Mrs. Winterhayle had the edge, since it was generally acknowledged that her constitution was of the most delicate, and only the great skill of Dr. Fesdaile had allowed her to present her husband with seven pledges of affection.

This talk of babies was more depressing than anything else Elizabeth had heard that afternoon. In spite of her hopes at Christmastime, before the New Year had dawned she had known that she was not in the family way. How ironic it would be if, after she had married Darius because she wanted a family, it turned out that she was barren. Just the thought of that made her want to weep, but she could not reveal such feelings in public for the other women to paw at, to worry over like a dog with a bone until they had sucked every juicy morsel of gossip out of her predicament.

She wanted to tell them all it didn’t matter whether Lady Amelia’s child was a boy or a girl. All that mattered was that the baby be healthy. But she knew such a statement would shock them all to the core.

Of course it mattered. If the child was a boy, she, Elizabeth, would not become a duchess, and all these people who fawned over her now—who sought out her company at dances, who paid her interminable visits, who complimented her no matter what she wore, who expressed their deep and abiding friendships for her—would melt away like snow in July if she remained plain Mrs. St. John.

At long last the ladies began gathering up their assorted shawls and reticules, but before they could make their good-byes and Elizabeth could disappear to her room, the butler announced Lady Marshwood and her daughter, Lady Hortense.

“Oh, Lady Marshwood,” Lady Gilford positively cooed as they two women approached the little group, “what a lovely gown your daughter is wearing. Tell me, who is your
modiste?”

Elizabeth was revolted by the looks of sly glee on the other women’s faces. Darius had the right of it. At this point she was so fed up, she would even prefer to be following the army in Spain, in spite of mud and wind and hunger and fatigue, than exposing herself to the rapier-like tongues of these gentle ladies of the
haut ton.

“I had this of Madame Celeste, and I vow, she is a veritable treasure.”

Miss Snelson forgot herself so far as to let out a giggle, which earned her a pinch on the arm from her companion, Lady Wottenham’s daughter.

Things did not improve when the earlier contingent took their leave. Elizabeth was again questioned about Lady Amelia’s condition, again had to feign interest in the exchange of gossip, although Aunt Theo and Florie, for their part, were eagerly trading shocking tidbits for scandalous
on-dit
with the newcomers.

Elizabeth thought about how much nicer it was at home at Oakhaven—how much pleasanter it would be if she were in the modest parlor at the vicarage, trading recipes with the vicar’s wife or strolling through the garden at the manor while the squire’s wife imparted the secrets of raising prize-winning roses.

The sick headache she had wanted to plead earlier was now a reality, and she was about to say something to that effect when the butler reappeared to announce Mr. Simon Bellgrave.

It was the final straw. She could not sit there and watch him preen himself and listen to his flights of fancy, in which she was featured as the love of his life—which role, to be sure, was only a very minor one compared to that of his own self-importance. How could she have ever believed him when he said he loved her? And even more amazing, how had she been so taken in by his superficial charm as to fancy herself in love with him?

Murmuring about a headache, she excused herself from the room as soon as possible and fled to her own bedchamber, where she sat down at her writing desk and looked at the half-completed letter she had been writing to her husband.

She really stood in great debt to Darius. If he had not been so obliging as to take part in the curricle race, her face would not have been scarred, and she would undoubtedly have married that ... that veritable Narcissus who was now posturing downstairs. It did not bear thinking of.

Picking up the latest letter from her husband, she reread it, and images of him filled her mind—Darius riding beside her, Darius seated across from her at the table, Darius arguing with Dorie about a child’s game, and most beloved of all, Darius’s face beside hers on the pillow in the early-morning light.

Feeling immensely calmer, she picked up her pen and began to write.

* * * *

Simon was quite well pleased with the way things were going. He had seen the expression on Elizabeth’s face when she had caught sight of him. Such an intensity of feeling! She had been quite overcome by emotion—so overcome, in fact, that it had been impossible for her to remain in the same room with him, the poor, dear thing.

He must do his best to give her an opportunity to be alone with him soon, so she could release the passion that was undoubtedly tormenting her. It would not be kind to leave her to suffer from such unfulfilled longings.

In the meantime, to be sure, he must not give any of the ladies here the slightest hint that his mind was upstairs with Elizabeth, mentally peeling off her exquisite blue dress with its double row of flounces at the bottom, to find the delectable ripe curves underneath.

Taking a sip of tea from the cup Elizabeth’s cousin had handed him, he dropped what he knew would be an absolute bombshell. “Lord Ingraham’s eldest daughter is on her way to Gretna Green with Haggardson.”

The reaction of the assembled ladies was everything he could have hoped for. When the flurry of questions died down enough, he elaborated. “This morning I chanced to see her standing with her maid on a street corner, each of them loaded down with bandboxes, and I was about to approach and offer my assistance when a hired hack drove up and Haggardson sprang out. The passion displayed between them was truly touching, such pressing of hands and earnest expressions of devotion before the couple, with maid, entered the coach and set off toward the North. I vow, it was more entertaining than anything I saw at the theater last evening.”

“And what had Lord Ingraham to say when you informed him of what you had seen,” Lady Marshwood interposed.

“I? Inform him? It is none of my business if the chit is determined to ruin herself. If Ingraham don’t wish to have a gazetted fortune-hunter for a son-in-law, it is up to him to keep his daughters on a shorter leash. Though I vow, ‘twould be vastly amusing to see Ingraham’s face when he learns what has come to pass. He won’t have any trouble catching up with the runaways if he decides it is worth the effort, for a sorrier team of job horses I have yet to see.”

When he persuaded Elizabeth to run away with him—not to Gretna Green, of course, but perhaps to his hunting lodge up north—he would spare no expense, but would hire only the finest cattle. Not that they would be pursued by an irate father, of course. There was, to be sure, a slight chance of an irate husband, but that seemed unlikely, given the true circumstances of the marriage—which circumstances no one in the
haut ton
knew about except the few people intimately involved.

No, Major St. John was not likely to kick up a fuss. If the duchess’s child were a boy, the major would remain safely out of the way with the army in Spain, and if the child were a girl, St. John would, as duke, undoubtedly arrange for a quiet divorce and then marry someone of his own choosing. Either way, a man who would suffer a slap in the face without demanding satisfaction could be counted on not to lift a finger if an unwanted wife were removed from the scene.

The only problem that Simon could foresee, in fact, was a slight awkwardness if everything were not arranged before the major reappeared on the scene—if indeed he did return to England. In that case, he, Simon, had only a few weeks to complete arrangements, which would be ample time, of course, considering how passionately Elizabeth was still in love with him.

“Pray tell me, Mrs. Donnithorne, have you received any news of a blessed event at Colthurst Hall?”

Florabelle was in high dudgeon, but she managed to keep her expression sweet until she reached the privacy of her room. Then her feelings exploded, and she picked up a very pretty figurine her cousin had given her for her birthday and threw it as hard as she could against the door, where it shattered into a hundred fragments.

“Damn her, damn her, damn her! Why doesn’t she go back to Somerset where she belongs?”

“Temper, temper, sister dear.” A well-known voice came out of an easy chair by the window.

Florie whirled around. “What the devil are you doing in my room?”

“Waiting to talk to you. And what the devil has gotten you into such a snit?”

Taking a deep breath, Florie replied, “I am not in a snit. I am merely—”

Her sister, as always, interrupted. “You cannot convince me it was high spirits that caused you to smash that Dresden figure, so give over and tell me what’s wrong.”

Hands clenched at her side, Florie took several deep breaths to calm herself, but tears came unbidden to her eyes. Covering her face with her hands, she ran and threw herself down on the bed, making no effort to hold back the sobs. Her heart was breaking, she just knew it was.

Dorie joined her on the bed but not in the tears. “You’ve got your nose out of joint because Beth has stolen all your beaux.”

Anger drying up her tears, Florie pushed herself up and glared at her sister. “What a despicable thing to say, you little brat. No one, I repeat, no one has stolen my admirers, not Cousin Elizabeth or anyone else. They all come every day to pay their respects.”

“If you think they come to pay their respects to you, then you’re dicked in the nob. Clustering around Beth and hanging onto her every word does not constitute paying their respects to you.”

With a cry of rage, Florie reached out to give her sister’s hair a good yank, but Dorie, as usual, managed to evade her punishment by sliding quickly off the bed.

“Face up to facts, sister dear. As pretty as you may think you are, you cannot hold a candle to Beth.” Dorie wandered over to the dressing table and began fiddling with the items laid out there.

“Leave my things alone!” Florie followed her sister and jerked a hairbrush out of her hand. “And I do not think I’m prettier than Beth; I know I am. She has that horrible scar on her face, and my features are absolutely unblemished. I have not so much as even one freckle or spot.”

Dorie’s eyes met hers in the mirror. “What has that to say to anything? I will allow that you have a pretty face, but Beth is truly beautiful, and the scar is insignificant.”

“I suppose you are saying that because you think the baby will be a girl and then Cousin Elizabeth will be a duchess and people will accept even a freak if she is of high-enough rank.”

“Don’t you dare call Beth a freak!”

Dorie’s fists came up, and Florie, remembering how violent her sister could be when she was in a temper, backed up out of reach.

“Of course I did not mean that cousin Elizabeth is a freak. I just meant that everyone is fawning over her now because they are hoping she will be the Duchess of Colthurst, and if she is, they are each and every one of them hoping to receive an invitation to Colthurst Hall. If I were about to become a duchess, I would be the center of attention just like she is. It’s not fair.”

It was so obvious, even Dorie would have to admit the injustice of the situation, but her sister was as unreasonable as ever.

“If you are talking about that gaggle of harpies who have nothing in their heads but fashion and gossip, then you are probably right.”

“Of course I am right.”

“But if you are talking about all the young blades who get fatuous expressions on their faces and behave like veritable moonlings when Beth simply walks into the room, then you’re wide of the mark. None of them cares a fig if Beth is a duchess or not, although some of them are probably gnashing their teeth over the fact that she is a married woman now.”