He bowed again and wished her a goodnight.
As he strolled to the door of the drawing room, Lady Westbury dismissed his last words and set about thinking how to overcome her son's absurd objections.
Chapter Two
Having agreed to accompany his mother, William was prepared to do so pleasantly, knowing it was fully in his power to defeat her current project by simply returning to town once the call had been made. Therefore, in the morning, he obliged her by driving her himself in his chaise and pair, his groom perched up behind.
They arrived at Westbury Manor in a matter of minutes, and William prepared himself for an annoying, but commonplace event. Many times, he had been presented to young ladies recently released from the schoolroom. None of them had inspired anything more lively in him than an avuncular feeling, and he had acquired a comfortable manner of dealing with them and putting them at their ease. This manner was so unloverlike that the girls' mothers usually perceived at once that the case was hopeless and pursued the connection no further.
William had been cornered by hopeful mothers often enough that he half expected the duchess to be a party to Lady Westbury's matchmaking scheme. But this notion was quickly laid to rest by the reception he and his mother received at the dowager's door.
Her Grace's footman seemed quite at a loss as to what to do with morning callers. After taking their names and leaving them on the doorstep long enough for Lady Westbury's dignity to be offended, he passed them along to an elderly butler, who received them with discouraging politeness.
"I am afraid Her Grace is not receiving callers this morning," he informed them.
William lifted an amused eyebrow at his mother who, under his scrutiny, turned a distinct shade of red.
"I thought you said we were promised to Her Grace this morning, Mama? Perhaps you mistook the day."
Lady Westbury stiffened. "I never make mistakes." Then, addressing the butler, she said, "You will take our cards to the duchess, if you please, and conduct us to a room where we may await her comfortably. I am certain she has merely forgotten our appointment."
"As you will, your ladyship." The butler relented with a disapproving glare. "I shall see if I can find Her Grace."
With that cryptic remark he showed them into the morning room and vanished, presumably in search of his mistress.
Lady Westbury took a chair and gazed about the room, purposely avoiding her son's eye.
"I have never known you to be misinformed about your appointments, Mama." William was enjoying his mother's discomfiture immensely.
"Nonsense! He will find the duchess directly and that will be the end of it." Lady Westbury bobbed her head sharply in a gesture of dismissal. "I daresay she simply forgot. It was a very casual arrangement between us, so I see no reason to harp upon it. I count on you not to annoy the dowager by bringing her error to her attention."
"It will be as you wish certainly, Mama, but it is strange, is it not, that I was so thoroughly convinced Her Grace would be expecting us?"
Lady Westbury did not take the bait on this occasion, so William sat down in an armchair and read something to hand while they waited for the duchess. From time to time, Lady Westbury made some proprietary remark in a loud whisper to him about how well appointed the rooms were, or how she would alter the furnishings if this were her parlour. To all of these, William offered no reply other than to smile at her in a disagreeably knowing way.
They waited for what seemed like a very long time. The clock ticked loudly on the mantle, pointing out the uselessness of their venture. By the time they heard the sound of approaching footsteps, Lady Westbury had noticeably begun to fidget, though she would never give up her mission once embarked upon it.
In the end, it was not the butler who appeared, but a very different sort of person altogether. The door to the garden opened, and a lady entered the morning room, a small-boned creature with that sort of English fairness that is always accompanied by rosy cheeks. The brisk breeze that blew that morning had raised the colour beneath her pale skin to give the appearance of roses set in alabaster.
She strolled through the door, humming a little tune, and checked suddenly upon the threshold. Her blue eyes, set in a heart-shaped face, widened with dismay. A hand flew to her lips.
"Oh, dear!" she said on an indrawn breath.
It was easy to see why she was discomposed, for she was certainly not prepared to receive visitors. She carried a quantity of cut flowers in both hands— so many, that her sudden stop caused half a dozen of them to fall upon the floor She tried snatching at them but, in doing so, lost twice that number.
The flowers were not the only evidence that she had been gardening, for a rather significant quantity of dirt clung to the hem of her gown and to the pair of tattered gloves she wore. A smudge of earth appeared on the end of her nose.
Clearly, she had groomed herself with the expectation of being dirtied, for her fine, blond hair had been drawn up upon her head as if to get it out of the way rather than to achieve any particular style. Half of it had rebelled against this haphazard confinement and fell in silky strands about her face.
Her dress showed a similar lack of concern. Her gown was old and outmoded, a flimsy confection of muslin with a low bodice and narrow skirt, dating, William guessed, from her girlhood, when les merveilleuses had been the fashion leaders in Paris. A bosom of pleasing maturity appeared above her décolletage, set above an attractively small waist.
Considering her untidiness, a man of less perception might have been excused for thinking he had been intruded upon by the scullery maid; but William noted a certain grace to her movements and an unmistakable air of quality in her carriage. A quick estimate of her age and her casual air convinced him of her identity.
Seeing that surprise had paralyzed her for the moment, William stepped forward and stooped to pick up her flowers. He held them out to her with a bow.
"Your flowers. . . Your Grace?"
She blushed and tried to take the flowers from him, losing another dozen in the process.
"Oh, do forgive me!" she said. "I am not always so shatterbrained. But you see, I was not expecting visitors!"
William cleared his throat, but refrained from glancing at his mother, who instantly exclaimed, "How awkward! Well, perhaps I ought to have written a note to remind you, Duchess, but it does not really signify, you know, for we are here now."
Her Grace of Upavon seemed perplexed by this rambling speech, but she overlooked it and, assuming her role as hostess, begged them both to be seated again.
"I would be delighted," William said, "but something tells me I ought to present myself first. I am Westbury."
The duchess coloured again and smiled up at him shyly. "Of course. How foolish of me not to think of it! For of course, we never have been presented, have we?" Her fair skin responded readily to even the slightest hint of a social blunder.
"Now that we have met, I hope you will forgive me for appearing in this fashion. I always garden in the morning, so I am not normally home to visitors. But perhaps Barlow did not inform you?"
"If you mean your manservant," William said, coughing discreetly for his mother's sake, "I'm afraid he tried, but we were not so easily discouraged."
The duchess looked at him questioningly; but before an awkward silence could result from William's attempt to bait his mother, Lady Westbury took command of the conversation.
"Westbury can only be here for a very few days, Duchess, so we thought we should take this chance to call in the hope of seeing dear Lady Pamela." Her voice dwelt fondly on the girl's name, so much so that the duchess was clearly taken aback.
"To see Pamela?" she repeated. She looked back and forth from William, who had achieved a distant expression, to Lady Westbury, who was smiling at her most intently.
"Yes, of course." Lady Westbury tittered in what was meant to be an encouraging way. "I have spoken so often of Lady Pamela in my letters to William that he has declared himself quite wild to see her! You must not hide her from us forever." She coyly wagged a finger at the duchess.
Her Grace of Upavon gazed open-mouthed at Lady Westbury for the better part of ten seconds. It was clear to William that this playful mood of his mother's had struck the duchess as unnaturally as it had him. Privately, he thought that Lady Westbury's charade had gone on long enough, and he was prepared to call an end to their unexpected visit if only he could do so gracefully.
But then the duchess surprised him.
She stopped staring at Lady Westbury and turned towards William with a suddenly hostile eye.
William met her look with a bland countenance, concealing the fact that he understood what was behind her shrewd expression. She had tumbled to his mother's interest in a match between himself and Lady Pamela and was trying to measure his complicity. He thought he recognized the look. The duchess could only be interested in appraising him as a suitable husband for her daughter.
To most mothers of young ladies, his visit— given the size of his estate and his standing as a peer— would have been immediately welcomed. But it soon became clear that the dowager duchess was not so easily won. After some moments of silence— during which the duchess's look changed from mere guardedness to an expression of active resentment— William was at pains to hide his amusement. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, which did not escape her notice.
She flushed and turned to speak to Lady Westbury firmly. "I'm afraid you have been put to a great deal of inconvenience for nothing. At this hour, Pamela will be occupied with her lessons, and I would not wish you to wait while she prepares herself to meet visitors."
This excuse would be quite inadequate to discourage Lady Westbury, as William could have told her. Surprised— and slightly piqued— that the duchess had found him wanting, he abandoned his intention of leaving and settled down with pleasure to watch the coming confrontation. The duchess, for all her firmness, was a delicate seedling to his mother's hearty vine. If any of his wagering cronies had been present, William would immediately have put one hundred pounds on the likelihood that Lady Westbury would prevail.
"Oh, we would be only too happy to wait for her," Lady Westbury cooed. An underlying steel gave the lie to her tone. "You should call your man and tell him to ask Lady Pamela to come down. He left us to wander about in search of you and never returned. It will do him good to be set a task for keeping us waiting so shamefully."
William was quite accustomed to his mother's rudeness, but the duchess heard her with astonishment. The criticism on the politeness of her staff could hardly be ignored. It required her to call the butler at the very least. This she did, and then waited in rigidly smiling silence for the servant to answer.
The snub had no effect on Lady Westbury, but William, feeling that it was merited, set about making pleasant conversation, to the end that he managed to coax at least one smile from the duchess before the servant appeared.
By the time the elderly Barlow had entered the room, Her Grace of Upavon had sufficiently recovered under this gentle treatment to do further battle in her daughter's behalf.
"His lordship and Lady Westbury would like to see Lady Pamela, Barlow, but I have informed them that my daughter is probably immersed in her studies or, I daresay, even resting. Would you happen to know?"
She exchanged a meaningful look with her servant who, after betraying only a glimmer of surprise, said after a slight hesitation, "Your Grace is undoubtedly correct."
The duchess turned back to Lady Westbury, folded her hands in her lap and smiled, blissfully unaware of the dirt on her nose. "You see," she said, "Pamela is occupied."
William hid a smile. Her triumph— grossly premature, if only she knew— could only goad his mother to greater rudeness.
"Nonsense!" Lady Westbury declared, more in keeping with her normal manner. "We shall wait until he has carried your message upstairs."
The duchess bit her lip, obviously unaccustomed to such an accomplished adversary. William felt a strong urge to explain to her that this lack of tact on the part of Lady Westbury constituted his entire reason for living in London the year round.
Nonplussed, the duchess turned back to her servant. "But I daresay the governess will be most annoyed if Pamela's lessons are disturbed. Don't you agree, Barlow?"
"I quite agree, Your Grace."
Lady Westbury huffed. She gave Barlow the look she used to depress all pretension in servants. "You must not let yourself be bullied by the child's governess, Duchess! I would not, for one moment, tolerate such a thing in my household!"
Finally at point non plus, the Duchess of Upavon turned to William as if for assistance. She still clutched the flowers in her hands. They had long since wilted.
William debated for a split-second whether to respond to her silent plea and call an end to the encounter, but by this time he had begun to enjoy himself far too much. He knew that he would do no harm to Lady Pamela, no matter what the duchess thought. Her reluctance to present the girl had made him start to wonder just what sort of nonpareil she was hiding. His intentions could not be altered; no girl of fifteen could interest him enough to hold his affection. But if the girl had even half her mother's beauty, he would count it worth the trip merely to have seen her.
Besides, it piqued him to know precisely what the duchess had found in him to make him ineligible. He was not accustomed to being thought lacking. Curiosity and his rather cynical nature, at this point, got the better of him.
"I must confess— " William clasped his hands behind his head, crossed his legs, and settled himself more deeply into his chair "— the longer the wait, the more eager I become to see her."
There was a pause while the duchess's eyes grew round with dismay, but William's last words finally seemed to decide the issue. With a startled breath, Her Grace of Upavon immediately instructed her servant to inform Lady Pamela that visitors wished to see her. Then, as an afterthought, she told him to make certain that Nanny Phillips accompanied her charge.