Emily Hendrickson (4 page)

Adrian watched as she disappeared from his sight. He only wanted what was best for her.

The house was utterly silent.

Upstairs the silence was broken when Drusilla found her mistress weeping quietly as she walked to her bedroom.

“My dear ma’am, what has happened? I thought with your son here all would be well.” Privately she thought Lady Brentford looked on the verge of a collapse.

Her ladyship halted. With a hurt expression she stared up at Drusilla. “He insists I must cancel my party. Worse yet, he demands I send you home. Heartless child! How can he be so cruel? Promise me you will defy him. I will not be denied your company to please some whim of his. That my own son could contemplate such a thing! It is insupportable!”

Drusilla placed a tender arm about her ladyship, walking with her to her room. She urged her to lie down on her chaise longue, draped a lovely shawl over her before begging her to close her eyes for a rest.

“You must not permit this to upset you unduly. I will go down to deal with your son. I cannot believe he would do such a thing without a reason.”

The marchioness reached out to clasp one of Drusilla’s hands. “Would you, my dear? I have never been able to reason with Adrian.”

Drusilla’s mouth firmed, and she thought of all she would like to say and do to his lordship. “I will gladly attempt to persuade him to see reason. You rest. I will return later.”

Leaving the marchioness in her abigail’s tender care, Drusilla first checked her appearance, then marched down to the drawing room with the air of a militant general. Moreover, it was a general determined to win a victory.

“Sir, if I may have a word with you?” She forced herself to be polite, seemingly meek and outwardly serene.

“Yes, yes. Indeed you may. I was wishful of speaking with you as well.”

Drusilla hoped he was as ill at ease as she felt. “It regards your mother,” she began.

Apparently realizing it might be better if they were seated, he gestured to a chair, the very one his mother favored. “Perhaps we could talk in comfort?”

Sitting in his mother’s chair would give her strength. She nodded with deceptive docility and perched on the edge of the chair. She hoped she made him uncomfortable.

He lounged back in his chair, studying her with the reflective air of one about to buy an item. An expensive one, like a mare of sound stock.

“I just met your dear mother in the upstairs hall. She was frightfully distressed, in tears, and scarce able to reach her room without help. You”—Drusilla pointed a finger at the man she found quite as annoying as she had anticipated—”are the cause of her grief. How could you deny her the party she yearns to hold? She intends to invite a few younger people in the hope you might linger here and enjoy her country party as well. She so desperately longs for you to remain with her for a time. She misses you very much, yet she never complains to you about your absence. At least, to my knowledge she has not done so since I have been here.”

“The gathering of which you speak is far too much for her to manage.” His expression was hostile. Clearly he was not about to yield with any grace. He might not yield at all, come to think of it. She had no intention of mentioning her being sent home. The money she earned was not a soft plum. She worked hard for every pence. But she loved the marchioness and counted it worth every minute.

She gazed at the man across from her, absorbing his sherry brown eyes, the sculptured nose, somewhat thin mouth and the thick dark hair that slightly curled in a way reminiscent of a Greek statue. She had seen drawings taken from the Elgin Marbles, and that was the sort of look those images wore.

Drusilla gave him a patient look, the sort she realized her mother gave her father when he was being particularly obtuse. “That is why
I
am here,” she explained in the way one might to a dense child. “I organize everything from the meals to the rooms, the entertainment, well—just everything. All your mother has to do is look pretty and enjoy herself.” She thought a moment before adding, “She especially enjoyed Lord Osman’s company and requested he be invited again.”

“Osman!” Lord Brentford exploded, shooting up from his chair to pace back and forth before the fire-place. “That old gaffer?”

“I thought him most pleasant. He dotes on your mother. Come, did you think your mother past a taste of romance?” Handsome his lordship might be. Annoying he was.

“What?” He halted, staring down at her in plain disbelief. “I do not think I hear you aright.”

Drusilla felt at a distinct disadvantage while perched on the chair, so she rose to meet him face-to-face.

“I think your mother ought to be amused. She is not so young, as you must be aware. Allow her to enjoy herself. I promise to do all I can.”

“And that is another thing. You are dismissed as of now.” He gave a dismissive wave of a hand in her direction. “You have disrupted this entire household, set things on end. This cannot be good for my mother.”

She gave him a pitying look. “How would you know? You have not seen your mother in ages. I believe Christmas was the last time you drove down here, and that was for but a few days—most of which were spent out shooting.”

“Not true. I came when she took ill.”

He must have worn that expression when he was called before the dean at school. “Well, she didn’t know it. By the time she was well enough to be aware of things, you had returned to London.”

“Young woman, you are impertinent!”

“I imagine I am,” Drusilla said calmly. “It is so tiresome to be meek and humble. I cannot think why the meek are supposed to inherit the earth—they wouldn’t know what to do with it if they obtained it.”

He coughed, as though something stuck in his throat.

“I should like to know what makes you think I have turned the household upside down. Oh, I wish you would turn around and go back to London instead. Your mother might love you, but it is clear you truly do not care a pin for her feelings or what is best for her. I refuse to leave! You, sir”—she again pointed a slender finger at him—”are a worthless son!”

“What?” He looked thunderstruck.

“Well,” she said with caution, “no one is completely worthless. You must have some redeeming qualities.”

“What makes you think you are a judge of character?”

She gave him a level stare. “Perhaps it comes from living in the rectory?” She refused to back down, fixing her gaze on him, challenging him.

He looked as though he might explode if she said another word. Turning on his heel, he left the room and was soon heard tromping up the stairs.

Chapter Three

Adrian stormed into his rooms with more wrath than he could ever recall knowing. The unmitigated gall of that girl—to say that he “must have some redeeming qualities” was the outside of enough. Never in his life had anyone spoken to him in such a manner! She must go!

Colyer entered the bedroom from where he had been stowing away Adrian’s clothing in the vast wardrobe. “Is anything amiss, my lord?”

“Anything amiss?” He laughed, a harsh sound in the peace of the house. “Nothing I cannot handle. What have you learned so far?”

“I moused around a trifle, knowing you are concerned about the young lady. From all accounts she should be granted sainthood. Right proper good lady, she is. She has taken over the jobs Priddy and Mrs. Simpson find difficult. You must know they are getting on in years, yet neither of them would wish to be pensioned off quite yet. Supervises the house admirably, I gather. Do you wish to learn more?”

“By all means.” The more he knew about her, the more ammunition he might have, although sainthood was scarcely a disqualifying trait. And how they could claim she was saintly when she spoke her mind in such a manner was beyond him. Being reared in a rectory must account for that.

He poured a glass of claret before crossing the room to stand by the windows. While staring out at the spring gardens beyond, so colorful and gay, the absurdity of it all hit him. That young woman—that mere chit—dared to scold him! It made no difference to her that he bore an ancient and respected title. She took him to task for ignoring his mother like he was a recalcitrant schoolboy.

How amusing! He had thought that once he reached the ripe old age of thirty, he was able to cut the leading strings that attached him to filial duties. Apparently this young woman believed those strings were never to be cut.

But the fact that she had the audacity to speak in such a manner to a member of the peerage was . . . Well, what was it, precisely? He did not consider himself to be sacrosanct. Indeed, he was far from perfect, even though all of the Season’s women claimed he would be the perfect husband. But he was hardly a target of scorn.

He would tread warily with Miss Herbert. She was like a keg of gunpowder—and he didn’t know what would set her off. And she refused to depart! He sensed this was not going to be the usual dull trip to the country. Not dull by a long shot.

* * * *

Drusilla paced back and forth in her bedroom, feeling all kinds of fool. How dare she speak to his lordship with such a lack of respect? He would surely send her packing in spite of her refusal to leave. Father would not be pleased to have his daughter turned off for being disrespectful.

There was nothing to it. She must apologize to Lord Brentford. Much as it galled her to do so. True, he was not the one who paid her modest stipend, but he could find a means of dispatching her if he wished.

While changing for dinner she considered the various words she might say. Simply tell him she was sorry? But she wasn’t and that was the problem. He had deserved every blessed word she had said to him. Perhaps she might apologize for stepping out of line? Or something like that?

The maid who helped her dress scratched on the door and entered when bid. She capably assisted with buttons and tapes, smoothing down the back of the white muslin round gown. The fabric had the faintest blue stripe, and Dru thought her blue reticule went nicely with it. She tugged at the puffed sleeves, thinking they might have been a trifle longer. Yet they were stylish, and she did admire them very much. The modest ruffle around the hem added to her pleasure in her new gown. How delightful it was to possess an entire wardrobe of modish garments.

Thanking the maid for her help, Drusilla dismissed her, then debated on tucking a bit of sheer silk into the low neck of the dress. She draped the frothy length around her neck, arranging the silk just so, and was pleased with the result. Now if it would just stay in place while she ate her dinner. Somehow sticking pins into the silk didn’t seem right—the silk might be ruined.

With one eye on the clock, she assembled her blue reticule, making sure she had a handkerchief in it. She might well have need of that before the evening was over.

Blue kid slippers made no sound when she left her room to check on the marchioness.

The darkened room made it difficult to see anything, let alone discern her ladyship.

“Drusilla? Is that you, dear? I do not feel the least like going to dinner. I shall eat something here. I simply cannot face Adrian at present. And to think he is my dearest son!” The voice came from a pile of pillows.

“Perhaps he will have a change of heart, ma’am. I shall do all in my power to attain your wishes.” Drusilla advanced to the foot of the bed, frowning into the dim light. The marchioness seemed to have shrunk into an older woman, frail and unhappy.

“I know that you will. You might even succeed.” With a dry chuckle, the older lady pushed herself up against her pillows. “What can you possibly say to him to attain that?”

“I am not certain—but I will try.”

“You had better go down now. Adrian hates to be kept waiting, and it would be better for you to be early.”

At once seeing the wisdom of this plan, Drusilla bid the marchioness good evening, promising to look in later.

And then it was time to walk down the carpeted stairs to the ground level and face Lord Brentford. She briefly wondered if this was something like those poor prisoners felt on their way to the guillotine. She might not have her head removed, but she felt in her bones that his lordship could be extremely cutting in his denunciation of her forwardness if he so chose.

The thing was to put her oar in before he might say a word. If she apologized at once, could he have reason to cut her to bits? She devoutly hoped not.

The ground floor reached, she made herself walk to the drawing room, where the marchioness and she always met prior to dinner. True, her footsteps dragged a trifle.

At the doorway she peered about the room and took a deep breath of satisfaction. She was here before he was. Hurrying to the fireplace, she absorbed the faint warmth of the fire while she continued to mull over what she knew she must say. She would not sleep this night if she did not make her amends.

“Miss Herbert.”

Drusilla looked up to stare at the figure entering the room and swallowed with care. He looked cool, inflexible. Had she thought him quite splendid before, he was now the epitome of male elegance. He wore a dark blue coat over a cream Marcella waistcoat of exquisite weave. His gray pantaloons fit him superbly. He had trim, well-muscled legs, signifying he was not an indolent man. Like most men of the
ton,
he doubtlessly rode and drove, perhaps even sparred with a sword or at the place her brother called Gentleman Jackson’s.

“Good evening.” Her tongue wanted to stick to the roof of her mouth. Oh, for a glass of water.

He bowed, then went to pour two glasses of sherry. He handed one to her, lifting his glass in a toast.

“My lord,” Drusilla began, “I must apologize . . .”

“Do not say another word, I beg you.” His eyes mocked her solemn voice and face.

“What do you mean, not say another word?” Drusilla demanded to know, totally forgetting her intention of being meek and conciliatory. How dare he spurn her words of atonement? “I must speak! I was rude, unconscionably so. It is only proper that I beg your forgiveness.”

“I fear you do not mean it, my dear girl.”

“I am not your dear anything, my lord.” She glared at the man, insufferable cad to make his dear mother so unhappy. “I was uncivil. That rudeness demands I apologize.”