The Player (Rockliffe Book 3) (5 page)

Two evenings later in a cramped rented house in
Kensington, Caroline Maitland sat at her mirror trying to ignore her mother’s
unending stream of useless advice while her youngest half-sister finished
putting up her hair in a style which didn’t suit her in the least, needed hair
which would retain a curl for more than half an hour and felt horribly
insecure.
 
As for the gown, it was an over-trimmed
disaster in an unfortunate shade of yellow which had clearly been meant for a
seventeen-year-old wisp of a brunette – all of which added up to sartorial
catastrophe on top of another hellish evening.

She murmured, ‘I think it’s slipping, Sylvia.
 
Perhaps a few more hairpins?’

‘It’s fine.
 
Any more of ’em and you’ll not be able to hold your head up.’

Caroline sighed and thought longingly of an early
night with a book.

Mama’s monologue was punctuated from time to time
by her other sister reading snippets from some society magazine.
 
Neither conversation had anything to do with
the other and Caroline’s head was already beginning to ache.

‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.
 
A plain Mister or an Honourable won’t do, our
Caro.
 
No – nor even a knight or a
baronet.
 
They sound grand enough but,
from what I can make out, they’re not out of the top drawer.
 
You can do much better’n that. And if we’re
to find well-to-do gentlemen for Lavvy and Syl, you need a husband with a
proper
title.
 
A Peer of the Realm – so that means you’ve to
land a Baron, at the very least.’

Not for the first time, Caroline wondered why –
having endowed her three daughters with pretty names, Mama persisted in
abbreviating them to something horrible.

‘It says here that pale turquoise is the most
fashionable colour of the season ’cos of Her Grace of R. wearing it to the
Cavendish House ball,’ said Lavinia. And, looking up, ‘Who’s the Duchess of R.,
Caro?’

‘You must’ve met
some
peers,’ grumbled Mama. ‘If you haven’t, I’d like to know what
Lady Brassington is doing to earn her money.
 
And I wish you’d pay more attention. I reckon we’d have had a few
callers by now if you tried being a bit more pleasant.’

‘It
says
pale turquoise but the book’s two months old so that mightn’t be true any
more.
 
Look about you tonight, Caro, and
see if it is or not.’

‘And after the education you’ve had and the
fortune your Grandpa Maitland is settling on you, I don’t see any reason why
you shouldn’t get a Viscount or even an Earl.
 
You may not be much to look at but there must be some of them better
sorts who need to marry money.’

Caroline winced.
 
Whoever had first said ‘Truth hurts’ had known what they were talking
about.
 
The situation was simple
enough.
 
Her father had died when she was
four and Mama had re-married.
 
But
Grandfather Maitland had maintained an interest in his only grandchild, paid
for her education and promised a dowry of one hundred thousand pounds on the
day she married.
 
By contrast, Lavinia
and Sylvia, issue of Mama’s second marriage to Mr Haywood and also now
fatherless, had nothing.
 
Consequently, Mama
had decided it was Caroline’s duty to Save the Family by making a Good Match.
 

In essence, Caroline didn’t mind this.
 
Or not much, anyway.
 
Owing to Grandpa Maitland’s unshakeable
conviction that girls shouldn’t be married off straight out of the school-room,
she was making her debut at the advanced age of twenty-two.
 
This meant that she no longer had any silly,
romantic illusions about being swept off her feet by a dashingly handsome
fellow – noble or otherwise. She knew she was no great beauty and that the only
reason any titled gentleman would marry a girl who came from a background of
cotton mills and trade was the money she brought with her. Also, she was
genuinely fond of her half-sisters who, having taken after Mama, were better-looking
than she, good-natured and wholly devoid of jealousy.
 
No.
 
The problem wasn’t doing what was expected of her.
 
It was the manner of it … which closely
resembled a cross between a slave market and a cattle auction.

Worse even than this were her clothes, which –
however fashionable the dress-maker in Harrogate had thought them – were
utterly and embarrassingly wrong in London. Lady Brassington had told her to
throw everything out and start again but Caroline couldn’t do that.
 
It wasn’t just that Grandpa had spent a
ridiculous amount of money.
 
It was the
way he’d insisted she model every single gown for him and then, with tears in
his eyes, announced that she looked ‘champion’.
 
He’d had no idea that the styles were too fussy and that the bright colours
rendered her insipid.
 
He’d just thought
his little lass looked ‘a reet picture’; so Caroline wasn’t about to tell him
that last night she’d actually heard a couple of ladies tittering behind her
back.
 
She looked into the mirror at the
canary-yellow taffeta and sighed again.
 
Tonight was a ball at the home of Viscount and Lady Linton, neither of
whom she’d ever met.
 
And tonight, just
like the previous balls she’d attended, she’d spend most of the evening sitting
with the chaperones because it seemed that the gentlemen who were interested in
acquiring her dowry turned up for the first hour, then took themselves off to
more conducive amusements .

Mama was still droning on about differing levels
of the aristocracy when Lady Brassington’s coach drew up at the door.
 
Caroline pulled on her cloak, pasted a cheery
smile on her face and went off to face the lions.

*
 
*
 
*

Marcus, Lord Sheringham arrived in Lady Linton’s
ballroom in time to see Ludovic Sterne leading Mistress Maitland through a
gavotte. Suppressing a scowl of annoyance, he accepted a glass of her
ladyship’s extremely indifferent wine and glanced around the company in the
hope of seeing any other viable candidates.
 
Unsurprisingly, there weren’t any.
 
Although there were a number of well-dowered girls dotted about the
room, not one was worth anything like the hundred thousand pounds the Halifax
heiress would bring; and all of them had a father or brother who would summarily
show him the door if he made even the most tentative approach.
 
All of which meant that little Miss Halifax
was his only possible option … and Ludo Sterne was a bloody inconvenience.

Basically, time was running out.
 
Another week – two at the most – and his
creditors would be blockading his door, leaving him with scant alternative
other than flight.
 
He’d had some luck at
the tables recently but not enough to signify and the only reputable house
still allowing him to play on credit was Sinclair’s – though there was no
saying how long that would last.
 
The
French fellow who owned the place had been giving him some very hard looks
recently; and if the looks were followed by a request to settle his account, it
would be the last, damnable straw.

He needed the heiress and needed her badly.
 
So, unfortunately, did Ludo Sterne.
 
Marcus knew he held three of the winning
cards, compared to Sterne’s one.
 
He was
younger, better looking and titled.
 
It
ought to have been enough.
 
And if
would
have been if Sterne hadn’t been
holding an ace in the form of his cousin, Lily Brassington.

Marcus watched Caroline and her partner with an
assessing eye.
 
The girl didn’t dance too
badly and Sterne had said something that had made her laugh – which was more
than Marcus himself had ever managed.
 
But then, Sterne gave the impression of actually
liking
the chit.
 
Marcus
didn’t, particularly.
 
He found her bland
and gauche.
 
Her dress-sense was frankly
appalling and physically, she wasn’t at all the type of female he admired.
 
Trying to engage her in conversation was like
pulling teeth and, as for luring her into flirtation, he’d virtually given up
hope. In short, if it hadn’t been for the money, he wouldn’t have looked at her
twice.
 
And the only way he could
tolerate the idea of being stuck with her for life was by reminding himself
that her dowry would enable him to redeem the mortgage on his least favourite
and most distant estate and leave her there.

The dance drew to a close. Mr Sterne restored the
girl to his cousin’s side and lingered to exchange polite pleasantries.
 
Marcus forced himself to wait and managed not
to grind his teeth.
 
Finally, Sterne made
his bows and sauntered off in the direction of the card room.
 
Marcus gave it another half-minute and closed
in on his prey.

Caroline saw him approaching and felt the usual
frisson of nerves.
 
He wasn’t at all like
Mr Sterne who chatted easily about this person and that in a way she found both
relaxing and informative.
 
Lord
Sheringham wasn’t relaxing at all.
 
He was
extremely handsome, enormously sophisticated and a Baron – which meant he was the
only gentleman currently showing an interest in her who would also meet Mama’s
requirements.
 
She wanted to like him because
she felt she should and because she knew she could probably do much worse. She’d
been prepared to settle for any man who still had all his own teeth, so his
lordship’s good looks had to be considered a bonus. Consequently, if he made
her an offer, she told herself she’d be a fool not to accept it.
 
The trouble was that she didn’t know quite
what to make of him.
 
He had a habit of
fixing her with his startlingly blue eyes as if he was waiting for some
specific reaction which eluded her.
 
And
when that happened, she always ended up feeling even more tongue-tied and
stupid than usual.

‘Lady Brassington.
 
Your servant, ma’am.
 
And Mistress
Maitland.’
 
He favoured her with a
brilliant smile and bowed over her hand.
 
‘You are looking particularly delightful this evening.’

Caroline knew she didn’t look delightful at all but
she gave him points for civility and tried not to dwell on the fact that it was
the kind of thing an aspiring suitor was supposed to say.

‘You’re very kind, sir.’

‘Not at all.
 
Your gown is a refreshing change from the pink tones favoured by so many
of the young ladies.’ He smiled again.
 
‘If you are not engaged and if her ladyship permits … perhaps you would
honour me with the next dance?’

Caroline curtsied and cautiously returned his
smile.

‘I would be happy to do so, sir.
 
Thank you.’

She took his hand and let him lead her on to the
floor, gloomily wondering if she’d ever get beyond bland inanities or stop
worrying that the ladylike accent she’d been taught four years ago at school
might at any moment lapse into the broad Yorkshire of her Mama and sisters.

It was an old-fashioned, formal minuet … the kind
that very few hostesses included these days.
 
But it suited Marcus’s purposes in that it allowed plenty of opportunity
for gazing into her eyes in a way calculated to make her blush.
 
She never did, of course.
 
It was one of the things he was beginning to
find most irritating about her.
 
When
subjected to his compelling stare, even the most experienced ladies were wont
to become a trifle heated.
 
Little Miss
Halifax, on the other hand, merely looked perpetually baffled.

Deciding that, time being of the essence, some
action was called for, he said, ‘I feel that I have been remiss in not making
the acquaintance of your mother, Mistress Maitland.
 
If you are free, may I call tomorrow? And
then, if she has no objection, perhaps I could take you driving in the park?’

Caroline’s nerves went into spasm at the thought
of his lordship in the dismal little house in Kensington and the likely nature
of Mama’s reception of him.
 
She said
abruptly, ‘My mother is not – not well enough to receive visitors at present.
 
I’m so sorry. Perhaps in week or two, if her
health improves?’

Marcus suspected that he was being put off.
 
Moreover, a week or two was longer than he
could comfortably wait.
 
He felt like
shaking the girl but, instead, he summoned a sympathetic expression and said,
‘Forgive me.
 
I had no idea.
 
Please accept my very best wishes for her
swift recovery.’

‘Yes.
 
I
mean – thank you, sir.’

Caroline groped for a change of subject but, as
usual, her fund of social small talk proved inadequate and the conversation
ground to a halt.
 
Finally, his lordship
said, ‘Dare I hope to see you at the Overbury masquerade next week?’