Wilful Impropriety (17 page)

“Miss Kingsley. It is indeed a pleasure to meet you.”

“I’ve read about you in the papers,” said Constance, her head slightly to one side, as if measuring him up.

“Only good things, I trust, Miss Kingsley.”

“Well, they say that you’re very rich, and that must be counted a good thing.” Colonel Kingsley spluttered, but Constance continued speaking. “And that you’re to marry Sir William Warren’s daughter, and go into politics. I met her once, at my school.
One
of my schools, that is,” she corrected herself. “On Prize Day.
I
didn’t get a prize,” she added hastily, as if wishing to distance herself from that possibility.

Mr. Pemberton laughed. “That does not seem entirely surprising, Miss Kingsley, unless they award prizes for being forthright, in which case I suspect you would have walked away with all of them.”

“Perhaps I would, had I stayed long enough. But I never stayed very long at any school.”

Colonel Kingsley intervened. “Constance, that will be
quite
enough for now. I am sure that Mr. Pemberton wishes to be shown to his room after his long journey. And I am sure that you have something to do. I hear your aunt calling,” he added, in something like relief. “Please go and see what she wants.”

“Yes, Father.” Constance turned back to Mr. Pemberton. “I shall see you at dinner, sir. I hope that I am able to sit by you.”

“You will sit in the place assigned to you, Constance,” said her father, making a mental note to consult his sister about the seating arrangements before they went in to dinner. “You shall have more than enough opportunity to speak with
everyone
during the course of the weekend. You’re not to monopolize Mr. Pemberton, d’you hear me?”

•   •   •

At dinner Constance was, to her chagrin, placed at some distance from Mr. Pemberton, but she could not help noticing that he looked her way more than once, each time with a smile that made her feel a little weak on the inside. It was not a feeling she had had before, and it frightened her a little, but she could not stop herself wanting him to look her way again, and again.

When the meal had been cleared the company rose, and Constance’s aunt led the ladies to the drawing room, where tea and coffee were served. Constance tried to take an interest in the conversations going on around her, and answered a few questions which were directed at her, meanwhile hoping that her father would not keep the men too long over their port. There was still no sign of them when her aunt signaled that it was time for her to retire, and although she protested, Mrs. Millington could not be persuaded. Constance took her reluctant leave of the company, and as she left the drawing room heard the sound of voices in the hall. Turning, she saw her father and the other men walking toward her, the scent of cigar smoke heavy in the air.

“Ah, Constance, off to bed? Yes, I’m sure you would like to stay a few more minutes, but your aunt has obviously decreed otherwise, and I am not going to contradict her. Goodnight, my dear.” And with that he disappeared into the drawing room.

Mr. Pemberton was among the last of the men, and when he saw Constance he stopped. “I am sorry to have missed the pleasure of your company this evening, Miss Kingsley,” he said, with a courteous half bow. “Do you hunt with us tomorrow?”

“Yes, I do, Mr. Pemberton. I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

“Nor would I, Miss Kingsley. Now I must bid you goodnight.” And before she could protest, he took one of her hands in his, raised it to his lips, and bestowed the faintest of kisses on it. “Until morning, when I very much look forward to seeing you again.”

•   •   •

“And he kissed your hand, miss? The cheek of him!”

“I believe it’s very much the vogue on the Continent.” The girls were in Constance’s room, and Mary was carefully putting away Constance’s things while the other girl regaled her with the evening’s events.

“Well, we’re not on the Continent, miss, we’re in Gloucestershire. And I don’t know as it’s right for him to be doing that, hardly knowing you, and him about to be married.”

“Oh, Mary, he didn’t mean anything, I’m sure. We’ve exchanged a few dozen words, that’s all! And yet . . .”

“What, Miss Constance?”

“At dinner this evening, I felt—well, odd, every time he looked at me.”

“Could be you’re sickening for something, Miss Constance. If I were you I’d be abed, so as to be ready for tomorrow. You want to be fit to go hunting, don’t you?”

“I most certainly do, Mary. Oh, I can’t wait to see Mr. Pemberton’s face when I arrive on Regulus!”

Mary glanced at her sharply. “You mean your father’s face, don’t you, miss?”

Constance waved a hand. “Of course.” Under her breath, however, she whispered “But I do want to see Mr. Pemberton as well!”

•   •   •

The morning dawned clear and bright, and Constance—never a late sleeper—was awake even earlier than usual. A tray of breakfast was brought up and left mostly untouched, and she fussed so much about her appearance, and that of the riding outfit, that Mary was thankful when it was time for her to depart. After tidying the bits and pieces which, as was customary, Constance had contrived to spread across the room, she went downstairs, where she encountered Mr. Somers.

“Good morning, Miss Mary! Off to see the riders depart? The Colonel says we may go into the front drawing room to watch the spectacle. It’s quite a sight.”

“I’ve seen the hunt before, Mr. Somers, but never from this close.”

“Yes, I forgot you come from the country originally.” They were at the drawing-room window, looking out at the bustle of scarlet and black in the courtyard. “Now that I see you in the light, it’s easier to remember. You look like a country girl again.”

Mary blushed. “It’s kind of you to say that, Mr. Somers. I just wish that some of the other poor girls—and lads, too—that I knew there could have the chance I’ve had.”

“And what will you do with this chance, Mary?” Noting her puzzled look, he added, “You won’t be Miss Constance’s companion forever. Have you given any thought as to what you will do in the future?”

“No, Mr. Somers, that is, not really. I thought I’d like to go on to be a lady’s maid, perhaps, but . . . you’ll think it very foolish of me . . .”

“I assure you I will not think you foolish, Mary. What is it you would like to be?”

“A schoolteacher,” she said in a rush. “It’s what my grandfather did, and two of my uncles, Ma said, and—women can be teachers now, can’t they, Mr. Somers? At some schools?”

“Indeed they can, Mary, and I don’t think you’re foolish at all. I think you would be a very fine teacher one day, if you—Good heavens, is that Miss Constance? What on earth is she wearing?”

It was indeed Constance, who had ridden into the forecourt on Regulus. She was sat astride, and Walter turned to Mary.

“Did you know about this?”

“Yes, Mr. Somers. It was my idea, with the breeches and all. The Colonel said as long as she didn’t show her legs and cause a scandal she could ride astride.”

“I don’t know about not causing a scandal,” muttered Walter. “Judging by the reaction, she’s on her way to one. Who’s that man beside her?”

“That’s Mr. Pemberton. I saw him yesterday, when he arrived.”

They were deep in conversation, seemingly oblivious to the looks and remarks of everyone else. Mary had no idea what they were saying, but she was struck by how well matched they seemed. High atop Regulus, Constance’s head was at the same level as Pemberton’s, and she looked happier than Mary could remember seeing her. It was a happiness that seemed destined to be short-lived, as the Colonel was making his way toward the pair, a dark look on his face. But at that moment the horn sounded, and the riders were off, Constance and Mr. Pemberton near the head of the field. Within moments they had disappeared from view.

•   •   •

It was late before the riders returned, and there was barely time for Constance to wash and change for dinner. Mary had expected her to be full of news of the day’s events, but Constance was subdued, and disinclined to talk. At dinner she was once more seated at a distance from Mr. Pemberton, and once more she was conscious of his glances toward her. The odd sensation of the night before was still there, but different, somehow, in a way which made her feel as if everyone and everything else was somehow muted. The only clear and stable thing was Mr. Pemberton, and Constance found herself counting the minutes until the meal would be over.

At last she could escape to the drawing room, where she tried to pay attention to the chatter of two middle-aged women whose names she could not recall, and whose conversation struck her as reaching new heights of tedium. She hoped that her father would not keep the gentlemen as long as he had the evening before, and was relieved when footsteps in the hallway signaled the arrival of the other guests. She straightened herself in her chair, and tried not to look as the doorway opened. She was afraid that Mr. Pemberton would come straight to her side, and more afraid that he would not. She fixed her eyes on a painting on the far wall, and waited.

“It is a passable landscape, Miss Kingsley, but surely not
that
absorbing a piece of artwork,” said a low voice at her side, and she turned to see Mr. Pemberton. His eyes were merry, and a smile tugged at his lips. “Although with my customary lack of tact, I am prepared to hear you say that you are the artist, in which case it is a most assured—nay, amazing—piece, and should be on display in the National Gallery.”

Constance laughed. “I am glad to hear that there is someone else as tactless as I. Remind me to inform my father that I am not as singular in that respect as he seems to think. I would ask you to sit down beside me, but my father said that I was not to monopolize you.”

“Ah, but he surely cannot object should I decide to monopolize
you
,” said Mr. Pemberton, drawing a chair closer and sitting down. “I was afraid the weekend would be full of the same people—or at least the same
type
of people—I am always encountering.”

“And what sort of people would those be, Mr. Pemberton?”

“Good, virtuous, dull people who say only what one wants to hear, have not an original thought in their head, and whose conversational stock-in-trade amounts to gossip which would be dull even if it was new, which it invariably is not.”

Constance’s eyes gleamed with laughter. “Why, Mr. Pemberton, how do you know that I am not one of those people? That I will not say things merely to flatter you, or that my thoughts are original, or that my conversation will amount to anything more than details of the latest scandal, real or imagined?”

“Because if you are one of those people, Miss Kingsley, then I am very much mistaken, and have no business contemplating a career in politics.”

“Ah yes, your political career.” Once more Constance cocked her head to one side, in a gesture which he was coming to realize was habitual with her—a way of sizing up the world, and those in it. Seeing the look that crossed his face, she asked bluntly, “Is that what you want?”

He gazed at her in silence for some moments, before saying softly, “Do you know that you are the first person who has asked me that simple question, Miss Kingsley? Everyone—my father, my fiancée, her father—seems to think that the matter is preordained, and that there is no point in even mentioning it, let alone querying it. They all want it, and so the assumption is that I want it too.”

“But you must want it, or at the least you must have wanted it, at some point, else why would you be marrying Miss Warren?”

Pemberton laughed. “Dear me, Miss Kingsley, what an extraordinary person you are, to ask that question! Has it occurred to you that I might love her? I thought all young ladies believe that true love is the only acceptable and acknowledged basis for a marriage. It says so in all the popular novels, or so I am told.”

“I have only recently started reading the popular novels, Mr. Pemberton, so you must excuse my ignorance on that score. What I see and hear around me leads me to believe that people marry for all manner of reasons, and if love is one of them, then they are exceptionally fortunate. You parried my question very well, but did not answer it, which makes me think that you might make a very fine politician. So I will ask again. Is that what
you
want?”

“To go into politics? Or to marry Miss Warren?”

“Either. Or both.”

Again there was silence between them, and Constance felt as if the entire room had hushed itself out of sympathy. She knew that all around her was the hum of conversation, the clattering of china, the murmur of the footman as he refilled cups, but she could not hear it. The world had shrunk down to her and the man who sat beside her, so close now that she could have reached out and taken his hand, and the realization that she wanted to do that—or wanted him to reach out for her—shocked her. It took a moment for her to realize that he was speaking.

“If you had asked me either of those questions as recently as this morning, Miss Kingsley, I would have said yes to both. A qualified yes, perhaps, but there seemed no choice on either matter. Miss Warren is universally hailed as a paragon of all that a man should want in a wife, and it is equally understood by the world that the man who marries her will go into politics, his way there eased by her father’s influence and reputation. Having made the decision to marry Miss Warren, I accepted the other as a matter of course. But now—well, let me say that I am questioning both decisions.”