Viscount Vagabond (14 page)

“There now, Miss Pelliston. Didn’t I tell you to put your faith in Louisa?”

Miss Pelliston, who had not yet fully recovered from her previous exchange with his lordship, had much rather talk to Jemmy. She answered, a tad distractedly, “Oh, yes—certainly. Still, I can scarcely believe it. Even when Lord Andover let me read Papa’s letter, I couldn’t believe it. It was so unlike—I mean to say, I mustn’t have expressed myself plainly enough—”

“Oh, of course,” Lord Rand sweetly replied. “Nevermind that Andover can talk the horns off a charging bull. Don’t you know that’s what they’re always wanting him for at Whitehall? If he ain’t persuading Prinny’s ministers he must be persuading Prinny himself.”

“I did not mean to discount Lord Andover’s efforts. I agree that I should have listened to you in the first place, My Lord.” Catherine’s gaze dropped to the child sitting beside her. “Yet if I had, I would never have met Jemmy. I cannot be sorry for
that,
whatever hundred other things I am sorry for.”

Though much of the conversation was beyond his comprehension, this Jemmy grasped.

“So why don’t you come see me?” the boy demanded.

“I will. Tomorrow afternoon when Lady Andover takes me to order the rest of my wardrobe from Madame,” Catherine promised. “The dress I’m wearing had to be made up in rather a hurry, I’m afraid, along with a gown for tomorrow night, and I didn’t want to impose on her, knowing how very busy she must be.”

“Will you show me more letters when you come?”

“I will show you some now, if her ladyship and his lordship will excuse us,” Catherine answered, so eagerly that Lord Rand frowned.

“Well, Max, you do look fine,” said her ladyship after teacher and student had exited, “but you are no match for Jemmy’s sartorial splendour.”

“No, despite my fine feathers, Miss Pelliston knows I’m a bull in a china shop. Leastways she looks at me as if she thought any minute I might step on her or crash into her or I don’t know what. Am I that clumsy, Louisa?”

Lady Andover studied her brother for a moment before answering quietly, “I don’t think anyone’s ever teased her before, Max. She is rather fragile in some ways.”

“Bull in a china shop, just as I said. Well, then, as long as she’s out of the room, why don’t you tell me your plans for your innocent victim? Has she the least idea what she’s in for?”

Some hours later, as he recalled his conversation with Miss Pelliston, Max grimaced. Like it or no, he seemed to be undergoing a transformation, and that annoyed him. In the first place, he thought, glaring into the cheval glass, there was his appearance. When he’d first returned to England, he’d let his sister coax him into ordering two new suits of clothing. These he’d promptly abandoned after the battle with his father and the truce allowing the heir six months’ freedom.

Max had considered two new costumes sufficient, even when he assumed his rightful position in Society, since he most certainly had no intention of gadding about with a lot of dim-witted macaronis. Yet the day after he’d returned Miss Pelliston to his sister’s care, he’d made a long visit to Mr. Weston. There and at the establishments of Mr. Hoby, the bootmaker; Mr. Lock, the hatter, and diverse others, Lord Rand had ordered enough masculine attire to fit out Lord Wellington’s Peninsular Army for the next decade.

A person would think he was well on his way to becoming a damned fop, he mused scornfully.

In the second place, there was his behaviour.
A spray of lilac.
What the devil had he been thinking of? That was just the kind of trite gallantry that had always filled him with disgust and that was one of the reasons he avoided Fashionable Society. Young misses expected such treacle and one must be endlessly cudgelling one’s brains for some effusive compliment or other, even if the miss had a squint and spots and interspersed her sentences with incessant Oh, la’s.

It didn’t matter that Miss Pelliston had neither squint nor spots and was perfectly capable of intelligent conversation. It was the principle of the thing, dash it!

That she’d left off her prim, buttoned-up, spinster costume was no reason to pour smarmy sludge upon her. Obviously his new
ensembles
had gone to his head. Because he looked like a fop, he’d tried to act like one. Clothes make the man.

Apparently, they made the woman as well. Perhaps he might not have taken leave of his wits if he hadn’t been so very surprised at her transformation. The lavender gown and soft hairstyle had brought out a subtle, delicate beauty that no one but Louisa would have realised the girl possessed.

Idly he wondered whether other men would appreciate it, and if they did, what they would make of the curious character beneath. Not that most men would waste much time evaluating her appearance or personality when they learned who her papa was. She would be prey to fortune hunters, naturally, but Louisa and Edgar would protect her.

Miss Pelliston was in good hands. All the same, he might as well pop in briefly to Lady Littlewaite’s “do” tomorrow night. If other fellows turned out to be slow to recognise Miss Pelliston’s attributes, she would need a partner. Though Max had little taste for the convoluted intricacies that passed for dancing, he knew all the steps just the same. He would dance with her and appear captivated and Edgar would do the same and eventually some other chaps would notice.

The ball, of course, would be tedious, stuffy, and hot, as such affairs always were. Still, he had only to do his duty by the young lady, then take his leave.

It occurred to him that he hadn’t addressed certain needs in nearly a month. About time he turned his mind to that issue. After he left the ball, he’d drop by the theater and see what the Green Room had to offer.

Lord Rand accosted his lugubrious secretary and ordered the startled Hill to convey his Lordship’s acceptance of Lady Littlewaite’s invitation.

“Excuse me, My Lord, but I sent your regrets, as you requested, three days ago.”

“Then unsend ‘em,” came the imperious reply. “Apologise for the mistake or whatever.
She
ain’t going to argue. They always want those affairs well-stocked with bachelors, don’t they? Daresay she wouldn’t turn a hair if I towed you along with me—or Jemmy, for that matter,” the viscount added wickedly.

“
That’s all that’s left,” said Miss Pelliston, examining in some surprise the names scrawled upon her fan, “except for the waltzes, and I mayn’t dance those until I receive permission from Almack’s patronesses.”

“You seem to be the belle of the ball,” said Lord Rand.

“There seems to be a shortage of ladies, rather. Nearly everyone who attended Lady Shergood’s musicale the other night is ill,” she explained. “Fortunately, hers was a most select affair or I daresay this ballroom would be deserted.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The house is crawling with females. You underestimate your attractions.”

“Hardly that. It’s my papa, you know. Though he’s only a baron, the title is an old one. You see, his ancestor, named Palais D’Onne, arrived in England with the Conqueror. Thus we are quite ancient,” the lady recited, precisely as her great aunt had taught her. “People put much stock in such things, though one does wonder why. I had not noted that human beings were bred for speed or endurance as horses or hounds are. I suppose it is because ancient titles are so rare nowadays.”

“Indeed,” her attentive student soberly replied. “If Charles II had not been so generous to his illegitimate offspring, we would speak of the Upper Ten, rather than the Upper Ten Thousand. So you conclude that your rarity accounts for your popularity?” Lord Rand asked, sternly suppressing a smile.

“Not entirely. I’m sure Papa’s money and the property I inherited are considered as well.”

As perhaps must the fact that she looked like a pink rose, Lord Rand thought. Her eyes sparkled with happiness, her cheeks were flushed, and her pink muslin gown with its delicate embroidery fit her to perfection. That much he’d noticed from halfway across the crowded ballroom.

Now it struck him that she appeared a deal healthier overall. She had gained some weight. He hadn’t realised that yesterday. He decided the addition became her, and felt somewhat relieved that life with his domineering sister was proving agreeable—physically at least—for the young lady. What she wanted now was a tad more self-confidence. Ancient titles, bloodlines—she knew as well as he what rubbish that was!

“I mean to debate this issue with you, ma’am, at length,” he answered. “But later, when your next partner is not bearing down on me. Will you save me the country dance and sit out one waltz?”

“Oh, you really needn’t—,” she began, but he’d turned and left, and her partner had come to claim her.

Really, he was too obliging, she thought as Sir Somebody led her to the dance floor. All the women in the room were ogling the viscount as though they were half-starved and he a holiday banquet. In his simple evening garb—black coat, dove grey unmentionables, and snowy white linen— he was more striking and handsome than ever.

How graceful he was. For all his great height and those broad shoulders, he was well-proportioned, as the perfect tailoring of his coat clearly demonstrated. Well, he was an active man, and such men seemed to have an inborn grace—the natural result of physical self-confidence. In plain point of fact, he was splendid, and certainly needn’t waste a waltz on her when she couldn’t even dance it and there were scores of beautiful women who could.

He had asked her, though, and did not seem drunk. He would probably fluster her—he already had—but that was because she was unused to the ways of elegant gentlemen. One could not avoid every new experience simply because it was new or one would never develop intellectually.

“Dash it, Mother, I ain’t a baby to be hauled about by the ear,” Lord Rand complained as Lady St. Denys clutched his arm.

“My dear, no one ever led you by the ear—at least I should hope not, or if they did it must have been because you were doing what you oughtn’t, and no one would have done so at any rate when you were a baby and couldn’t walk at all until you were nearly two years old and then it was run, run, run.”

She paused to catch her breath and Max was about to order her to let go of his sleeve when he found himself confronting a statuesque blonde whose light blue eyes were nearly level with his own. Dimly he heard his mother rambling on at the fair goddess’s mama and then babbling at the goddess herself. He shook out of his daze in time to hear the introductions. Lady Diana Glencove. She even had the name of a goddess.

He heard himself uttering all the inane imbecilities he despised, and couldn’t stop them from dribbling off his tongue. The goddess seemed to accept them as her due. After she’d made some gracious reply, she asked, in throaty tones that made his brain whirl, what he had thought of North America.

At the moment, Max knew as little of the New World as Molly did. It seemed to exist, along with everything else but this fair Juno, in another galaxy. With a mighty effort he wrenched his mind back to answer as rationally as he could. Then at last—blessed relief—he had to talk no more, for she’d agreed to dance with him.

That, Catherine thought as she watched the two tall fair ones take their places in the set, was exactly as it should be. They matched perfectly, Lord Rand and the beautiful unknown, like a pair of Norse deities. If her own face had suddenly grown overwarm, that was because the way he looked at his partner could not be quite proper. Though
Catherine was unsophisticated, she was quite certain a gentleman ought not stare at a lady as though he were a famished horse and she a bucket of oats. Goodness, she was full of dietary similes this evening!

Catherine decided she was hungry. Lately her appetite astonished her. She, who normally picked wearily at her meals, had just this morning accepted Tom’s offer of a second helping, and she blushed to recall how many of those delicious tiny sandwiches she’d consumed at tea. She would grow out of her new wardrobe before Madame
had
finished cutting the pattern pieces.

When the viscount came later to claim her for the country dance, Catherine forgot all about being famished. The steps were a tad too complicated—especially for one who’d just learned them—to permit concentration on much else, and the movements too energetic to permit witty repartee. She did miss a step when he told her she was in looks, but she reminded herself about intellectual development and managed a faint smile.

She returned to Lady Andover feeling rather pleased with herself and somewhat awed at the novel sensation. Catherine knew she was not, as Lord Rand had flattered, the belle of the ball. She had not expected to be.

Still, Papa’s lineage and wealth counted for something, and she was grateful that they offered her a chance to find a more agreeable husband than Lord Browdie. None of the gentlemen she’d met so far appeared irritated or bored with her company, and she had managed to control her sharp tongue. She’d acquitted herself reasonably well, she thought, even with the one man who could unsettle her with a glance. London was not such a terrifying place after all.

Her new-won confidence and optimism helped her through the rather difficult few moments that ensued between Lord Rand’s relinquishing her to Lady Andover and Mr. Langdon’s appearance to claim Miss Pelliston for the next set. During these few minutes she found herself face to face with the hated Lord Browdie.

The shocked look that creature bestowed upon her gave Catherine some grim satisfaction. He had always made unpleasantly jocular remarks about her appearance. “Skinny as a broomstick” was not her idea of a witty compliment, any more than his blunt advice that she put some meat on her bones had ever sounded like affectionate concern. He had always spoken to her precisely as he spoke of his horses and hounds—except that he considered the beasts with far greater warmth. If he’d had his way he’d surely have put her in the care of a stableman who’d have made her eat her corn.