Gayle Buck (6 page)

Michele debated a moment before she gave a reluctant nod.
“Oui,
it was in Brussels that I met Lord Randol. He was an officer and I had just come out into society.”

Lydia clasped her hands in front of her modest bosom. “Oh, how exciting it all is! I saw at once how it was, of course. You were in love with him and something happened. That is why you exchanged such a
look
with his lordship. He was the cruelest of monsters and broke your heart,” Lydia said, thoroughly charmed by her imaginings.

“What foolishness you talk!” Michele said sharply. She was already deeply upset by the encounter with Lord Randol, and her cousin’s blithe words had an odd effect on her. She took a quick turn about the drawing room. “It was not at all like that. It was an enchanted time of balls and frantic excitement. One was swept up in the magic. The rumblings of war seemed unreal, but poised like a deadly sword above our heads. The sword struck, sharp and swift, and the magic was gone.” She paused at the window, drawing back the drapery with one fine-boned hand, but she did not see the stream of carriages that passed on the street below. She was recalling a different time, one of intense and sweeping emotion.

Lydia realized that her cousin was caught up in her remembrances, and she asked tentatively, “What happened then, Michele?”

“What?” Michele looked around, startled. “Oh, the soldiers and officers marched away. It was odd, really. Many were still in evening clothes.”

“Lord Randol was horridly wounded at Waterloo. Bernard . . . Captain Hughes once confided to me that it was a miracle that his lordship survived at all,” Lydia said. “Did you ... did you see him then?”

“I could not find him. I was told that he had died,” Michele said shortly.

“Oh, Michele!” Lydia ran to throw her arms about her cousin. Her eyes brimmed with sympathetic tears. “I can but imagine what it would be like to be told that my beloved Bernard was dead. You must have gone through unspeakable torment, for though you have not said it, I know you cared for Lord Randol.”

Michele remembered the hatred in his lordship’s hard eyes, and was possessed of a wild desire to laugh. “Cared for him?
Oui,
I cared for him. We were to be married.”

Lydia fell back in speechless astonishment. She regarded her cousin for several horrified seconds. “Married? You were engaged to Lord Randol? But I cannot believe it is true. His is such a cold, unfeeling nature that I am persuaded no lady in her proper mind could love him. Indeed, when I think that Papa wishes me to accept his lordship’s suit, I am overcome with terror. Michele, how could you have loved him?”

Not trusting her voice, Michele waited to gather her equilibrium before she answered. “The officer that I knew was of an engaging personality, charming and devilish by turns. Lord Randol poked fun at the ironies of life, and his eyes invited one to share in his amusement. I was . . . very impressionable.” Michele looked into the distance for a moment, before she shook herself free of her memories. She shrugged, her hands turned palms-up, and smiled faintly at her cousin’s appalled expression. “It was all a very long time ago. And the gentleman that I once loved is gone.”

“But he isn’t. He stood in this very room not more than a half-hour ago,” Lydia said, again shaken. “Oh, Michele, surely you do not mean to let him pass out of your life yet again!”

Michele shook her head and raised her hand in a quick negative gesture. “Lydia, you do not understand. I saw the proof in Lord Randol’s eyes. What I was told is true: my fiancé died at Waterloo.” She saw that her cousin was prepared to argue the point, and she forestalled her. “Not another word, cousin, or I shall instantly inform my uncle what I have related to you. Since he might fear that my prior acquaintance with Lord Randol is a threat to your own interests, he would very likely pack me off back to Brussels. And I would very much dislike cutting my visit so short.”

“I have already sworn that I do not wish to accept Lord Randol’s suit, so that is utter nonsense,” Lydia said, tossing her head. Despite her scoffing tone, however, she felt that her cousin had raised a valid point, and it gave her pause to think. Her father was not always the most sensible of gentlemen, as witness his extraordinary ambition to see her wed Lord Randol instead of her own choice, Captain Bernard Hughes. Certainly her father would react badly if he learned of Michele’s previous engagement to Lord Randol, and because she had taken an instant liking to her cousin, she did not want to see her leave before the end of the Season. She would say nothing to her father, Lydia decided. Quite apart from the consideration of her father’s reaction, Michele’s confidences had given her the glimmer of an idea that appealed to the depths of her romantic soul.

She said suddenly, “Very well, I shall say nothing to Papa. But I must say it is a good deal too bad that his lordship is not still pining after you. I would not miss him in the least as a suitor. He is far too grim to suit my taste.”

Michele thought about how hard and bitter Lord Randol had seemed. “I must agree that his lordship does not seem a likely husband for you, Lydia,” she said reflectively.

Lydia spread her hands. “Now you understand what I feel. Michele, promise me that you will help me to depress Lord Randol’s unwelcome attentions. After your extraordinary revelation, I have an even stronger desire to discourage his suit. I could never bear to watch my Bernard walk out of my life.”

Michele looked sharply at her cousin, sensitive to an implied criticism. But Lydia’s expression was innocent of any hurtful insinuations. “Lydia, I do not think that—”

Lydia interrupted her. “Oh, do you not see, Michele? Quite apart from my love for Bernard, how could I possibly form any attachment for Lord Randol, knowing that he once loved you? I would always feel as though I was betraying you, my dearest of cousins. Pray say that you will help me, do say you will?”

Michele smiled even as she sighed. “Oh, very well. I shall attach myself to you like a shadow, and frown away the unwanted gentleman. But I hope you realize what it is you ask of me.”

Lydia threw her arms about her. “Oh, I do! Believe me, I truly do. And I shall make it up to you,that I promise. You shall be my maid of honor when I wed my wonderful Bernard.”

“Certainly that is sufficient reward,” Michele said wryly.

Lydia laughed at her, recognizing the irony in her cousin’s statement. “Of course it is! Why, what more could one wish?”

Much later, Michele was to wonder how she could have bound herself by such an easy promise, when its consequences were to create circumstances so uncomfortable for herself.

The drawing-room door opened and Mr. Davenport entered. “Here you are! But where is your company? I was informed that two gentlemen had called. I did not think that your visitors would be gone so soon, particularly Lord Randol. How did you find his lordship, Lydia?” he asked.

Lydia threw a speaking look at Michele before she answered her father. “He is the same, Papa, quite unapproachable and perfectly terrifying.”

“I hope that you made an effort to conquer your nervousness, Lydia,” Mr. Davenport said, perturbed.

“I was more comfortable during this last visit,” said Lydia with perfect truth, thinking of Captain Hughes’s welcome appearance. She smiled at her cousin. “Of course, Michele has been of encouragement to me.”

Mr. Davenport beamed. “Good, good! I am happy to hear it. Michele, I am glad I have found you. I have been wanting to discuss a financial matter with you. Pray, won’t you join me in my study?”

“Of course, uncle.” Michele accompanied Mr. Davenport to the study, and after he ushered her inside, he closed the door. He gestured for her to take a seat beside his desk, and himself dropped into the well-worn chair behind the massive mahogany piece. “Is there some problem that I should be aware of?” Michele asked.

“Not at all. I simply wished to be certain that you are aware of your father’s arrangements for you while you are in England,” Mr. Davenport said. “He has written to me that he has caused to be deposited in the Bank of England an account for which you are to have complete access. It is irregular that Francois did not designate someone to be your banker, as it were, but I am certain that you are completely deserving of his trust.” There was a faintly quizzical note in his voice and he stared at Michele with a contemplative expression in his eyes.

She smiled at his obvious uncertainty at the wisdom of the arrangement. “I am quite used to managing my own allowance, uncle. You need not be concerned that I shall suddenly pauper myself in a whirl of expenditures.”

Mr. Davenport coughed. “Of course not. I never thought it for a moment. But I did wish you to be informed that any funds that you might need are readily available to you.”

“I appreciate your meticulous attention to duty, sir,” Michele stood up. “If that is all—”

Mr. Davenport held up his hand. “Actually, it is not. Something has been tickling at my mind these several days, and I have reread some of your mother’s old letters. Michele, I have learned that you were once engaged to Lord Randol. It is with some degree of dismay that I broach this matter to you, but in the interests of our family, I feel that I must. You see, the viscount has requested permission to press his suit with Lydia, and I fear that your presence here will—”

“My former association with Lord Randol need not concern you, uncle. It was long ago dissolved through circumstances that I shall not go into. His lordship is completely free to bestow his suit where he pleases.” Michele felt the stiffness of her own smile and she hoped that her uncle would not perceive it.

Mr. Davenport preferred not to look beyond the surface of what he was offered, and his expression showed immense relief. “Thank you, my dear. I am greatly eased by your reassurance, and in light of it, I can think of nothing better than to have you staying with us. I only regret that you find yourself in the awkward position of consorting with his lordship, as assuredly you must in the circumstances.”

“Pray do not trouble yourself, uncle. I am quite capable of handling any awkwardness that might possibly arise. Do, pray, excuse me. I wish to pen a letter before dressing for dinner,’’ Michele said, hiding her anger.

“Of course, of course!” Mr. Davenport opened the door for her. He stayed her for a moment longer. “Your graciousness is most appreciated, for I doubt that I need tell you that I have high hopes for Lydia’s finally coming around to his lordship’s suit.”

Michele inclined her head in a gesture of understanding, but she left the study with oddly turbulent emotions. Prominent among them was her conviction that she would find it very difficult indeed to sit by quietly while Lydia became engaged to Lord Randol. “In that instance, I suspect that I must play the coward who crept softly away before the end of the skirmish,” she said aloud, greatly startling the footman whom she passed at that moment.

Chapter Six

Miss Lydia Davenport and Mademoiselle du Bois were launched into London society a few weeks later. Lady Basinberry had spared no effort or expense on her nieces’ behalf, especially since Mr. Davenport had unwittingly given her carte blanche to do as she wished by saying that he did not want to be bothered with the nonsense except to be sent the bills. Lady Basinberry therefore took full advantage of her brother’s generosity. A full string orchestra was engaged, the ballroom was hung with new sarcenet-lined draperies, the cook was consulted with, and a lavish selection of refreshments was decided upon for the refreshment table. The afternoon before the ball, very nearly an entire hothouse was transferred to the Davenport ballroom. It was the overwhelming sight of the riotous blooms that finally caused Mr. Davenport’s face to blanch, and he tottered away to his study, ordering the butler to bring him a bottle of cognac. “I am utterly undone,” he was heard to mutter.

Two weeks before, Lady Basinberry had inspected Michele’s wardrobe and pronounced all of her gowns too dowdy for an opening ball. She had taken Michele firmly to task, declaring that she would not have a niece of hers appear in rags.

“Come, ma’am! It is not as bad as all that!” Michele protested, laughing.

“You might as well give over, Michele. Our aunt is not likely to cease her bullying unless you do,” Lydia said, greatly entertained. She herself had no difficulty in accepting Lady Basinberry’s declaration that she required a new gown, and she could not really find it in her heart to sympathize with her cousin’s odd reluctance to do the same.

“Lydia speaks the unvarnished truth, my dear. I am known to be quite obstinate when I wish something to be done,” Lady Basinberry said.

“I suspect that to be an understatement, my lady,” retorted Michele. But she did at last give in to Lady Basinberry’s insistence, and quickly found herself in a whirl of fabrics and at the mercy of a voluble French modiste. The consultation and choosing of fabrics, the measuring and the countless fittings, left Michele feeling very much like a pincushion.

The finished gown was delivered at the town house just hours before the ball. Upon seeing herself in the gown, even Michele was forced to concede that the effort had been worthwhile. The gown was an intriguing liquid blue that shimmered to shades of gray when she moved. The high waistline emphasized her high full bosom and the skirts fell away to cling to the curve of hip and thigh. Pearls adorned her ears and were twisted about her slender neck. Her soft black hair was held in place with a pearl comb.

Before going downstairs, Michele inspected herself in the cheval glass. The maid put the finishing touch to Michele’s toilette by pinning to her low bodice a nosegay of white roses and delicate gypsophila. The corsage had been sent up by her uncle, and she had received it gratefully. A spray of carnations had been delivered for her from Sir Lionel, and she had frowned when she read the attached note, because it expressed warmer sentiments than she was prepared to encourage in any gentleman, and particularly in one whom she had once deeply hurt with her rejection.

“Magnifique,
mademoiselle,” the maid murmured.