A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1) (2 page)

“As luck would have it I have saved the next one.” She gave him a smile that other men had called bewitching. Clearly, Drew thought so as well. “For right now you may escort me to the refreshment table.” Drew offered his arm. His eyes gleamed with happiness and his grin widened. Araby placed her hand in the crook of his arm and nodded to her friends. No, Drew Lassiter would not dance attendance on her this evening. She could guarantee it.

“You look lovely tonight, Lady Arabella,” Drew said once they were out of earshot of her friends. That...that color suits you.”

“Really?” Araby asked, slanting her gaze at him artfully. She knew how to tease. “And what color would you call it, Drew?”

“Pink, I suppose...I...I really don’t know.” He was nicely flustered, but then he surprised her. “All I know is that it glows around you like a rose arbor in full bloom. You’re this light in the very center, beautiful, yet so fragile. What color is it?”

She looked away from him, fumbling with the fan she held in one hand. “The draper called it Romantic Rose,” she murmured. Why did he have to say such things to her? Why did he have to notice what she tried to keep hidden? Just then a noise caught both their attention. It was a single, heart-wrenching cry, and a young girl ran towards the doorway, her chaperone in hot pursuit.

“What’s happened to Miss Stevens?” Araby asked, tracing the path of the girl’s flight back to its source. Then she knew. Three young men stood laughing, two of them apparently congratulating the third.

Drew make a sound of disgust. “I see Bennet hasn’t lost his taste for tormenting the helpless. Miss Stevens was tonight’s quarry. Each of them danced with her and then staged a mock argument over who would claim the supper dance.” At Araby’s raised eyebrow he continued. “The idea was to make her believe she’d taken at last and then dash her hopes by letting her know it was all a joke. Charming, isn’t it?” He spoke the last bitterly. Drew had plenty of experience being set up to look the fool amongst her set and much of it came at her own hand. She didn’t like Bennet, however. He was never satisfied to simply give clever set downs. He was cruel and he never knew when to stop.

“They did it to impress you,” Drew stated flatly. “Miss Stevens is a cit, an upstart American with no family connections to protect her. Muriel Cathcart and Susannah Grantham suggested the prank and told Bennet that humiliating the girl would amuse you.”

“What makes you think it didn’t?” she countered.

“Because I’m intelligent enough to see what’s in your eyes even if they aren’t,” he answered mildly.

It was true. Inwardly, she seethed for the girl. Lucinda Stevens was pleasant enough. She had no idea how to dress and her manners were beyond gauche, but she’d tried to learn by watching the Furies closely when she thought none of them would notice. She simply had abominable taste in both hairstyles and clothing. Still, Miss Stevens voice was pleasant to the ear – slow, but rich and sweet, like warmed honey.

Araby shrugged, “Bennet is unpleasant and everyone knows it. People ignore his behavior because he’s so wealthy. I may not agreed with his performance tonight, but he and I have both thrown our share of barbs, Drew.”

“You don’t throw yours at those who stay out of your way,” Drew said. “Granted, you did cross the line more than once with the things you said to Damaris Kingsford. Still,” Drew paused, his eyes looking meaningfully into hers “we both know you had your reasons for that.”

Araby glared at him, her heart fluttering in her chest as she remembered her current predicament. She made a quick search of the ballroom with her gaze. If she couldn’t snatch up Iredale she might well be stuck with the likes of Edmond Bennet. The very idea made her blood run cold. A man like that enjoyed the hunt and the capture, but not the having. She had no doubt that in a marriage to him the best she could hope for would be indifference. Her thoughts turned away from Lucinda Stevens and to her own problems. A third son with no money of his own could never help her. Only securing someone like Iredale would put the catastrophe of Arland’s sudden marriage safely to rest.

The opening strains of a waltz began and Drew led her to the floor. Araby firmed her resolve for what she must do. Tomorrow morning she would remember this waltz and despise herself for her treatment of Drew, but tonight she’d do what was necessary for both their sakes.

Chapter Two

Michael watched his youngest brother toy with the food on his plate, his irritation building with every scrape of tine against fine porcelain. “For pity’s sake, Drew,” he snapped, “if you’re not going to eat with that fork at least stop endangering Fiona’s china pattern with it. Our sister- in-law will have your hide if you put scratches on her beloved Spode, that is if I don’t choke the life out of you first.” He crisply refolded the newspaper he’d been attempting to read since his brother’s arrival in the breakfast room and set it down sharply on dining table. His brother regarded him balefully from across the table.

“Pardon me for disturbing you,” he murmured, “I suppose I’m not as hungry as I thought.”

The door to the breakfast room opened and the Dowager Countess of Stowebridge breezed in on a frothy swirl of organza. It was clearly a gown designed with a much younger woman in mind and certainly a woman with more subdued tastes in color than the alarming shade of orange his mother favored. It looked as if every ruffle on Bond Street had found its way into their breakfast room. Michael winced at the startling gown before he could temper his reaction. Not that it mattered. His Mother only saw what she wished to see and that was rarely Michael. The brothers rose in unison to greet her. She cooed and kissed Drew’s cheek, fussing over the small portions of food on his plate. He flushed a dull shade of red, embarrassed by his mother’s coddling. She dipped her head slightly to Michael in cool acknowledgment.

“Late night?” Michael murmured to his brother. Drew’s expression turned from mournful to miserable.

“I suppose that’s it,” he said, dropping his eyes to his plate.

“More than that I should expect,” Lady Stowebridge remarked. “Fresh coffee, if you please, Jamison,” she instructed the footman. It never mattered if the footman had just replaced the coffee or not, Lady Stowebridge insisted on freshly made coffee whenever she appeared for breakfast. She held firmly to her belief that servants were a lazy lot and would pass off stale food as fresh if given the opportunity. Michael assisted her into her chair. The dowager countess fluttered her finger at one of the footmen and the young man quickly began filling a plate for her. By this time, the household had grown used to his mother’s demands and the footman presented a filled plate for her inspection in remarkably short time. Lady Stowebridge pinched her mouth in dissatisfaction before nodding her acceptance of the footman’s offering. She then attacked her meal with vigor making Michael glad he didn’t bear the cost of feeding her.

“You shouldn't waste time sulking over that spoiled creature, Andrew,” she said around a mouthful of sausage. “Plenty of young women know they would be fortunate to secure your interest. Not that I’m in favor of you settling on someone so quickly, mind, and you could certainly do better than Baron Seaton’s stepdaughter.”

Drew flushed. “Mother, Lady Arabella is daughter of an earl and the granddaughter of an marquess.” He darted an embarrassed look at his brother. “She has her pick of gentlemen,” he muttered into his cravat, “and as everyone is so fond of telling me, I’m a third son and I have no title coming to me. Now, can we please drop the subject?”

Lady Stowebridge charged ahead, unaware, or uncaring of her youngest son’s wish to let the subject go. “Nonsense. I believe the Winston girl is simply playing hard to get, though she thinks too much of herself by half, if you ask me. Lady Arabella should consider herself lucky to have caught your eye at all.” She nipped off a bite of toast and chewed it thoughtfully. “Still, you snaring a debutant of such standing would certainly be a feather in my cap. You must remember that a young girl, especially an Incomparable, expects to be wooed boldly, Drew. You must work to sweep her off her feet.” Their mother waved her toast for emphasis and came perilously close to catching the footman with her arm. “A grand gesture is what you need, something romantic. ‘Faint heart never won fair maid.’ ” She laughed archly. “Your father learned that lesson quickly enough, I can tell you.” Probably from one of his opera dancers, Michael thought, because the old earl had never particularly enjoyed his wife’s company, nor cared whether she felt sufficiently wooed or not.

“I believe Drew would have a much better time exploring life outside of a ballroom at his age,” Michael stated with a wink to his brother. “Sow a few wild oats and leave this chit to her ballroom swains.”

“I’m quite certain that’s what you would think,” Lady Stowebridge said repressively. “Thankfully Andrew has better sense than to follow in the footsteps of a reprobate.”

Michael fixed her with a cool stare. There it was, the gauntlet she’d been toying with since her return to town for the season – Michael’s unscrupulous past and his efforts to darken his family’s reputation. His mother played with the ruffle at the neckline of her gown nervously. Good, Michael thought. Let her remember that he was no longer dependent upon the family estate for his income. Every farthing he had came at the cost of his own sweat. It hadn’t been handed to him by an accident of birth. Sweat and blood – his as well as others. He returned his attention to his plate intent on guarding the direction of his thoughts.

“Really though, Drew, you must stop making such a target of yourself among Edmond Bennett and his set. I fear if you don’t stop being so awkward, you’ll give the Winston girl a disgust of you. Why, it was all the talk last night how she led you on with a waltz and then....”

Drew sprang up from the table as if he’d been stuck with a pin, his face aflame and his shoulders hunched. “Excuse me please, I have correspondence I must see to.” He bolted from the room, leaving his mother calling after him in her shrill, carrying voice.

“Never mind, dearest, I shall brew you a pot of your tonic tea. That always makes you feel so much better.” Drew never even slowed down, not that Michael blamed him. Clearly, the boy had good survival skills. That tea was an abomination and had turned his brother’s stomach more often than eased it.

“Well, really, I must say.” the dowager’s curls bobbed beneath her lace, morning cap as she shook her head. “I don’t understand that boy sometimes. Certainly Henry never acted this way. Of course, Drew always was a sensitive child. He had such a delicate constitution too.” She snapped her fingers and a footman placed another rasher of bacon on her plate. “He gets it from me, you know,” she said in a confiding tone. “People with truly refined, artistic souls like us can have their dreams crushed so easily. It’s such a trial to be so sensitive.” She shook her head, popped a piece of bacon into her mouth and sighed as she chewed on it. She reminded Michael of a masticating cow.

“What happened last night?” Michael asked, refusing to acknowledge her words.

“Lady Arabella granted Drew a waltz and then delivered a rather cutting setdown afterwards. She’s known for them. I fail to see what the fuss is all about. She’s no prettier than she ought to be and her lineage is not nearly as good as ours. Araby this, Araby that. She’s all your brother talks about. Apparently, last night’s cut was particularly cruel.” His Mother put down her knife and fork and glared at Michael. “Drew was devastated, Michael. Really, someone needs to give that young woman her comeuppance. Perhaps then she’d have the good sense to notice your brother.”

Michael smiled at her, a chilling effect, he knew. “We actually agree on something, Mother. Now, tell me about this chit.

***

“I think we’re all assembled,” Katherine said, as the last of the parcels and maids were loaded in the hackney. Lady Katherine met every plan, social or otherwise, with the foresight and determination of a seasoned military campaigner. Her endless ability to organize everyone around her frequently crossed the line from talent to irritating behavior. Still, with today’s undertaking all the Furies recognized the benefit of a well-ordered strategy.

As far as any of their parents knew each young lady was shopping in the company of the other two. A small lie – innocent enough to Sarah’s parents, but one that would bring swift retribution to both Katherine and Arabella, should the truth of today’s mission come to light. Once the girls were seated in the Saunders' family coach and underway, they began to talk about the only things that held any real interest for them, the Season, the latest gossip, the Season, who was expecting an offer and of course, the Season.

“I refuse to believe that Muriel Cathcart can land anyone above the son of a knight. For Heaven’s sake, the girl has no refinements whatsoever and her grandfather was a barrister.” Araby patted the cluster of glossy black curls that trailed over one of her shoulders. “Besides she clomps her feet like an old cart horse when she dances.” The other girls laughed.

“I like that,” Katherine exclaimed, “and I hereby rename her, Muriel Carthorse. Lord, remember her at Miss Harkness’ Academy?” she asked. Her question only caused more laughter. “Damaris Kingsford was almost as bad, but at least she could be taught.” The laughter abruptly died.

“Leave it to Katherine to kill a mood.” Sarah frowned at her friend and then glanced anxiously at Araby. “It will be all right, dear. Iredale danced with you twice at the Bloomquist’s ball and called on you the next day. You’ll see. Things will work out.”

“I’m certain you’re right, Sarah,” Araby replied, trying to hide her concern behind a smile. She knew neither of her friends were convinced by her attempt.

“Has the baron questioned you about Damaris’ rescue?” Katherine asked.

Araby sighed, “Not yet, but I’m certain it’s only a matter of time.”

“It might be a considerable amount of time,” Sarah interjected. “My Mother attended the Summerfield tea yesterday and learned that Damaris and Arland have gone on a wedding trip to Devon – one of the family’s holdings tucked away from prying eyes and too many questions. Both families are working hard to put about that theirs is a love match.”

Katherine gave an indelicate snort. “They are grinding the rough edges off Damaris, more likely. She's always been a little too common for my tastes.”

“At any rate,” Sarah continued, sending Katherine a suppressive look, “Arland is the only one who could possibly connect the rescue note to Araby and he’s nicely out of the way.”

“He might not realize I’m the one who sent it,” Araby allowed. “I didn't sign it, but undoubtedly Damaris has told him both Katherine and I were involved in the abduction.” She reached out and gripped her friend’s hand. “When people are called to account for this, Katherine, both you and Sarah will be implicated.” Tears of remorse filled her eyes. “I’m so sorry to have dragged both of you into this mess.”

“I for one have no regrets,” Katherine stated coolly. “Given the same situation, I’d do it all again.”

“Me as well,” Sarah patted Araby’s knee. “You are both as dear to me as any sisters could be. I will stand by you any day come what may. Don’t forget that there are others far more responsible in this matter than any one of us. If the entire story comes out so will the truth.”

Araby’s tears spilled down her cheeks. The truth was sordid and ugly and she doubted it could spare either her, or her mother from her stepfather's vengeance. If the truth of her existence  came out, Araby could forget making a prestigious marriage. She’d be lucky to make any sort of descent marriage at all. Emotion closed her throat hindering further discussion, but thankfully cool, collected Katherine broke the somber mood.

“That’s all well and good, but we have a mission today, ladies, and we must give it our full attention.” With that Katherine opened the satchel on her lap and pulled out an enormous pair of shears. “I’m determined to succeed, even if it takes both of you to hold Miss Stevens down.”

Twenty minutes later The Furies arrived at the residence of Miss Lucinda Stevens. Although they were told that she was not at home, the Furies saw no reason to let that fact deter them. They pushed past a protective butler, two footmen and the chaperone to gain entrance into the young woman's bedroom. Their own retinue of servants followed in their wake – a veritable armada of starched caps and aprons. Miss Stevens sat curled up in a window seat staring at the outside world. Her head turned quickly towards them as they entered and everyone could see that her eyes were red and puffy from crying.

Katherine spoke first, pulling her shears from her satchel and brandishing them in the air. “Enough waterworks,” she commanded. “We’ve come on a mission of retribution.” The poor girl eyed the shears fearfully and Katherine continued in a tone of grim satisfaction. “Miss Stevens, surrender your ruffles. They make you look like a pastel meringue.”

Three hours later the American heiress stood in front of her dressing mirror unable to credit the change in her appearance. “I can’t believe what you’ve done,” she marveled. “I look quite...quite....”

“Lovely,” Katherine supplied, positively beaming with pleasure.

Sarah ran to the girl’s side and clasped her hands with her own, unable to hide her delight. “You’ll take immediately. What man could resist you? And we’ve taken a pledge to cut any young man who does.”

Araby stood across the room from them allowing herself a small, but triumphant smile. All the poor girl had needed was proper clothing, a hairdresser to teach her maid the right styles for her mistress' hair and the elimination of those infamous ruffles. Each of The Furies had donated an unworn gown from their own wardrobes; of which there were many. While their maids had worked diligently to alter the clothes and salvage what they could from Miss Steven’s own unfortunate wardrobe, Madame Marchant, the Season’s premiere modiste had measured Lucinda, taken notes and promised new gowns and day dresses within a week. Araby basked in the glow of Lucinda’s smile. Perhaps today, made up in some small way for her own dreadful treatment of Drew.