The Perfect Lady Worthe

The Perfect Lady Worthe

Rose Gordon

THE PERFECT LADY WORTHE

© 2015 C. Rose Gordon

Cover copyright © 2015 C. Rose Gordon

All Rights Reserved.

Amazon Edition

Parchment & Plume, LLC

www.parchmentandplume.com

This book is a work of fiction. All names, events and locales are a product of this author’s imagination. If any name, event and/or locale did exist, it is purely by coincidence it appears in this book.

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Chapter One

England

Late March
1812

At seven-and-twenty Gareth Lambert, Lord Worthe had everything a man could possibly want. Money—thirty two thousand, six hundred fifty-seven pounds to be exact—and a vast estate: Castlemoor, which consequently was the seat of his earldom—which meant he also had a title.

Young, wealthy, and titled.

Oh, and handsome. (And perhaps a wee bit vain.) A full head of coal black hair, dark green eyes, olive complexion, high cheekbones, and a sharp, angular jaw. His physical looks were only part of his appeal. His clothes were of the height of fashion and always immaculate and pristine. Flawless.

Yes, indeed, Lord Worthe could be termed vain.

But in all fairness to himself, all men born of the aristocracy were vain and arrogant. His closest friend, Michael, Lord Holbrook, was no exception. In fact, if one were interested in a little secret about Holbrook, Gareth—and likely all of Holbrook’s relations and staff—would be quick to say that Holbrook’s arrogance and vanity went just a little further than Gareth’s. Somehow that rascal had reached six-and-twenty without a single blemish or crease upon his face. A fact he was quite proud of—and would soon lose if he continued frowning the way he was currently.

“What has you looking as if you’d just gotten a glimpse at the hangman’s noose?” Gareth asked, striding across Holbrook’s study toward the comfortable red settee by the window.

“Charlotte,” Holbrook answered raggedly.

Gareth nodded slowly and then made himself comfortable on Holbrook’s settee. The two had been friends for as long as Gareth could remember and had absolutely no semblance of ceremony where the other was concerned. Which was a blessed thing just now since Gareth was exhausted from a week of rising before the sun and returning home by lantern in an attempt to hunt foxes. “Is she coming out this year?” Not that he was too interested in Holbrook’s family life, but it felt rude not to at least ask.

“Yes.” Holbrook sighed and mindlessly spun the empty decanter in the middle of his oak desk. “She turned eighteen this past winter and has insisted she
will
have a Season.”

“Take her to London, then,” Gareth said easily, crossing his ankles.

“It’s not as easy as just packing her into the carriage and making a ride to London.” Holbrook’s voice dripped with irritation, likely at Gareth’s easy tone.

Gareth shrugged.

“I do hope you’re blessed with the joy of a house full of daughters. Six of them at least before you get your heir.”

“As long as I get that heir.” He grinned. “Just think of all the fun I’ll get to have before he comes along.”

Holbrook snarled, making Gareth chuckle.

“It was you who cursed me with such a fate—I’m just merely pointing out that it doesn’t sound as awful as you might think.”

“Until they turn into young ladies who demand Seasons and talk about nothing but marriage to someone you already hate.”

“If she already has a chap in mind, I think you’ve already solved your own problem.”

“She doesn’t.” Holbrook’s face turned to stone. “At least she’d better not.” Sighing, he said, “She informed me last night at dinner that if I don’t take her to London for a Season, she’ll be forced to marry Squire Blevins.”

“And what is wrong with the squire?”

“Other than that he has no less than seventy years in his dish, has been made a widower thrice—in the past twenty years alone—and has more than thirty children ranging in age from three to fifty-three—half of which he’s already outlived—and the half who are still alive all live with him?”

“Yes, other than all of that.”

“Nothing.”

“He sounds perfect.”

Holbrook’s face grew dark. “This is not a time for jesting.”

“What could possibly be so difficult about taking Charlotte to London for the Season?” Gareth asked as he absentmindedly knocked together the edges of his boots.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Holbrook’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Balls, soirees, musicales—”

“Yes, dancing, listening to music, and eating fancy meals every night sounds like a miserable fate.”

Holbrook scowled. “Gowns, gloves, seamstresses—”

“Don’t forget to add chaperones and suitors to your list,” Gareth added helpfully.

Holbrook’s knuckles turned white where his hand clutched the decanter and he nodded. “Those, too.”

“Just think,” Gareth said, moving to lie down on the settee. “As much as you don’t like either of those types of people, they both take care of themselves. If you find the right chaperone, she’ll handle the suitors and all those other things you mentioned.”

Holbrook leaned back in his chair, taking the front two legs off the floor and drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk as if he were actually giving some thought to what Gareth just said. “That could work out quite well.”

“Of course it will,” Gareth said, stuffing a pillow behind his head.

Holbrook brought all four legs of his chair back to the floor with a sharp
snap
. “Where the devil am I going to find a chaperone?”

Gareth closed his eyes; exhaustion was catching up with him at a breakneck speed. “My cousin will do it.”

“And just how do you know that?”

“Because she needs something to do.”

“Oh, so she’s a busybody,” Holbrook mused.

“No, she’s a little… precise, if you will, but not a busybody.” Gareth moved to make himself more comfortable.

“Precise?”

Gareth mentally shrugged. “Particular. Exact. Specific.” Jemma Fairchilde fit all of those definitions… and perhaps a few others. But she was a good lady, just a little odd.

“And just what is your relation to this precisely particular, exact, and specific female?”

“To be precise, she’s my cousin’s widow who is particularly uncomfortable with living off the generosity of her relations. Which is exactly why this specific lady would be willing to act as a chaperone.”

Shaking his head, Holbrook said, “If she’s nothing like you, she’ll be perfect.”

Gareth opened a single eye. “Some seem to think she is. Be careful.”

~*~

Suppressing a bark of laugher that was all but forcing its way past his lips at his friend’s ridiculous warning, Michael pushed to his feet and headed toward the door to go find Charlotte. For as much as he found having four younger sisters the equivalent of a millstone tied around his neck, he did enjoy it when they laughed and smiled and lauded him their personal hero—though if anyone were to ever accuse him of such, he’d deny it to his grave.

Chapter Two

Jane Cavanaugh closed her hazel eyes as her sister Charlotte pulled the heavy silver brush through Jane’s mahogany hair.

“Sixty-two,” Charlotte breathed as she completed another brushstroke. “Sixty-three… sixty-four…”

Jane smiled. Charlotte had always been such a loving sister. Thea, the lady’s maid they shared, could have easily combed and styled Jane’s hair each day, but Charlotte had always made it well known that she would handle that task. And every day she did. Even on the days when the two weren’t getting on well.

“…seventy-three… seventy-four…”

“Charlotte, I need to talk to you,” came the baritone voice that belonged to their brother Michael, Lord Holbrook, as he entered the drawing room Jane and Charlotte were occupying.

“It’ll have to wait,” Charlotte said automatically without pausing in her movements. “Seventy-five…”

Michael sighed. “Is it really so important that ladies give their hair one hundred swipes with their brush each day?”

“No,” Jane said. “It’s one hundred swipes
twice
each day.” She tried not to laugh at the stupefied expression on his face. She’d never say such but she’d always questioned the need for exactly one hundred strokes in the morning and another hundred before bed, too. The number seemed too high. But she’d never utter a word about it as long as she lived. If that’s how Charlotte wanted to spend time with Jane, she’d just bask in the love and attention.

“How are you feeling today, Jane?” Michael asked.

“Terrible.”

Michael’s dark eyebrows shot near to his hairline and his pale blue eyes widened. “What’s wrong?”

Jane licked her lips and lowered her eyes. “Well, see…” She bit her lip and lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “I’ve been sitting in this chair so long I do believe I’m developing a sore…”

Michael swallowed so hard it sounded more like a gulp. “A sore?”

Jane nodded slowly, inwardly commanding the corners of her lips to stay still.

“D—do we need to send for a physician?” Michael raked his hand through his hair.

“Yes, immediately,” Charlotte interjected before Jane could answer him, stealing all humor Jane had only a moment ago.

“No, I don’t need a doctor,” Jane confessed to her brother.

“Then why did you say…”

Jane sighed. “Because you always ask how I’m feeling today.”

Michael blinked. “I think that’s a perfectly logical question considering—”

Though he broke off, his meaning was quite clear.

After falling off a horse when she was ten, Jane had spent the next eleven years in an invalid’s chair never to stand up again or dance or court and definitely not marry. Living most of her life in the country already and having been so young when she’d been handed such a fate, none of those things mattered overmuch to her. What
had
mattered was how her family had viewed her…

Her mother had been overzealous in her attempt to make her comfortable and cater to her every wish and demand.

Her youngest two sisters, Olive and Daphne, who were barely out of leading strings at the time, had grown up finding Jane a source of unabashed interest and fascination.

Her sister Charlotte, who was closest to her in age, had taken on more of an older sister role, always wanting to brush her hair and fawn over Jane’s wardrobe. Truly the girl would make a splendid lady’s maid if she were to take up a post for the Crown and had to be a spy disguised as a lady’s maid.

Her father was the only one who treated her exactly the same as he had before: ignoring her as if she didn’t exist. She was a girl, after all. To his mind, daughters served only one purpose: marital connections. But since the late Lord Holbrook already had a title and plenty of money, that wasn’t necessary. And
if
for some reason that became a future need, he still had three other daughters of whom he could marry off for money or to elevate his position. Jane was just a casualty. An unimportant one.

Though she found it annoying at times the way her sisters and her now deceased mother treated her, what had always hurt the most was how Michael had changed. At five years her senior, they’d never been overly close, but had found ways to get each other into trouble or creep up and startle the other, thus giving them some sort of a relationship. But when he returned from Eton the summer following her accident he’d kept his distance almost as if he was afraid of hurting her just by standing too close. And may the Almighty have mercy on anyone who
did
get too close. Michael was a fierce protector; she’d give him that. But for as nice as it was to have a protector, sometimes all she wanted was an equal. She’d had eleven years to grow accustomed to what seemed to be his permanent treatment of her; unfortunately, it didn’t make it hurt any less. Especially the fact he always greeted her with the exact same question.

Jane jerked her attention back to present. “I’m feeling fine today, Michael. Thank you for inquiring.”

Michael knit his brows together. “Are you upset?”

“Perhaps at me for ruining her jest,” Charlotte, ever the peacemaker, supplied for them.

Jane sighed. Charlotte meant well. “Actually, I am not upset with you, Charlotte.” She narrowed her eyes on Michael. “I am a bit agitated with you, however.”

Michael’s open palm flew to his chest, sending a loud
smacking
sound echoing through the drawing room. “Me? Whatever for? All I did was inquire how you were feeling.”

“Exactly.”

The little crease between his eyebrows deepened.

“You should be careful making that face, Michael, or you’ll get a wrinkle—” she pointed to the spot between her eyes— “right here.”

Michael scowled at her. “Perhaps if you’d tell me what I’ve done to upset you so, I wouldn’t have to worry about that.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Michael pressed his lips together. “Very well, then. I don’t have time for games anyhow.”

Charlotte heaved a sigh.

Michael ignored her, presumably because he either didn’t know what to say or would rather not know what she was sighing about. “Charlotte, I have some good news.”

“You’re taking me to London for the Season,” Charlotte said, with what could only be termed a pleading smile.

Michael’s face fell. “How did you know?”

Jane tried not to laugh at his response. Charlotte hadn’t known before, but she certainly did now.

“Oh, I didn’t know,” Charlotte said, throwing her arms around him in an all-consuming hug. “I assumed if I begged often enough you’d finally give in.”

“Indeed.” Michael gave her back three soft pats then lowered his hand back to his side.

Charlotte gave a final squeal of delight and lowered herself into the chair beside Jane. Clasping her hands together as if to give the room the impression she was not nearly as excited as she truly was, she said, “When do we leave?”

“Two weeks.”

Charlotte gave out another squeal of excitement. Then a split-second later, she was up off her chair and pacing the floor. “Hmmm a fortnight doesn’t give us long…” She worried the stiff pink lace that rimmed her cuff. “We’ll each require at least four new ball gowns—all in different colors, of course. But still they need to complement each other. We’ll need two, no three, new pair of silk gloves… fans…”

Michael and Jane exchanged looks. Jane forced a shrug and tried to block out her sister’s prattling. Jane closed her eyes. She’d known the past few years it was only a matter of time before her sister left for London and married. She’d even prepared herself for it. Tried to anyway. She squeezed her eyelids tighter to hold in the hot tears that were forming. It was the way it had to be. Charlotte was young and beautiful, a skilled dancer and accomplished violinist. Her sister had much to offer any gentlemen worthy of her time.

“Er… Char, before you spend my entire fortune on fripperies, I think I need to clarify something.”

Charlotte stopped pacing and stared at him. “Yes?”

“You are aware that Olive and Daphne are too young to go to any balls and won’t be going into a modiste as long as I have any say in the matter?”

Charlotte gave him a dubious look. “You’d better prepare yourself. They might still be in the schoolroom now, but they’ll be begging for their Seasons before you know it.”

Michael buried his head into his hands. “Have mercy on me,” came his muffled voice.

Jane and Charlotte giggled at his theatrics.

“I’ll pray for you tonight, Michael,” Jane said.

He straightened. “Please do.” Turning his attention back to Charlotte, he asked, “Then if you’re not planning matching wardrobes for you, Olive and Daphne. Then who are you…” His eyes widened.

Charlotte’s gentle hand came down on Jane’s shoulder. “We’ll need to be the most beautiful ladies in attendance, don’t you think?”

A chorus of “ers,” “ums,” and even a few “uhs,” made by both Michael and Jane filled the air.

“I cannot go,” Jane finally said at last, fighting back her tears.

“Of course you can,” Charlotte argued.

“I know you mean well to invite me, Charlotte, but it’s not my place to go.”

“Why not?” Charlotte’s demand was none-too-gentle.

Jane implored her with her eyes. Never once had Charlotte made her feel as small and uncomfortable as she did right now. “Need I spell it out for you?” she all but spat.

Charlotte blanched. “I’ve never known you to be one to let your… predicament… rule you so.”

Red hot anger bubbled up inside Jane. “It’s not my
predicament
that is ruling me. It’s a little thing known as sense.”

“Poppycock.”

Indignation fired in Jane’s gut and she wanted nothing more than to quit her sister’s company. Were she able to walk, this would be one of those moments where she’d sweep the room like a queen the way she’d heard ladies of the
ton
did when they were in the throes of making a grand exit. Instead, she reached for the wooden rim on the outside of the wheels of her chair and began rolling herself to the door.

Michael started as if he’d been in a trance and Jane’s departure had pulled him to present. He jumped off the chair he’d been occupying and reached for the back of Jane’s chair.

“Don’t go. I—I didn’t mean to upset you.” The waver in Charlotte’s voice filled Jane with shame for snapping at her. Charlotte placed her hand on Jane’s arm and met her eyes. “You’re my sister, Jane. I always thought we’d go to London together for our Season.”

Jane clenched her hands into fists. Why did Charlotte insist on pretending that was even an option for Jane?

“I know there are some things we won’t be able to do,” Charlotte admitted. “But I don’t want to do any of it if you’re not there with me.”

“But I can’t do any of it.”

“Yes, you can.” Charlotte blinked away the tears that were glistening in her brown eyes. “You can still attend musicales and dinners. We’ll hold court every morning in our drawing room where a gaggle of suitors will fight over the two of us.”

“And where shall I find these suitors?” Jane asked, not unkindly, but not exactly encouragingly.

Charlotte poked out her bottom lip. “There is more to do at balls than dance, wouldn’t you know? You can play cards—” She broke off with a snort then offered Jane her best smile. “We’ll be able to sit in the far corners of the ballrooms together and gossip behind our fans without anyone thinking we’re snobs.”

“Charlotte, that all sounds so wonderful, but if you’re chatting with me at balls, you won’t be hunting down a husband.”

“Oh, that’s what you think,” Charlotte scoffed. “We’ll let everyone think we’re just gossiping, but we’ll really be strategizing about who is the best catch and how to snare him.”

The corner of Jane’s lips twitched at the thought. She shook her head. “Thank you for inviting me, but I don’t think I want to go.”

Charlotte exhaled. “Well, then, I guess we’ll both become spinsters.”

Jane wasn’t sure, but it sounded almost as if Michael sighed with relief from where he stood behind her. “Don’t do that Charlotte.”

“Do what?”

“Throw away your future happiness.”

“I’m not,” Charlotte said.

Jane’s lips thinned. “Yes, you are, and your ploy to force me to go with you isn’t going to work.”

“It’s not a ploy. If you don’t go, then I shan’t go.”

It was moments like these when Jane wished she could just stand straight up and throttle her sister. Then again, since Charlotte was bent over and her neck was just
right there
, she didn’t really need her legs anyhow. “You are very stubborn, did you know that?”

Charlotte beamed with pride. “I did. I’m also determined.” She looked up to Michael. “What do you think? Can you be brave enough to have not one, but two debutantes living in your London townhouse this Season?”

“I—I don’t know.” The hesitancy in his voice spoke volumes that only confirmed Jane’s apprehension. London was not the place for a lady such as herself.