The Frost Fair (11 page)

His mother and sisters had said he was incorruptible. Perhaps that had been true before, but he had not yet met Lady Margaret Underwood at her best. Geoffrey Carrier, the incorruptible knight, hiding from the world in his remote Haven and surrounded by women who were too blindly admiring or too fearful to challenge his authority, was about to face his first
real
female adversary.

She could almost feel sorry for him. If ever a man was ripe for corrupting, it was he. And if anyone could corrupt the incorruptible—well, by heaven, that one was she!

Chapter Eight

That evening, with the help of Mrs. Rhys, Meg unpacked her belongings and selected the various gowns and accessories she would need for her devious purpose. Leaving her ball gowns, her walking suit and several other costumes which were unsuitable for an invalid packed away, she looked over the remaining garments with a critical eye. The only costumes appropriate for her present circumstances were her morning dresses and the most casual of her afternoon attire. Fortunately, even the most insignificant garments in her wardrobe were made by the same talented, expensive
modiste
who'd made the ball gowns—it was not for nothing that Lady Margaret Underwood was considered by the
ton
to be all the crack.

The green jaconet, she decided, would be the dress to wear the next day. It was the softest of muslin weaves, its green the color of glowing jade, and while it seemed to have been styled to please a lady of puritannical propriety, it became wickedly flattering when buttoned up on a lady of admirable form. The
modiste
had designed the bodice to reach high up to the neck, but she'd countered its severity with artful little tucks which emphasized the curves of the wearer's bosom. The sleeves were charmingly puffed at the shoulders and then narrowed to fit tightly over the rest of the arms, ending at the wrist with narrow little white cuffs. A matching white collar trimmed the neckline, making the wearer look deceptively demure. The waist was high, flatteringly gathered beneath the bust, and the skirt billowed out below with generous fullness. Meg could spread its width out on the bed in a graceful swirl as she leaned back against the pillows. With her hair vigorously brushed and spilling over her shoulders, with the slightest touch of rouge on her cheeks and the merest brush of blacking on her lashes, she had no doubt her appearance would be breathtaking.
Geoffrey Carrier
, she murmured to herself as she slid down under the comforter and settled herself as comfortably as possible for a night's sleep,
is a doomed man
.

But without having taken a sleeping draught, she was able to sleep only fitfully. Her ankle pained, the wind howled outside her windows, and the impressions of the past day kept her mind in a state of unease. When she did manage to doze off, she was troubled by strange, disquieting dreams. In one of them she was imprisoned in a medieval castle, held shackled to the wall by a chain and manacled at the ankle, her cell door guarded by a black-armored knight whose face was hidden by the visor of his helmet. But she didn't have to see his face—his identity and the cold antipathy he felt for his prisoner were chillingly clear.

By morning, however, the mood inspired by the dreams dissipated, and her self-confidence of the night before reasserted itself. The storm had ended in the night, and the still-cloudy sky was lightening perceptibly. That fact alone was cheering; with the storm over, traffic would soon be able to move on the roads, the doctor would arrive to speed her recovery, and the end of this enforced confinement would soon be in sight.

Mrs. Rhys bustled in early, as Meg had requested her to do, the freshly pressed, jade-colored jaconet over her arm. Meg, determined that Sir Geoffrey should not lay eyes on her again until she was ready for him, lost no time in preparing herself for the encounter. After being assisted to dress and (with considerable awkwardness and distress) arranging herself on top of the neatly spread bedclothes, she requested that Mrs. Rhys bring her a hand-mirror and her ormolu case which contained her creams, powders and cosmetics. These provided, she released Mrs. Rhys to her other duties and set about repairing, with whatever artificial means she had on hand, the ravages that storm, pain and sleeplessness had stamped on her complexion.

She had barely begun when a knock sounded at the door. Quickly she returned the paints and creams to the box and thrust everything under her pillows. Then she hurriedly spread out her skirt, leaned back against the pillows, arranged her hair to fall in billows over each shoulder and called, “Come in,” in her most mellow voice.

But it was only Isabel. “Oh, I say,” her aunt exclaimed in approval, “you
are
looking better.”

Swallowing her disappointment, Meg smiled at her aunt. “Good morning, my dear. I see that the sky is clearing at last.”

“Yes,” Isabel said, perching on the bedside chair, “but you mustn't expect our situation to change at once. The entire world seems to be buried in whiteness.”

Meg, about to present a more optimistic forecast, was suddenly brought up sharply by the sight of her aunt's face. Isabel did not look well. The shadows beneath her eyes were even more pronounced than they'd been the day before, and her eyes themselves were red and watery. “Dash it, Aunt Bel, haven't you been sleeping?” she asked bluntly.

“Do I look hagged?” Isabel put a hand up to her cheek. “I was afraid so. I think the accident, the storm and the strain of the escape from Isham Manor are having their effect on me. I find myself feeling too fitful to sleep well.”

Meg was conscience-stricken. “It's all my fault. If only I'd recognized the faults in Charles Isham's character sooner, we might have avoided this trip and still be comfortable and cozy at home.”

“Nonsense,” Isabel said with spirit. “This has been an invigorating adventure. One good night's sleep, and I shall be quite myself again. Perhaps tonight, without the sound of the wind rattling the panes, I shall be able to sleep without these disconcerting dreams that have been troubling me.”

“Have you had unpleasant dreams, Aunt Bel? So have I. I blame mine on my blasted ankle, but what is the reason for
yours?
”

“The late hours I've been keeping, I suspect. But I shan't let that happen again,” Isabel said firmly. “Tonight I shall not permit Lady Carrier to keep me up so late. She's positively
addicted
to card games, you know—we played copper-loo until the wee hours. I shall have to admit to her that late hours do not suit the constitutions of elderly ladies like me.”

“Elderly, pooh!” Meg said affectionately. “You have the figure and the brisk movements of a mere girl. If only you'd take my advice and put a bit of dye on that grey hair, no one would guess you were over thirty.”

Isabel hooted. “Over thirty, indeed! I'm well over fifty, and not in the least ashamed to admit it. I'll tell you a little secret, my love. I
like
my grey hair. All my life, because of my lack of height and the drab color of my hair, I'd been such an undistinguished little mouse. Now, at last, I feel that there's some dignity in my appearance.”

“Very well, Aunt Bel,” Meg grinned, “If it's
dignity
you prefer to youth, you'll not hear another word from me about dye. I shall find you lovely whatever your hair color.”

“Thank you, dearest.” She pressed her niece's hand and rose. “And now I'd best take myself downstairs, or our hosts will think me a typical London slugabed.”

Alone again, Meg resumed her attentions to her face. She carefully applied a touch of rouge to her cheekbones and was just brushing a coating of charcoal dust to her lashes when another tapping sounded at the door. Hastily, she again hid her things under the pillows, again spread her skirt and arranged her hair, again leaned back languidly against the pillows and again invited the caller to come in.

Again she was disappointed. It was Trixie who stood in the doorway, a tray in her hands. “I told Mrs. Rhys that
I
wanted to bring your breakfast, Lady Meg. Shall I come in?”

Trixie helped Meg to settle the tray and then sat down on the bedside chair. She watched with admiring eyes as Meg buttered her biscuit and sipped her tea. It was obvious that Meg's every gesture, every look, every word inspired the younger girl with awe. “What a very lovely dress,” Trixie sighed. “Is it Parisian? And your hair! I wish I could arrange
mine
to fall so, but mine's too badly frizzled by the crimping I've done. Is crimping still the fashion in London?”

A long conversation about London fashion followed, despite Meg's efforts to shorten its duration. But even when neither of the ladies had a thing left to say and an awkward silence fell on them both, Trixie didn't rise to leave. Instead, she suddenly leaned toward Meg and, with an unexpected burst of emotion, exclaimed, “Oh, Lady Meg, I'm so miserable! I must talk to somebody who knows the way of the world as you do.”

There followed a long and detailed account of her passion for her latest swain, Mr. Mortimer Lazenby. It had been love at first sight at an assembly ball at Masham, and Trixie was convinced that there never had been or would be a more felicitous romance. “He's the most dashing man I've ever known,” the girl confided, “and he's declared his feelings for me in the most
flattering
way. He is truly worldly, Lady Meg, and always makes me giggle with his witticisms. And one can see just by looking at him that his taste is impeccable. His waistcoats never show more than two colors, his shirt-points are always stiffly starched, and he revealed to me in the greatest secrecy—although I know it will be no secret to
you
, so I have no compunction about revealing it—that his man polishes his topboots with champagne, a trick which, you are undoubtedly aware, was devised by Mr. Brummell himself.”

“The young man sounds like a paragon,” Meg said with a smile. “I'm sure it won't be long before the world will be wishing you happy.”

“But that's just
it
, ma'am. I shall
never
be happy. Geoffrey won't allow it.”

Meg studied the girl's lowered head with sympathy. “But if the young man is all you say, than why—”

“I have no idea why Geoffrey opposed him,” Trixie said glumly.

“Is the fellow impoverished? Is that the problem? Will he not be able to support a wife in the proper style?”

“No, it can't be that. The Lazenbys are a very substantial family, and Mortimer is the oldest son.”

“Do the Lazenbys object to the match for some reason?”

“No, I don't think so. His mother has always been most cordial, and I am invited to
all
their parties.”

“Then I must admit, Trixie, that I don't understand your brother's objection.”

Trixie's omnipresent pout became more pronounced. “I don't understand it either. Geoffrey can be the most
stubborn
—! I know I shouldn't have kicked up a dust the other day when he said I couldn't go to the party, but
anyone
would have cried and carried on as I did! But Geoffrey said it proved that I was too childish to know my own mind. I know I've changed my mind often about beaux in the past, but
this
time I'm absolutely certain! And Geoffrey has taken a dislike to almost every man who's ever called on me. I think he really wants me to remain on the shelf for the rest of my days!”

“Oh, I'm sure that can't be true. Was there no one he approved of?”

“Only one fellow whom he brought round himself. It was one of his friends from the regiment. Geoffrey insisted that Captain Brownleigh was the best of good fellows, but I found him a bore. He was not nearly tall enough to make an impression, he wore nothing but hunting jackets or regimentals, he didn't know how to dance, and he could speak of nothing but his experiences on the peninsula. Does that sound to
you
, Lady Meg, like the sort of man to make a proper husband?”

“Well, I suppose—”

“Of course not.
You
would never consider marrying a man who couldn't cut a figure in a ballroom or with whom you couldn't converse at the breakfast table, would you, even if your brother insisted that he was the salt of the earth?”

Meg, remembering how she'd run away from Lord Isham in spite of the recommendation of her beloved aunt, had to admit that she wouldn't.

“You see? I knew it!” Trixie exclaimed, delighted to have found support from a lady of Meg's quality. “But Geoffrey would not understand my feelings. He was quite furious with me for what he called my inability to see beyond the surface. And then, when Captain Brownleigh became engaged to Lady Caroline Pettibone, Geoffrey didn't speak to me for a week! Now, really, could
I
help it if Lady Caroline could see beyond the surface better than I could?”

Meg couldn't help smiling, but she turned away so that the girl shouldn't see. For a moment she felt an unwilling spark of symphathy for poor Sir Geoffrey. She had a vague recollection of having heard that the Pettibones' daughter had married a blunt but reputable army man. If he was the Captain Brownleigh of whom Trixie spoke, he was said to be well-to-do, honest, upright and thoroughly likeable, and Caroline Pettibone was believed to be the happiest of brides. It was no wonder that Geoffrey had been irritated that his sister had thrown aside such a prize.

On the other hand, it was cruel of Geoffrey to expect a girl to marry against her will. Trixie may have misjudged the Captain's character, but there were other men in the world. Couldn't the opinionated Sir Geoffrey have considered a candidate who was of Trixie's liking rather than his own? What right had he to make himself the sole judge? It was typical of the arrogance and tyranny of his character that he wished to exercise such complete control over the lives of the women in his care. “And this Captain Brownleigh was the only suitor of whom your brother approved?” she asked.