The Chocolate Debutante (2 page)

“Coward,” said one of Mr. Burke’s companions as the earl walked back to join Harriet.

“Not I,” said Mr. Burke. “There goes the best swordsman and shot in England.”

That had the effect of reducing their subsequent conversation to a mumble.

“So,” said the earl, “where are you bound?”

“To my sister, Mrs. Colville, who lives in Parton-in-the-Wold.”

“An inclement time of the year to go traveling.”

“My sister wishes me to bring out my niece at the Season. I have little wish to do so, and yet if I refuse, the whole family will descend on me. I thought it best to look the girl over first. She may be ugly.”

He said with an edge of irritation in his voice, “How like the cattle market you do sound! Look over the animal, if it is a handsome beast, it will do, if not, leave it.”

“Ah, yes, I did sound like that,” said Harriet in surprise. “But, you see, I do regard the Season as a sort of cattle market, and so I am apt to consider the pros and cons of bringing out a young miss by the rules of society. How dreadful to consider one of my sex in that light. I must think again. If the girl is plain, then she will be more in need of my services than if she commanded any sort of beauty at all. I am grateful to you.”

She was quite plain herself, he thought. Her face was too thin and too clever-looking. But she had beautiful eyes and an exquisitely passionate mouth. She was not married.
Miss
Tremayne. Had anyone ever kissed that mouth?

“You must have bad memories of your own Season, Miss Tremayne, to be so harsh.”

“I was fortunate enough not to have a Season.”

Her clothes were plain but expensive. “And why was that?” he asked curiously.

“My parents died when I was on the verge of being brought out. Then a relative left me a substantial legacy, and so as I did not need to marry, I did not need to have a Season.”

“Do you mean you would have married solely for money had you not received that legacy?”

“I would probably have been obliged to, my lord, for my father was a gambler and I would have been expected to repair the family fortunes. Mind you, I did not know my father had gambled most away until he died, but it was certainly being borne in on me before he did that only a gentleman with a large fortune was going to be acceptable to him as a son-in-law.”

“But once you had your independence,” he said, pursuing the topic, “you could then pick and choose. Marry for love. Such a thing has been known.”

Her green eyes sparkled with amusement. “You having married for love yourself, my lord?”

“Nearly. I was once engaged. She died.”

“I am sorry.”

“It was a long time ago, in my callow youth. Griselda was her name.”

“As in the fairy tale?”

“Exactly.” He leaned forward to embellish his tale further, wondering as he did so why he was going to such lengths to lie. “She had a sweet face and masses of golden hair and great blue eyes which looked at the world with a childlike wonder.”

Harriet’s empty soup plate had been taken away. She watched the earl as he drank his, at the firelight playing across the strong planes of his face. He did not look at all like the type of man to be so fascinated by a milk-and-water miss, which is what this Griselda sounded as if she had been. For the first time, Harriet was acutely aware of her spinster state, of the plainness of her clothes and face.

She waited until he had finished and said, “And so did you marry someone else?”

“No, Miss Tremayne. I found no other lady to match my Griselda.”

Huffy was how Harriet was beginning to feel, but she put it down to a twinge of indigestion. The soup had been mulligatawny and highly spiced.

“But what of you, Miss Tremayne?” he asked, leaning back in his chair as his plate was removed. “At your age, you must have come across some man who sparked your imagination.”

How Harriet hated that remark “at your age.” “I should estimate you are the same age as myself, my lord. But, no, it is not necessary to adore a man to be happy.”

“So how do you pass your days?”

“I read and study a great deal and have female friends of like interests.”

“Ah, bluestockings.”

“That is how the sneer describes us, yes. I go to the opera and plays and concerts. I have a comfortable and happy life.”

“Except when trapped in posting houses in snowstorms.”

“Such a thing has not happened before. But it is hardly a desert island or even a blasted heath. It is a well-run posting house. Hardly an adventure.”

The bloods at the other table had been drinking heavily. One of them suddenly vomited on the floor.

“This is enough,” said the earl. “Miss Tremayne, we can
share
the private parlor, and to save your maidenly sensibilities, we will leave the door open. Come, I beg you. Things with that crowd will only get worse.”

Harriet hesitated. Then she saw one rise and fetch a pot from the sideboard. If she stayed much longer, she might have to witness worse than vomiting.

“Thank you,” she said, rising hurriedly.

“Go directly there, and I will instruct the landlord to bring our food upstairs.”

Harriet fled.

She hesitated outside her maid’s door—Lucy always had the luxury of her own bedchamber when traveling with her mistress. She should ask the maid to chaperon her, but Lord Dangerfield would surely not allow a maid to sit at the table with them, and Lucy was probably asleep by now. She went on her way to the private parlor.

He joined her after a few moments. Now that she was alone with him in the little parlor, she was very conscious of his presence, of his masculinity. She reminded herself sternly that she was Miss Tremayne of independent means and not interested in gentlemen at all.

The waiters and the landlord entered, bearing dishes. “I took the liberty of ordering some wine for us,” said the earl. “As I have taken your parlor away, I think it only fair that I should entertain you.”

Harriet bowed her head. “You are most kind.” She knew it would be churlish to protest. Even on stagecoach journeys, the male passengers paid for any female passengers’ meals.

They ate in silence for a while, and then he said, “I wonder how long we will be trapped here?”

“Not long, I hope.” Harriet stood up and went to the window, drew back the curtain, and peered out. “The snow is worse.”

“Then it looks as if we are going to get to know each other very well.” Harriet sat down again opposite him. The candle flames flickered and his eyes appeared to glitter. She felt uncomfortable and uneasy.

“Perhaps not, my lord. I am fortunate enough to have some books with me, so I shall spend the time in my room, reading.”

“Without eating?”

“Of course not.”

“Then we shall see each other at meals. Unless you plan to return to the dining room?”

Harriet repressed a shudder. “Not I. Can you imagine what it must be like to be married to one of those brutes?”

“Not being a female, that sad thought never crossed my mind. And you, being an independent bluestocking, need not concern yourself with such thoughts either… unless, of course, you constantly look for things to justify your spinsterhood.”

“That is cruel and untrue. I am happy and content with my life.”

“With a mouth like that?”

“My speech offends you?”

“No, my sweeting. I merely remark that you have a passionate mouth.”

“My lord, as we have been thrown into each other’s company, may I beg you to refrain from making impolite personal comments.”

“As you will. Some might regard it as a compliment.”

“How far are you traveling, my lord?”

“To Oxford. I am to pay a visit to my old tutor.”

“Did you attend the university, or is this gentleman a tutor of your youth who went with you on the Grand Tour?”

“I attended the university.”

“And did you receive a degree?”

“Of course.”

“Why of course?”

“I went out riding as usual with my tutor at the end of my stay. He asked me two easy questions to which I gave the correct answers and then he told me I had my degree.”

“Is that customary?”

“My late father contributed funds to build a handsome library for the college. In such circumstances, yes, it is customary. Besides, the aristocracy cannot appear to fail.”

“Women should be allowed to go to university.”

“The next thing you will be saying is that they ought to have a vote.”

“I do not see why not. We have minds, we have intelligence.”

“That is not the general opinion.”

“And what is the general opinion, as if I did not know?”

He smiled. “Women are the weaker sex, like children, put on this earth to please and support men and to bear them offspring.”

“And that is what you believe? There are many such ladies who would agree with your description. Each Season abounds with debutantes who have been rigorously trained to think they are lesser creatures. So why haven’t you married one?”

He gave her a limpid look. “You forget Griselda,” he said sadly.

“Now, I do not believe that a man such as you has spent years pining away for a dead girl.”

“You have a very unfeminine, ruthless streak, do you know that? Perhaps I should explain that once you have found true love, then nothing else will do.”

“Perhaps you read too many romances, my lord.”

“Not I. I am a gentleman of great sensibility.”

“You are mocking me!”

“I am being truthful. Why will you not accept the truth of my statements? Is it because you do not want to?”

“My lord, if I did not want to believe your statements, it would be because I was romantically interested in you myself, which I most definitely am not.”

Again he experienced that stab of pique that she could remain so indifferent to him.

“If you ‘do’ the Season with your young niece, then perhaps you yourself will find a mate.”

Harriet laughed. “My lord, I will be seated with the other chaperones watching the success or otherwise of our protegées jealously. We will give tea parties and make calls to discuss which gentlemen are eligible, which are to be avoided. Will you be on such a list, or do you have a dreadful reputation that I should know about?”

“I have a dreadful reputation.”

“And how can that be? Not with the ladies, surely?”

“Yes, with the ladies.”

“You are not very faithful to Griselda’s memory, then.”

“I am. I am, I assure you. That is what makes me so fickle. No lady can match my Griselda.”

“Life goes on,” said Harriet sententiously. “You surely want heirs.”

“My brother has four sons. There is no need for me to do my duty to secure the family line.”

His eyes were mocking and she felt hot and uncomfortable. She was beginning to find his presence somewhat overwhelming. There was a silence as they both ate their food, and at the end of the meal, when the covers were removed, she rose to her feet with an air of relief. “I will leave you to your wine, my lord.”

He walked with her to the door and then raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Her hand trembled for a moment in his before she snatched it away. She dropped him a low curtsy.

“Until tomorrow, Miss Tremayne,” he said softly.

Harriet walked to her room with a fast-beating heart. She went straight to the window and looked out. The snow had ceased to fall. She opened the window and leaned out. The air felt warmer and melting snow was already dripping from the eaves.

With any luck, she would be on her way tomorrow and would never have to meet the disturbing Lord Dangerfield again.

But the following day, although the snow was melting fast, the roads were considered too bad for traveling. Lord Dangerfield learned to his annoyance that Miss Tremayne was breakfasting in her room.

He walked around to the stables to talk to his coachman and groom and then returned to the still-silent inn. No one apart from the staff seemed to be awake.

He felt restless and bored, and then he remembered that Miss Tremayne had said she had brought books with her. Even some learned tome on the rights of women would do to alleviate the boredom of a snowbound inn, he thought, sending a waiter with a polite request that he might borrow a book.

The waiter returned with the first volume of Fanny Burney’s
Evelina.
Surprised that the stern Miss Tremayne should read novels or even travel with them, he nonetheless settled down to read, expecting what he privately damned as the “usual female gothic rubbish.” He was amused and delighted, however, and by the afternoon sent the waiter back with a request for the second volume.