Maggie MacKeever (3 page)

Abandoning all pretence of nonchalance, Clytie awarded her tormentor her direct, clear gaze. “Surely this cannot be your normal manner of conversation, sir!”

“I’ve gone too fast for you,” Mr. Thorne said comfortably, as he purchased a length of ribbon and presented it with a flourish. “It comes from having spent so much time in Russia. Perhaps you will understand better if I explain to you the legend of the fortieth bear.”

“The fortieth bear?” Perhaps Mr. Thorne’s erratic style of conversation had dazed Miss Clough; for whatever reason she made no protest when he escorted her back out into Oxford Street.

“The Russians are great bear hunters,” Mr. Thorne explained. “The Cossacks of Siberia actually hunt the beasts with only knife and
ragatina,
a short-handled pitchfork. The details of the business I will spare you; but the hunters fear their fortieth bear the most. Many kill thirty-nine without receiving a scratch—but the fortieth bear will avenge all the others, being Nemesis in disguise.”

Dazed or no, Miss Clough was a young woman of great good sense, and not a damsel to be swept off her feet by a gentleman who had just—she thought—likened her to a bear. “Your conversation is most enlightening, sir,” she said coolly, “and it would be very remiss in me not to thank you for your escort. Even if I didn’t want it! But—”

“There!” interrupted Mr. Thorne, with his beguiling smile. “See how far we have come already: you no longer feel constrained to be polite.”

Clytie abandoned all effort at good manners. Grimly, she continued: “—But only a fool, sir, would trust you one inch!”

“You doubt my word?” Mr. Thorne looked surprised. “Why, Miss Clough? Surely rumor of my, er, other thirty-nine bears has not travelled all the way to London—and even if it has you must not blame me for what transpired before we me. They were but the merest peccadilloes. Unless—” His expression altered. “Surely that cork-brained nephew of mine hasn’t been telling you you’re platter-faced?”

“Your nephew?” Briefly Miss Clough had forgotten Lord Sweetbriar’s existence. “Of course he has not!”

“Then someone else?” Mr. Thorne delicately inquired. “Tell me who was so ungallant and I will carve out his heart and lay it at your feet.”

“Gracious! Is that a Russian custom?” Apprised by Mr. Thorne’s amused expression that she had been led up the garden path, Clytie glowered. A second later she recalled his comment on her scowl. “I know I am not platter-faced. I mean, no one said anything of the sort. Oh, I don’t know what I mean, except that you are maddening! I wish you would go away.”

“Did I carve out someone’s heart, I would doubtless
have
to go away, so we must both be glad that no one has offered you such grievous insult.” The quality of the rascally Marmaduke’s glance was such that Clytie felt her face grow warm. “You are a very pretty damsel, Miss Clough, as you must know. Perhaps that is why you refuse to take me seriously. I am but one among many, alas. You are accustomed to being admired.”

Though Clytie did not lack admirers, she had no other of this ilk—if admirer Mr. Thorne truly was, which she took leave to doubt. All the same, and though she had not wavered from her conviction that Mr. Thorne was more than half demented, Clytie wished she’d worn some costume more exotic than her simple straw bonnet trimmed with ribbon, pale blue pelisse, and demure white muslin dress. There was that about Mr. Thorne which made a lady contemplate intimate candlelit dinners, and diaphanous silks.

But Mr. Thorne obviously awaited her response. What had they been talking about? Ah yes, her countless admirers. “Nonsense!” Clytie said.

“Oh?” Mr. Thorne looked sympathetic. “Never mind, I shall make it up to you. I trust you will not try to avoid further encounters, Miss Clough.”

Clytie wondered if she truly wished to do so. Curious, this pang of disappointment at the realization Mr. Thorne did not mean to actively seek her out. “I do not think I could, sir,” she ruefully replied. “Apparently you are not aware that our families are in the way of being connections. Lady Sweetbriar is to marry my father.” She paused. “I do not know how long you have been in Russia, sir, but I think you must surely know Nikki.”

“You are astute as well as delightful to behold, Miss Clough.” An enigmatic expression settled upon Mr. Thorne’s swarthy face. “When next you see your step-mama-to-be, you must give her Duke’s regards.”

“Midsummer moon, Lady Regina, I promise you!” Lord Sweetbriar gallantly hissed. “I waited this long to pop the question so that you might have time to fix your affections. You look startled. You must have known I was a pretender to your hand! Did you despair of bringing me up to scratch?”

Indeed Lady Regina Foliot did look startled, an expression which sat as excellently upon her classical features as did any other, due to the assiduity with which she had practiced enacting the entire range of human emotions in front of her looking glass. “Sweetbriar!” she hissed in turn. “I beg you will recall yourself. This is no fit time to be making me a declaration. We are at Almack’s.”

Though Lord Sweetbriar could lay claim to no superior intellectual endowment, he was not so much the mooncalf that he had failed to take note of his surroundings. In point of fact, he had gone to considerable effort in preparation for his foray into the assembly rooms, had even exchanged his more flamboyant costume for the knee breeches and white silk stockings and black pumps, the long-tailed coat and white marcella waistcoat that were
de rigueur
in King Street. No fondness on his own part for the Wednesday evening subscription balls had prompted Lord Sweetbriar to undergo such rigorous self-sacrifice, but the knowledge that Lady Regina would be present. Too, if a fellow popped the question whilst engaged in dancing, he could hardly be expected to drop down upon one knee.

“I know we’re at Almack’s!” Rolf offered, in his own defense. “What’s that have to do with me making you an offer? And why are you acting so surprised? A perfect looby would have known I was set on fixing my interest.”

For a maiden who had just received a proposal of marriage, no matter how unsuitable the surroundings or bizarre the delivery, Lady Regina looked singularly unmoved. It was not the first proposal she had received, certainly; an acknowledged beauty, Lady Regina could choose among many swains. Still, she did not immediately banish Lord Sweetbriar, no matter how inept his manner of paying his addresses, and his attempts to execute the dance in which they were engaged. “I think, Sweetbriar, that we must talk.”

“Talk?” his lordship echoed blankly. “Ain’t we doing exactly that? Dash it, have you been playing fast and loose with me?”

Upon receipt of this inelegant accusation, Lady Regina winced, and thought very seriously that perhaps she should not marry a gentleman so obtuse, no matter if his wealth was greater than that of all her other suitors combined. “Was there ever anything equal to this?” she wondered aloud. “It exceeds all belief! How
dare
you accuse me of throwing out lures?”

“Deuced if you didn’t!” Although Lord Sweetbriar was uncertain how this quarrel had come about, he was determined to hold up his own end. “If you hadn’t hinted that you might like it, I wouldn’t have started making sheep’s eyes, because I ain’t in the petticoat line. Yes, and this is an ungrateful way to act toward a gentleman who’s wishful of marrying you, my girl!”

“Ungrateful!” Lady Regina closed her eyes, resolved to silently count one hundred before opening them again, lest she unwisely give her wealthiest suitor a strong piece of her mind. Lady Regina had a very high sense of decorum, and prided herself on the correctness of her conduct, and therefore did not like it pointed out when she was in the wrong.

“Have you put yourself in a pucker?” Lord Sweetbriar was somewhat taken aback by the sight of his beloved standing as rigid as a statue in the middle of the dance floor. “I wish you wouldn’t. Come, let us withdraw before people start to stare.”

“Oh, very well.” That Lady Regina deigned to open her big green eyes prior to achieving her intended count of one hundred was due to no softening of her attitude toward Lord Sweetbriar, but because of his persistent assaults upon her toes. “You may fetch me some lemonade.”

Relieved, Rolf whisked Lady Regina off the dance floor. Then he disappeared into a side room.

He had been quick to do her bidding, Lady Regina thought. She wondered if his lordship would be so amenable after he was wed. From this useless speculation, she was diverted only by a glimpse of herself in a looking glass.

Blond curls topped by a cap of muslin and lace ornamented with a wreath of roses; soft and languishing green eyes; excellent complexion and enviable figure set off by a fragile white dress of Indian chiffon—Regina stared complacently at her own reflection. She was happiest when her attention was focused upon her own exquisite person and the raiment draped thereupon. Unfortunately, the family purse didn’t run to expensive wardrobes. As the means by which she intended to repair this omission inserted himself in her line of vision, Lady Regina frowned.

It had occurred to Lord Sweetbriar, whilst executing his errand, that his beloved’s manner was something less than enthusiastic. Therefore he said, with resignation, “Have it your way. Since you insist, I will go down upon my knee.” Immediately he suited action to words. “Lady Regina, you will make me the happiest—”

“Sweetbriar, do get up!” Lady Regina wished to sink. “A gentleman does not advance his suit with a lady by putting her to the blush. Since you demand an immediate answer, I will tell you frankly that there is only one circumstance which makes me hesitate—but it is a serious matter!” she added hastily as with alacrity Lord Sweetbriar leapt up. “In a word,
Lady
Sweetbriar.”

“Lady Sweetbriar? But I ain’t—oh! You mean Nikki.” Interpreting Lady Regina’s comments in the most favorable of lights, Rolf beamed. “There’s no need to worry your head about Nikki; she won’t be living with us! Nikki has her own little house, though how she contrived to hire it, I don’t know—but that’s fair and far off! At all events, she’s to marry that museum fellow, Clough.”

By this offhand dismissal of her reservations, Lady Regina was not pleased. “I fear your partiality for Lady Sweetbriar has rendered you over-tolerant of her faults. Who is it that appears unchaperoned in Bond Street in mid-afternoon? Who gallops regularly in the Park? Who does all manner of imprudent things, including shocking Sally Jersey almost speechless by introducing that scandalous excuse for vulgar behavior—what is it called? The waltz? Mark my words, no person of refinement will ever indulge in so brazen a display!” She shuddered. “And then there are her flirts.”

Lord Sweetbriar was put in the uncomfortable position of defending the female whose influence upon his life he was most often prone to bewail. “Nikki ain’t so bad,” he protested. “Remember she wasn’t born to be a lady, and so she don’t
know!”

“A common actress!” Again Lady Regina shuddered, causing Lord Sweetbriar to wonder if she was prone to ague. “Your father must have been mad.”

As was his habit, Lord Sweetbriar glanced nervously over his shoulder lest imprudent mention of the dead caused grim specters to arise. “My father may have had the devil’s own temper, but he wasn’t queer in the attic,” Rolf allowed. “But let’s not talk about that! Nikki ain’t so bad as you make her sound—even if she ain’t quite the thing, she
is
all the crack.”

“Your stepmother,” Lady Regina responded bluntly, “is nothing more than a base adventuress. You will not mind plain-speaking, I know, from one whom you have just asked to be your bride. I will not undertake to express my opinion of Lady Sweetbriar, beyond stating that I do not care to share a name with a female who has made a byword of herself.”

The gist of this declaration, Lord Sweetbriar failed to grasp, though in a dim way he comprehended that his beloved was not responding as anticipated to his suit. Perhaps he had not made his intentions sufficiently clear. “Don’t you wish to contract a marriage? To form an eligible connection?” he inquired, somewhat plaintively.

Had Lady Regina’s family but possessed sufficient wealth to pamper her as she deserved—but they did not. Clearly Regina must be prepared to sacrifice certain lofty ideals if she were to attain her goal. To marry for love as well as money was not to be her fate. “You are impertinent, Sweetbriar,” she retorted. “A gentleman does not ask a young lady questions that are so personal.”

“Personal?” Lord Sweetbriar looked about for a convenient surface on which to deposit his beloved’s empty lemonade glass. “There can’t be anything more personal than asking you to be my wife! Or ain’t I supposed to do that, either?”

“I did not say so.” Lady Regina responded, alarmed by the suggestion that her wealthiest suitor was on the verge of flight. “You must give me time to think over your kind offer, Sweetbriar. You realize, I’m sure, that you should have applied to my papa.”

“Yes, and so I would have done, had I ever found him sober long enough.” His beloved’s shilly-shallying did not accord with Rolf’s notion of his own consequence. “I’ll be hanged if I can see why you’re making such a piece of work of it. You must have known I’d pop the question—you hinted often enough that I
should!”

“I hinted—oh!” In that particular moment Lady Regina had much less the appearance of a damsel about to be thrown into ecstatic transports than one about to deliver a sharp set-down. In an attempt to control the latter impulse, she bit her lip.

Sensitivity to the emotions of those around him was not one of Lord Sweetbriar’s virtues, as he promptly displayed. “Don’t deny it. You hinted that you would like to become Lady Sweetbriar, else I wouldn’t have taken the notion—and now that I think of it, you shouldn’t be censuring Nikki for
her
flirts!”

“
I
should not—” Lady Regina also superbly enacted rage. “You dare compare me to that, that—oh! Words fail me, Sweetbriar!”

For that failure, Rolf could only be grateful, having come to a belated recognition of his lack of tact. “Don’t take a pet,” he pleaded, looking anxiously around him to see if they had been overheard. “Remember we’re at Almack’s. Dash it, there’s no need to take offense because I compared you to Nikki. I like Nikki! Even if she does drive a fellow distracted! Nikki has a way about her, you know. Or maybe you
don’t
know, but you may take my word for it!”