Authors: Compromised
“My actions, regarding your sister,” Max said slowly, his voice cold as steel, “are none of your business, Brat.”
“My sister, my conservatory,” Gail countered. “My family. I’d count myself as an interested party.”
“Miss Alton,” Max said, turning to her, his shoulder leaning against the door in a relaxed pose of false calm, “I’m not answerable to you.”
“No, Max, you’re not, sadly. Are you answerable to anyone? Is there anyone in this world who keeps you and your tremendous ego in check?” Gail looked into his face, and he was surprised to see the beginnings of real tears. “How could you? How
could
you? You are no better than Ommersley, getting a girl alone and then forcing your intentions on her! And you can’t deny it.”
“Of course I can deny it! I didn’t prey on you, did I?” Max said, perhaps more loudly than was proper, causing Gail to stare him into silence.
“But you don’t like me, Max. I cast up the contents of my stomach on your shoes. Preying on me was probably repulsive, even to an unethical blackguard like you.”
An image of the way Gail had looked that night drifted across Max’s mind. Bleary eyed, tipsy, and eventually covered in vomit. Not at all appealing.
And yet, that had been an awfully fetching yellow dress.
“Why did you have to prey on my family?” Gail asked in a furious whisper, eyes gleaming. “Why couldn’t you leave us alone? Sometimes you really are a…”
She managed to stop herself, but not the tears. Max was caught by those watery golden brown eyes, stoically fighting as one glistening tear lazily rolled its way down her flushed cheek.
He felt all the air leave his body. She was right—somewhat. He
had
blithely tripped into her family for his own reasons. He had sat through an uncomfortable interview with the father, and the stepmother, but until he encountered Gail’s frustration and anger, Max hadn’t really considered how his actions had affected this family. And here he’d stood on the steps, playfully snide and superior, prodding Gail into tears.
Sometimes, he really was a—
Suddenly, the door that supported most of his weight opened.
Luckily, he managed to catch himself on a nearby urn before falling completely, but he did make a few stumbling steps that Romilla looked upon most disapprovingly.
As both ladies emerged into the bleak afternoon daylight, gloves on and intact, Romilla gave a great smile. “Well,” she said, false cheer in place, “shall we be off, then?”
IF
it was thought the excursion had started off badly, the carriage ride itself could only be classified as a complete disaster.
Not outwardly of course—Romilla, a master at keeping up appearances, had made certain that they looked happy and jovial to anyone spying from afar. But if anyone had gotten close enough to read the subtleties, they would have come to realize one truth: No one here was having any fun.
Part of the reason, nay, the whole of the reason people rode in the park in the afternoons was that it was terribly fashionable. Gentlemen were there to look at the Young Ladies. Young Ladies were there to catch the eye of the Gentlemen and make themselves known to the many Matrons that ruled the Ton. The Matrons were there to ensure that no one faltered on the steps of the social ladder, and if they did, to be able to claim themselves an eyewitness to the occasion. Exercise was secondary.
The Alton/Fontaine party was no different, however much one or another of its occupants wished to be riding freely at a gallop on their own horse. Even in this unremarkable and somewhat chilly weather, the mass of fashionability turned out in fine style, crowding the neatly graveled paths and rolling lawns of Hyde Park. Gentlemen on fine horses, many of whom had more prestigious breeding than their owners, flanked carriages with ladies lounging in the seats. Lord Fontaine’s carriage joined the unofficial queue of people dancing attendance on each other.
They smiled and nodded to Lord and Lady Garrett and the Pickerings, who giggled as they passed by. Mr. and Mrs. Fortings waved coolly as they went along, and several gentlemen greeted them genially. Indeed, from afar, it all looked so very amiable.
However, the insidious rumors had reached more and more ears in the past day, and the Ton was getting more and more curious.
Some of the gentlemen who stopped at the barouche’s side were either complete rakes sensing easy prey or young bucks trying to earn dissolute reputations. Some people simply passed by with their noses in the air. Lady Hurstwood gave Lord Fontaine the most suspicious glance as she chatted with Evangeline. She had gone so far as to hint at the notion of a wedding, but out of necessity, not romance. Romilla had, of course, handled such inquisitions smoothly, until she had the opportunity to chat with Lady Jersey.
Lady Jersey was one of the leading matrons of the Ton. She and a handful of other ladies held supreme social power because they held all the vouchers for Almack’s. Without a voucher, a young lady might just as well go home for the Season and quietly cry in the corner, such were her chances for social success. Most of these matrons were narrow-mindedly pompous, prudishly strict individuals who believed unequivocally in their own rightness. Lady Jersey was no different—but, perhaps, the nicest of the lot.
“Lady Alton. I must congratulate you on your ball the other evening,” Lady Jersey began after being hailed by Romilla, her pair of horses coming to a smart halt at the lightest flick of her wrist. “It was not lacking in interesting events, I understand.”
Romilla wisely ignored the bait. “Thank you, Lady Jersey, I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”
“I daresay I wasn’t the only one,” Lady Jersey continued, her eyes flitting to Lord Fontaine, as Gail and Evangeline exchanged quick looks.
Romilla cleared her throat and dared the next sentence. “Lady Jersey, are you acquainted with Lord Fontaine?”
Lady Jersey looked at Max, quirked her eyebrow, and extended her hand. “Lord Fontaine and I have never met, although I have seen you at several functions around town.”
“Of course,” Max answered smoothly. “Your servant, ma’am.”
She nodded, regarded him a moment, and then asked, “Do you attend Almack’s, my Lord?”
“But rarely, ma’am. I haven’t had much cause to go until recently.”
“Yes, of course. Few young gentlemen attend until they meet a lady worth pursuing there,” Lady Jersey said coolly, but politely.
“Perhaps you’ll see more of me then.” Max smiled charmingly, and Lady Jersey responded in kind.
Romilla took advantage of the easier interaction Max had provided and took the next step. “Lady Jersey, I do hope that we may call upon you later in the week, I so admired the facade of your home.”
Max knew Lady Jersey lived just across Berkeley Square, and therefore was required to maintain a neighborly connection with the Altons. But she could so easily say no. No one could be blind to Romilla’s motivation, least of all Lady Jersey: vouchers for Almack’s. Max saw Romilla catch her breath, Evangeline go white under her placid smile, and Gail raise a curious eyebrow, as Lady Jersey took a long probing look at their party. Finally, she smiled again, albeit thinly.
“We’ll see,” was all she said, before conveniently seeing that she was being hailed by another carriage and took her leave.
Romilla’s face was impassive as stone, but her eyes flashed with intensity and anticipation. This was war, socially speaking, and she was ready to face down all the challenges. But she smothered the look so quickly, if Max had blinked he would have missed it.
And so it went on. Everyone that stopped by the carriage gave cordial greetings to Romilla, smiling warmly at Evangeline and acknowledging she looked particularly well, with sly looks toward Max. Everyone got a good look at Max riding with the Alton girls and under the supervision and approval of the stepmother. However, Max noted no one said much to Gail. Odd, that. She was irritating for certain, but she also had obvious intelligence, a keen and ripe sense of humor, and was pretty, in a manner. But no one looked her way.
The Fontaine/Alton party soon left Rotten Row, and made their way at a brisk pace around the park, far enough from the main roads, but still in sighting distance of those who made it their business to watch. They were now free to converse openly, although Romilla instructed everyone to keep a congenial look or smile on his or her face the whole ride.
Once they were able to speak freely, however, a problem arose. No one had anything to say.
Oh, Romilla tried to engage in conversation. She started by noting, however sarcastically, how polite Lady Jersey had been and how nice the Pickering girls looked in their matching habits, adding that no one will ever be able to tell them apart until they start making use of their differences. She even tried to draw Max and Evangeline into a dialogue by discussing plans for the next few days and evenings, but to no avail.
Max’s mind was curiously drawn to his earlier behavior toward Gail and gave short answers. Evangeline’s answers were even shorter. She kept her eyes down and over, anywhere but on the three other people in the carriage.
Romilla finally gave up on her social graces and gave Max a solid kick on the toe to get him to talk.
And he did, once he realized through Romilla’s remarkably pointy shoe that, as their de facto host, the burden of conversation was rightly on his shoulders. He tried to think of anything to say to Evangeline—but found his mouth dry and his mind blank. What to say? What were her interests? He couldn’t even move to touch her hand under Romilla’s watchful eye, and he certainly couldn’t mention their previous meeting in range of her attentive ear.
And of course, there was the added presence of Gail.
How did he court Evangeline with the irksome sister always watching, her sharp eyes and wit on hand and ready to slay him down to size? She would smirk and say something smart, and it would hit him dead in the chest.
Then again, Gail had barely said a word since her nearly tearful speech on the doorstep. She had observed his and Romilla’s attempts at conversation, but never entered it, nor, he noted, had she been invited.
Hard to think this hellcat would wait for an invitation. But if he didn’t know better, he’d think Gail was rather…subdued.
Her sister wasn’t fairing much better. Max had tried subjects he thought might pique her interest. Fashion, the countryside, music.
“What did you think of Mrs. Reed’s latest Gothic novel?”
“I’m sorry, I haven’t read it.”
“What’s your opinion of the tragedy in Norfolk?”
“It’s, ah, terribly tragic, indeed.”
“Do you enjoy being back in England?”
“Very much, my Lord.”
None of her answers were snappish; they were simply short—as if she couldn’t think of a thing to say, either.
Nerves, it seemed, had overtaken the whole carriage.
Victuals that had been packed in a basket were opened in the hopes everyone would comment on the food, but no one was hungry.
After a turn and a half round the park, they admitted defeat. They waved good-bye to the afternoon riders they passed and returned to Number Seven Berkeley Square in silence.
AS
Max escorted the ladies to the door, Romilla turned and asked him to stay for dinner.
It was an order, not a request, but Max couldn’t think of anything he cared to avoid more. Claiming a previous engagement, Max made his regrets and promised to call in the morning. He bowed to Romilla and then turned to his intended. Evangeline looked frailly beautiful, but was still appallingly silent. She seemed outwardly serene, but had a death grip on her sister’s hand.
He looked at that hand, holding on to Gail’s as if she derived all her strength from that connection. Evangeline was acutely uncomfortable, and Gail was the only thing holding her together. Funny, Max mused. Given that on his previous meetings with Gail she had been a complete mess, he would have thought Evangeline the stronger of the two.
Max bowed to her, but dared not try to kiss her hand. As he took his leave of the Alton ladies and rode down the street, he reviewed the atrocious afternoon in his head.
Although Romilla’s presence had done a great deal to stable their connection socially, it did nothing to help it grow. Indeed, a parent’s presence could cause any growing tendresse to falter.
Gail’s presence didn’t help either.
What he needed was a way to rid himself of Romilla and Gail for the duration of the courtship. Then, the image of Evangeline’s hand securely in Gail’s flashed into Max’s mind. Evangeline would probably want her sister there, at least for a bit, for her own peace of mind, even if it meant he would have to face her. Romilla’s earlier dictate was that there always be at least one family member present. Gail was marginally the lesser of two evils, but he would at least need a way to distract her—and maybe keep her obnoxious comments away from him.
Max made a decision, and a sharp turn off his intended path.
He needed help.
He needed a friend.
“
GOOD
God, Fontaine, can’t you even court a girl on your own anymore?” Will rolled his eyes as he and Max walked up the steps to Number Seven. It was the next morning, and they were late for tea. Romilla would surely have his head.
“I just need the opportunity to talk with Miss Alton on my own,” Max pleaded as he knocked on the door. “With you there, the stepmother won’t need to be present all the time, and the sister—well, maybe she’ll be less bothersome.”
Will guffawed as he straightened his cravat. “Let me get this straight,” he said, “you want me to give up any personal pursuits I may have for the next month, which will severely ruin my chances with any lady for the rest of the Season, and follow you and your intended around, just so you can avoid the stepmother. And on top of that, you want me to be saddled with the task of entertaining the
bothersome
sister? Goodness, Fontaine, this just sounds more and more appealing.”
Max rubbed his temples. It was far too early in the morning. “Are you trying to make my life harder?”
“Every chance I get.” Will smiled. “But not to worry. I’ll do my best to keep the toothless, haggard, bothersome bluestocking sister away from you and your lovely intended. But you’ll owe me.”
“She’s not haggard, or toothless,” Max protested. “Actually, she’s…” but before he could argue any further, the door opened, and they were admitted to Number Seven.
NOT
an hour before Max raised his fist to knock on the door, two very tired girls had descended the staircase in Number Seven. After they were deposited back from their carriage ride the previous afternoon, they had once again been swept about London on the orders of their stepmother. While Max had scurried out the door as quickly as his legs would carry him, the Altons had quite the evening in front of them. It took an hour at least for each girl to dress, while Polly ran frantically between the two rooms as she assisted the young ladies. And, of course, it was impossible to get a word in edgewise with Romilla lecturing on the need to be happy and cheerful that evening. She went through, once again, the Dos and Don’ts of public behavior (Do stay in the ballroom, Don’t be caught kissing a man in the conservatory) then gathered up her husband, and the whole party headed out.
After Lady Carmichael’s rout, they went to the Quayles’, and then on to another at the Rutherfords’, who were very old friends of Sir Geoffrey’s. The family did not return to Number Seven until three in the morning, and finally, the girls were able to speak on their own.
In her dressing gown, Evangeline snuck into Gail’s room after their parents had said their goodnights. This was the first chance they had to chat privately, and Gail was not one to misuse it. She plunged right in.
“Evie, what was that?” Gail asked immediately.
“What was what?” Evangeline evaded.
“This afternoon! You were hoping I wouldn’t remember back that far, weren’t you? Well, I remember the grip you had on my hand—I nearly bruised from it.”
Gail made room on the bed for Evangeline, who curled up in a ball, knees to her chest.
“I was just so nervous! I couldn’t think of a thing to say that wouldn’t make me sound like a complete twit, so I ended up saying nothing—”
“And not surprisingly, sounded like a complete twit,” Gail finished for her. Evangeline held her head in her hands.
“You get away with saying nothing all the time!” Evangeline sighed. “It
was
awful, wasn’t it? Romilla was staring at me the whole time, making small talk, trying to get Lord Fontaine and me to speak. She even kicked me on the toe once. Honestly, Gail, I don’t think I can ever face him again.”
“Really?” Gail said, her hope too abundant to be disguised.
“Gail! Could you try to be nice? You shot Lord Fontaine daggers all afternoon, when you bothered to look at him. He’s a very amiable gentleman. I think.” Worry creased Evangeline’s brow. Gail could read her thoughts—if her sister and her intended were always at odds, it would tear her apart inside.
“I’m sorry. This is difficult for us all,” Gail spoke carefully. “I don’t like this situation, and he is very much responsible for it.”
“Only in part. I was there, too,” Evangeline intoned seriously.
“I just think it’s all wrong. And he’s wrong for you,” Gail said, in nearly a whisper.
Evangeline rose from the bed and stood by the window. The full force of Evangeline’s beauty hit Gail, as it did from time to time. She loved her sister with the whole of her heart, and would never begrudge her a thing—after all, it’s not as if Evie
asked
to be made beautiful—but there were times that Gail couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy. Why couldn’t her mouth tilt in just that way, or the line of her shoulder be that graceful? Oh, to be so lovely, so admired!
But tonight, that beautiful face wore an expression of seriousness, determination, and a hint of sadness. Before Gail could ask what was wrong, Evangeline turned from the window, framed in the silver glow of the waning moon.
“I agreed to it. I’m going to marry him,” she said quietly.
That sentence settled in the room, its gravity rendered truth by Evangeline’s face.
“I know,” Gail responded quietly.
“Can you try to like him?”
“Yes. I will. I’ll try,” Gail said.
“Good, because I need your help!” Relief washed over her face. “I would like to have a conversation with the man I’m to marry, without stuttering or blushing!”
“And you ask me to help you?” Gail repeated incredulously. “Dearest Evie, I do nothing but blush and stutter in public!”
“Oh, why is this so difficult? ‘The tragedy in Norfolk is tragic?’ How insipid I must have sounded! Normally, I’m, well, quite good at talking to gentlemen.” Gail nodded in agreement as Evangeline continued, “But I have no idea what to say to Lord Fontaine. I have no idea how to make him smile, what his interests are, anything!” Evangeline flopped herself back down on the bed.
“Well then, you should ask him,” Gail replied. She rubbed her chin thoughtfully for a moment, and clicked her fingernail against her front teeth. “You know,” she mused, “Romilla is right about one thing.”
Evangeline had the grace to look only slightly dubious.
“She has a
plan
. She is prepared with what we are doing, where we are going, who we will see, and has several topics of conversation at the ready—at all times!”
“Yes, she does have a plan,” Evangeline considered, “but I can’t let her take the lead in this. You saw today, both Lord Fontaine and I were rendered mute by her attendance. Apparently, having a parent present is not conducive to open courting.”
“Then we must find some way for her to leave you two be. I know, I’ll have some small wardrobe crisis and drag her off to the modiste’s—”
“No!” Evangeline interrupted. “No, I can’t have you leave, too. I want Romilla’s presence removed, but I cannot be left alone with Lord Fontaine. If we were found alone together again it would cause a scandal in full force—not this little trickle of rumors that’s happening now.”
“I shouldn’t imagine it will be a problem if you don’t kiss him,” Gail needled, but at the petulant frown on her sister’s face, she acquiesced.
“Evie, don’t fret. I’ll stay with you,” Gail said, reaching out to cover her sister’s hand with her own. “Let me worry about Romilla, I’ll find some way to make her vanish.”
“And I’ll make a list!” Evie cried triumphantly.
“A list?”
“A list of the questions I wish to ask Lord Fontaine. Just for reference. It’s what Father would do. ‘Go into situations with as much information as possible,’ isn’t that what he always says? It also has the added benefit of being conversation.”
Although Gail was supremely skeptical about the idea of a list, she did think such a task would help put Evie at ease, and so walked to her writing desk and pulled a fresh piece of paper, quill, and ink. “Good idea,” she said, handing the items to Evangeline. “Start with ‘what makes you smile?’”
They stayed up until dawn broke against the windows, plotting ways to rid them of Romilla and writing questions to ask Max. “Give an account of the first time you fell off your horse,” was particularly amusing to Gail. Evangeline’s favorite was “Have you ever engaged in acts of piracy?” Evangeline had a strange fascination with pirates. However, the night’s strategizing took its toll—hence the two very tired ladies descending the staircase the next morning at ten.
By the social world’s clock, they were up and about remarkably early. By Romilla’s standards, however, they were layabouts. Their stepmother met them in the drawing room, already deeply immersed in her morning correspondence, household accounts, and social schedule for the next several days.
“Girls, about time you were up. I’ve been revising our itinerary. Now, due to some unfortunate circumstances”—Romilla’s eyes hardened—“we have not received the expected invitations to the Hurstwood party at Vauxhall.” She faltered, then tried for brightness. “But we have half a dozen others.” The set of Romilla’s mouth told them that this was the first major slight they had received, and probably wouldn’t be the last. “However, today, I need you both at your absolute most sparkling and pristine. Evangeline, later this afternoon we are going to call on the Garretts and Lady Jersey. Wear your blue walking dress with the light blue pelisse and be ready for some inopportune questions—she is a shrewd woman. Just laugh them off or act as if you have no idea what she’s alluding to. Abigail…try to smile at least. And let me do the talking.”
Gail wryly thought that Romilla never did anything but talk, but luckily caught herself before saying it aloud, embarrassed at her unkindness. Romilla moved about the room, speaking with her hands so expressively, Gail almost mistook her for Portuguese. Well, Lisbon was where father had met Romilla, after all; it wasn’t surprising that she had picked up a few non-English habits.
Gail’s musings were interrupted when Romilla said, “And I expect Lord Fontaine to arrive at any moment for his morning visit.”
‘“Lord Fontaine?” Gail queried. “Already?” She had not thought to expect him until the next day. After all, they wouldn’t want him to seem too attentive, would they? Surely, Evangeline needed more time to prepare.
“Well, of course. He said he would call today. Hopefully we will have some other gentlemen callers to divide our attention a bit. It was rather overwhelming, just the three of us and him yesterday wasn’t it, but I fear…” Romilla paused for breath, and for the first time, Gail could see the cracks in her stepmother, the doubts seeping in.
“Well! We’ll just have to see,” she said brightly, smiling at the girls. Evangeline must have noted Romilla’s distress as well, for she gave herself a little shake and offered Romilla a smile.
“Of course,” she said. “I danced with a number of gentlemen last evening, and all were so agreeable. I wouldn’t be surprised if half a dozen men turned up on our doorstep with flowers for Gail, for she has been catching some eyes, too.”
Gail nearly snorted. Last night at the Carmichaels’, she had barely moved from her position by the punch table.
“Tell me, Mother,” Evangeline continued. “Do you think this dress will do? I do so hope to look nice for the Viscount.” Evangeline pirouetted in her fitted gown, the color of green apples. It had mid-length sleeves, and the full skirt, covered in a gauzy white chambray, fell in beautiful folds to the floor. Romilla complimented the dress and asked to see how the shoes they had ordered to match fit. The conversation continued, Evangeline successful in switching topics to one their stepmother could engage in without fear or hesitation. Say what you will about Romilla, Gail thought as she excused herself for a moment to find Mrs. Bibb, but no one could fault her taste in, or enthusiasm for, clothes.
LATER
,
while waiting in the drawing room, Gail’s stomach grumbled. The breakfast room had been cleared already, keeping with Romilla’s odd schedule. Over the past six months, Gail and Evangeline had learned that if they wanted breakfast, they would have to be up and about early. Sometimes however, sleep was just too precious. Luckily, Romilla’s habit of mid-morning tea, and a few of Mrs. Bibb’s fantastic scones would stave off Gail’s growing hunger.
She had just buttered one of those deliciously steaming confections when Lord Fontaine was announced, along with an unexpected guest.
“Lord Fontaine and Mr. William Holt,” Morrison’s voice boomed out, as he admitted the two gentlemen to the drawing room. Romilla quickly shot a reproachful look at Gail, who reluctantly put down the hot, buttery raspberry scone and rose to greet their guests.
The new gentleman Max had brought looked to be very amiable. His countenance was pleasing, blond shining hair and smiling blue eyes, and he held himself as a man who took joy in every aspect of his life. The contrast to Max was startling. His shoulders were as strong as his friend’s, but Max looked as if he carried the weight of the world and didn’t quite know what to do with it. His dark hair was windswept, and his cool green eyes took in the whole room, a raven’s gaze that momentarily locked with hers. Gail looked away quickly, not wanting to be caught staring. She was surprised by the little spiral of awareness that went down her spine. Very surprised.