Silver Splendor (10 page)

Face sober, the governess held out a string of glossy pearls. “I’ve already taken the liberty of fetching them from your jewelry case.”

“Whatever would I do without you, Eversham?”

“You seemed to manage quite well this afternoon,” Miss Eversham said gruffly as she fastened the necklace around the girl’s neck.

Turning, Cicely threw her arms around the woman. “I’m so very sorry,” she said in dramatic repentance. “I really and truly am. I promise it’ll never,
ever
happen again.”

Miss Eversham extracted herself from the girl’s embrace. “I should hope not, my lady,” she said, smoothing her black bombazine skirt. “It’s long past time you put such childish pranks behind you. How many times must I tell you, it’s dangerous for a woman to venture forth alone, as well as damaging to her reputation.”

Though severity edged the words, Elizabeth detected a dash of fondness on the governess’s homespun features. Her fingers itched to capture that emotion on paper. But nothing so prosaic as a pencil existed within this luxurious female domain of gown filled wardrobes and neatly arranged hatboxes.

Cicely patted Miss Evershain’s shoulder. “Well, things shall be quite different now that Elizabeth has come to instruct me in art. There’ll be no need for me to steal away to study with her.”

“Hmph. I most certainly hope so.”

Yet the governess looked downcast, and Elizabeth realized in sympathy that Miss Eversham must fear losing her position if Cicely mended her ways.

“Come, let’s go downstairs,” Cicely told Elizabeth. “We’re late enough already.”

Elizabeth wondered at the girl’s eagerness, then Miss Eversham raised a forestalling hand. “You are quite certain, my lady, that the earl did request Miss Hastings’s presence at dinner?”

“Of course,” Cicely said with an airy flutter of her fingers. “He wants my new art instructor to feel at home here. Isn’t that so, Elizabeth?”

Mischief gleamed in her eyes. Unsure of Cicely’s intent, yet unwilling to plunge her into more trouble, Elizabeth nodded.

“It’s a pity we couldn’t talk your father into dinner, as well,” Cicely said.

Touched by the girl’s concern and knowing Owen would feel more comfortable taking a tray in his room, Elizabeth said, “He’s rather tired tonight. Besides, he didn’t have anyone as generous as you to borrow such finery from.” Irony laced her voice as she glided a hand over the cool silk of her gown. In truth, she felt ludicrous in this confining costume.

Cicely’s impish smile reappeared. “I can’t wait until my brother sees how marvelous you look. I do so like to catch him by surprise.”

As they walked into an opulent hall lit by hissing gas jets, Elizabeth felt a breathlessness that she couldn’t attribute to the corset. The prospect of seeing Lord Nicholas again turned her insides to soft clay. A quivery anticipation bloomed in her, overshadowing the discomfort of her underpinnings and the unfamiliarity of her wobbly high heels.

As they descended the grand, curving staircase, the rustle of fabrics mingled with the unsteady tap of Elizabeth’s shoes. Only half listening to Cicely’s chatter, she craned her neck to view the paintings on the walls. A Turner. A Vermeer. A Holbein. Awed, she vowed to study them more closely later. A man who owned such a magnificent art gallery must have good taste.

The murmur of genteel voices floated through the vaulted entry hall. “Aunt Beatrice will be mad as a hornet when she sees you coming down to dinner,” Cicely whispered as they approached the drawing room. “But she won’t dare say a word, not in front of Lord and Lady Melton. She’d
die
rather than cause a scene.”

Elizabeth slowed her steps. So that was Cicely’s purpose… to needle her aunt. Although reluctant to be a party to the girl’s devilry, Elizabeth couldn’t help feeling a prick of amusement. Perhaps the look on Lady Beatrice’s face might be entertaining.

Yet as she entered the drawing room Elizabeth found that her eyes sought no one but Lord Nicholas.

He sat facing the door, one arm draped along the back of the Queen Anne sofa. If he looked handsome in day wear, he looked positively stunning in the black suit and white shirt of evening dress. Not a single chestnut hair lay out of place; his nose and mouth and eyes held the elegance of a Donatello marble. Gazing at his fine face and figure made her feel giddy. How she longed to strip away that civilized facade and breathe his warmth and life into clay.

A grave smile curved his lips as he conversed with the blond girl beside him. His expression of indulgent humor died the instant he spied Elizabeth.

His eyes narrowed, traveling the length of her. Her heart vaulted and her palms dampened. She reached for her pocket, only belatedly realizing she carried no clay. Clasping her hands before her, she wondered why he frowned. Had she forgotten some essential of dress? Could he detect her discomfort? Elizabeth caught herself. Why should she care what the earl thought? If his favor required her to be something she was not, then she wanted no part of him.

The girl at his side had the unnaturally pale hair of a china doll. Only her petulant pout made her look human. Tugging at his sleeve, she regained his attention.

Lord Nicholas bent his head and whispered something that brought a chirp of laughter to her rosy lips. Rising with sinuous grace, he came toward Elizabeth and Cicely.

“I see you deigned to join us,” he told his sister.

“Oh, pooh. You know I’m always late. And this evening I had to help Elizabeth dress.” Cicely aimed an arch smile at him. “What do you think, isn’t she lovely?”

His eyes swept Elizabeth. “Quite acceptable.”

Vague disappointment washed over her. Was that the loftiest praise he could manage?

“Our guests have been waiting to see you,” he told his sister.

Cicely took his arm; when he offered the other to Elizabeth, she hesitated, then curled her fingers around his hard muscles. His masculine scent enveloped her. With a trace of lusty humor, she decided he smelled as delectable as he looked.

He led them to the small gathering seated across from the blond girl. True to Cicely’s expectation, Lady Beatrice tightened her mouth in displeasure. She rose stiffly, the man and woman beside her standing as well.

The man set down his glass of sherry and bowed over Cicely’s hand. “Good evening, Lady Qcely,” he said, an affable smile twitching his ginger side whiskers. “Pleasure to see you again.”

Demure as a schoolgirl, Cicely dipped a curtsy. “Thank you, Lord Melton.”

Elizabeth followed suit, smiling modestly as she swept into an elaborate genuflection.

Lady Melton stepped forward amid a rustle of rose taffeta, bringing to mind an opulent, pink fleshed Rubens. “Hello, Cicely. I see you’ve a houseguest.”

Cicely’s eyes sparkled in that mischievous manner Elizabeth was beginning to distrust. “May I present Miss Elizabeth Hastings? She’s —”

“The daughter of our mother’s childhood friend,” the earl broke in, slanting a firm look at his sister. Cicely pursed her mouth in disappointment, like a child denied a sweet.

Appalled and angry, Elizabeth glared at Lady Nicholas. How dare he invent a past for her! She had a perfectly respectable background, nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide.

“Your mother’s childhood friend?” Lady Melton repeated, her plump face wrinkling in curiosity. “Now which friend might that be? I don’t recall Sarah ever mentioning anyone by the name of Hastings.”

“Hastings was her married name,” Lord Nicholas said smoothly. “I rather doubt you knew the girl, anyway. The family moved to America years ago.”

“Gracious me,” said Lady Melton, lifting her lorgnette to regard Elizabeth with the fascinated disgust one might direct at an insect. “Imagine, growing up so far from civilized society. I cannot conceive that any proper family would allow such a thing.”

Before Lord Nicholas could tell any more lies, Elizabeth concocted one of her own. “My family is quite old and respected. Can’t you tell by the name? We trace our ancestry back to the Battle of Hastings. My forebears burned and pillaged with the best of them.”

Lord Nicholas’s elegant mouth quirked with humor, but the sight added fuel to her anger. Her intent was not to amuse him.

“The Battle of Hastings!” Lady Melton looked suitably impressed. “Now, would you be connected to the Huntingdon Hastings? Or to the Hastings of Hastings?”

“Do tell,” said Lord Melton, his florid face beaming with curiosity. “Do tell, indeed.”

“It’s so kind of you to take such an interest, sir,” Elizabeth said sweetly.

‘“My lord!” Lady Beatrice corrected. To Lord and Lady Melton, she added, “You must forgive our house guest. As a foreigner, she isn’t familiar with the proper forms of address.”

Elizabeth stifled her irritation. She might not have had a privileged upbringing, but her mother had taught her politeness. “If you like,
my lord and lady,
I can regale you for hours with the most fascinating tales of my heritage. Lord Nicholas would be happy to embellish them, I’m sure.”

“Perhaps later,” the earl suggested dryly. “Come along, Miss Hastings.”

One hand firm at the small of her back, he guided Elizabeth to the girl seated demurely on the sofa. Like her mother, she had the red and white coloring of a Rubens, though she was still a rosebud. Her gown’s clashing combination of green gauze and pink tulle made Elizabeth feel faintly nauseated. The girl came gracefully to her feet, hands clasped in front of her skirts.

“Marianne,” the earl said, “may I present Miss Elizabeth Hastings? Lady Marianne Yale.”

Unable to quell her curiosity, Elizabeth said, “Yale. Would that be your married name?”

“Goodness, no.” Marianne’s hard blue eyes belied the delicacy of her features. “My father, Lord Edward Yale, is the Marquis of Melton. Did I hear Nicholas say you’re an American?”

Intrigued by the contrast of politeness and disdain in the girl’s voice, Elizabeth said, “I am.”

“You must find our society here in England quite vastly different from what you are accustomed to.”

“Actually, I’m learning more and more that people are much the same everywhere. Greed, ambition, and hypocrisy exist in all walks of life. Only the surroundings are different.”

“Really, Miss Hastings!” Marianne looked horrified. “You would compare us to the common masses?
We
have standards or behavior, refinement of manners.”

Elizabeth didn’t know whether to rant or laugh. “So I’m told. However, a few bad apples can spoil any bushel, English or American.”

“What Miss Hastings means,” Lord Nicholas said smoothly, “is that one cannot admire a person simply because of the fortune of birth. One must look deeper, to the quality of the character beneath.”

His intense stare ignited a vivid curling sensation deep within Elizabeth. Did she detect warmth in those flawless features, or did the artist in her long to paint tender emotion into his haughty expression?

“That is what I mean,” Marianne said sharply. “The upper class has high moral standards, much higher than commoners.” She slipped a hand around the earl’s arm and tilted a pretty smile at him. “Don’t you agree, my lord?”

Realizing Marianne regarded her as a rival, Elizabeth stifled a bubble of laughter. If only her ladyship knew the earl’s true opinion of his houseguest!

Indulgently he patted the pale hand on his black sleeve. “The young ladies of my acquaintance are beyond reproach. I have only the highest regard for their beauty as well as for their behavior.”

Marianne emitted a trill of laughter. “Might I include myself in that assessment?”

“I meant for you to do so.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Watching them share a smile, Elizabeth felt her spirits sag inexplicably. They made a handsome couple, the earl so powerful and perfect. Lady Marianne so refined and feminine. She thrived on social situations, a woman from his own world, the sort of woman he would eventually marry.

Cicely glided up, her face aglow with familiar devilry. “How charming to visit with you again, Marianne. I see you’ve met our new houseguest.”

Apparently confident she had staked her claim to the earl. Lady Marianne dropped her hand. “Yes, thank you. We’ve been having a most stimulating discussion of moral behavior.”

Cicely arched her eyebrows. “I would have thought you’d be discussing art.”

“Art?” Marianne said, as if the word were foreign to her vocabulary.

Lord Nicholas’s cheeks tightened as he glanced from his sister to Marianne. “Miss Hastings is an artist.”

“Ah, I see,” said Marianne, looking appalled and yet smug, as if the news confirmed her opinion.

Elizabeth bit back a smile. So her ladyship of the high moral standards was also a bigot. Well, let her enjoy her world of narrow views and tight corsets! Elizabeth wanted no part of it.

Lady Melton hastened toward them, lorgnette raised, rose taffeta skirts whispering. “Did I hear you properly? You’re an artist, Miss Hastings?”

Elizabeth lifted her chin with pride. “Yes, I am.”

“Most curious occupation for a woman,” said Lord Melton, ambling up behind his wife, a glass of sherry in his beefy hand. “Most curious, indeed.”

Lady Beatrice followed, her face grim. “Now, Edward, drawing is perfectly acceptable as part of a young lady’s education.

“Even Queen Victoria is an accomplished artist,” Elizabeth pointed out.

“Yes,” Cicely said with a guileless grin. “Her drawings are often sold to benefit charity.”

“You see, it is quite the respectable pastime,” Lady Beatrice said smoothly. “Miss Hastings is here to instruct my niece in… ah… some of the finer aspects of art.”

Laughter leapt inside Elizabeth. Of course, Lady Beatrice meant only to preserve her own reputation, yet there was something gratifying in seeing her forced to defend the woman she scorned.

“Speaking of art,” she told the earl, “on my way downstairs, I couldn’t help admiring your paintings. You have excellent taste.”

His finely chiseled lips crooked into a smile. “Regrettably I cannot claim your admiration. My forebears were the collectors, not I.”

“You’ll do better to stick to more tried and true investments,” Lord Melton said, waving his glass of sherry. “Art’s too risky, too risky, indeed.”