Lucy Muir (4 page)

Phoebe shook her head to clear it and scolded herself for the turn her thoughts were taking. Since she had met Lord Murray this evening, Celeste’s plan to win Lord Murray’s notice from Olivia and attach it themselves had not seemed quite so reprehensible. Phoebe had already divined that he was far too fine a gentleman for Olivia. Not every earl visiting the Atwoods’ would have troubled himself to dance with two young misses as undistinguished by rank or wealth as were she and Celeste. Particularly given that one of them had red hair.

Phoebe’s musings were interrupted by someone thrusting a glass of lemonade towards her.

“Saw you sitting this one out and thought you’d care for some refreshment,” a voice said.

Phoebe smiled at the young gentleman before her and accepted the beverage.

“Thank you, Mr. Atwood, you are most kind,” she said. Much as she disliked Olivia, Phoebe had always had a soft spot for Olivia’s brother Wilfred, who was a year younger than his sister. He was rather awkward and appeared to be as uncomfortable at social gatherings as Phoebe had been during her first Season. She always did her best to put the youth at ease, and he showed his gratitude by seeking out her company, although he avoided that of most girls like the plague. Females in general he clearly found quite terrifying.

Wilfred turned the chair next to Phoebe back to front and straddled it, resting his hands and chin on the gilt frame, causing further damage to his already rumpled cravat. He surveyed the crowded dance floor distastefully.

“Foolish how they all go mad for Lord Murray because he’s a Scotsman, what? And all on account of a piece of poetry! I couldn’t get past the first canto m’self, although there was a good portrayal of a hunt. And m’sister! Think it was her idea to bring him here, for all the airs she puts on.”

“You do not find Lord Murray congenial, then?” Phoebe queried, curious as to Wilfred’s impressions of the Scottish peer.

“Oh, he’s well enough. Seems a right un, actually. This fuss ain’t any of
his
notion. Just the same, his being here makes Livvy intolerable to be about. She means to have him, y’know. Not that I wouldn’t like see Livvy get her own establishment and move away—be much more peaceful. But if she’s the one who manages to bring him to the sticking point she’ll be so puffed up with her own consequence there won’t be any living with her.”

“I believe that Lord Murray has a great deal of choice,” Phoebe said rather dryly as she followed Wilfred’s gaze about the crowded ballroom. “He will not necessarily choose your sister as his bride.”

“Yes he will,” Wilfred responded gloomily. “You know how Livvy is when she sets her sights on something. Wears a fellow down,” he said, speaking as though from bitter experience.

“Must go,” he said abruptly, spying Celeste and her partner leaving the floor. Wilfred enjoyed Phoebe’s company, but found Celeste’s beauty intimidating and her teasing ways beyond bearing.

Phoebe was amused by Wilfred’s sudden flight, but as she pondered his words, her face took on a pensive aspect. Olivia
was
a very determined person when she set her mind upon something, and she was quite as accustomed to having her way as was Celeste. Still, Phoebe could not think that Lord Murray was a gentleman who could be easily persuaded against his wishes. That was the key, she realized. If Olivia were to manipulate Lord Murray so that he thought he wanted her, and not vice versa, he would have her. She and Celeste had captured his interest for a moment tonight, but their ploy had been a simple one compared to their more experienced and determined rival.

* * * *

Four o’clock in the morning, Lord Murray noted in disbelief as he shed his uncomfortably tight cravat and prepared to retire without waiting for the valet to assist him. He felt more exhausted by the night of eating and dancing than he ever had by a day of hard riding and hunting in Perthshire. How did London residents manage to keep such hours all Season without falling ill from exhaustion? He finished his ablutions and tumbled into bed, thinking oblivion must come instantly, only to lie awake, too tired even to sleep.

Lord Murray stared at the darkness of the velvet canopy above him and reviewed the events of the evening. He was certainly going to have plenty of choice in his search for a bride. Too much choice, he thought ruefully. How would he possibly be able to come to know even a fraction of the ladies he had met, much less make a decision on who would make the best wife? Before he had arrived in London he had imagined that perhaps three of four young women might show an interest in him and that he would be able to spend enough time with each during his brief sojourn in Town that he might come to a considered decision. He was clearly as much a crack-brain as his host’s son!

He wished he had more time, but he simply could not afford to be away from his lands and people any longer than he had originally planned. Not with the days it took to travel to consider. He would be gone a full month in total as it was.

As Lord Murray tried to arrive at a solution to his difficulties, he felt sleep begin to steal over him at last, and turned his head gratefully into the soft pillow. Perhaps what he should do was to select three or four young women from all those he had met and concentrate on them, ruling out the others and following his original plan as nearly as possible. That was most likely the ticket. But which four? As he tried to puzzle it out, he slipped at last into a deep sleep, to dream of all the London ladies dancing past him one by one as he sat upon a dais, clad in full Highland garb, trying to make his selection.

Chapter Three

The morning after the Atwoods’ ball Phoebe was rudely wakened from a sound sleep by someone shaking her shoulder.

“Oh, Phoebe, do wake up, do!” Celeste’s voice came dimly through the mists of Morpheus. Phoebe tried to banish the unwelcome noise by covering her ears with her pillow, but the pillow was ruthlessly torn away. Reluctantly, Phoebe returned to full consciousness and sat up in her bed, pushing her hair out of her face and rubbing her eyes.

“I asked Miss Laurence not to wake you,” Phoebe’s maid, Sara, apologized.

“It is quite all right, Sara. I know you could not have prevented Celeste when she is determined,” Phoebe said with a reproachful look at her friend. Sara dared to give Celeste a slightly reproving look herself as she left the room to fetch Phoebe’s breakfast.

Unrepentant, Celeste settled herself on the edge of the bed. “It is near ten o’clock already, and we must make our plans.”

“Ten o’clock—we only arrived home six hours ago,” Phoebe protested.

“We have little time,” Celeste reminded her. “Lord Murray will only be here a fortnight and we must fix his interest without delay.”

Sara entered the room with a tray. As Phoebe sipped a cup of chocolate, Celeste ordered Sara to lay out Phoebe’s morning gown of blue sprigged muslin that resembled the one she herself was wearing. Sara looked questioningly at Phoebe, who nodded.

“Do you mean us to continue to dress alike, then?” Phoebe asked Celeste, amused.

“Yes. It did come off well, did it not? Lord Murray
did
take notice of us.”

Phoebe nodded her agreement as she finished her chocolate and rose from the bed. She washed her face at the washstand in the corner, the action helping her to come fully awake. While Celeste waited, Sara helped her mistress into the gown Celeste had chosen and brushed Phoebe’s short red curls vigorously. Satisfied with this quick toilette, Phoebe settled onto the window seat with Celeste for a good coze. They had just begun discussing how to keep Lord Murray’s interest when Sara interrupted.

“Excuse me, miss, but Miss Atwood is below. She insists upon seeing you.”

Phoebe’s sense of humour overcame her and she laughed.

“It appears everyone has arisen disgustingly early this morning to demand my company. Tell Miss At-wood we shall join her shortly in the drawing room,” she instructed the maid.

“Why did you say that?” Celeste grumbled. “We have not made our plans yet, and Olivia has come far before proper calling hours.”

“I could not refuse to see Olivia when we are supposed to be close friends and I am, after all, up and dressed. Moreover, I confess I am rather curious as to why Olivia should be calling so early the morning after their ball.”

“That is simple,” Celeste said morosely. “She has come to crow about what a success it was and the fact she was the only one Lord Murray danced with more than once.”

* * * *

Olivia waited impatiently for Phoebe and Celeste to join her in the Hartwells’ single drawing room. She had made a point of rising early, planning to time her advent in the breakfast room with Lord Murray’s, and had been furious to find him already up and gone for a ride in the Park with her brother. She had felt, since Lord Murray’s arrival, that she had the greatest claim upon his company, and had been no end irritated with her brother Wilfred for absconding with their guest.

A smile touched Olivia’s lips as she thought of Lord Murray. He had proved to be all she had hoped. He was well formed, and his boldly chiseled features gave him a wonderfully commanding appearance. She had delighted in all the envious looks she had received at the ball the previous evening at her taking the floor with Lord Murray a second time. They had all recognized she would take that prize, Celeste thought with satisfaction.

A small ormolu clock struck the hour, and Olivia glanced impatiently at the door of the drawing room, wondering where Miss Hartwell could be. It had not escaped her notice that Phoebe and Celeste had attracted more than a cursory interest from Lord Murray the night before. Given their low social status she could not possibly consider either of them a real threat to her plans. Still, it would not hurt to remind them they could have no hopes in that direction.

Steps sounded in the hall, and Phoebe entered the drawing room, followed closely by Celeste.

“Good morning, Miss Atwood,” Phoebe said pleasantly. “I am sorry to be so long in joining you. Mama is not yet awake,” she added as a small rebuke to her guest’s early call.

“That is quite all right, Miss Hartwell. Pray do not repine upon it,” Olivia said graciously, taking the remarks at face value.

“The ball last night was quite a triumph for Lady Atwood,” Phoebe commented politely as she and Celeste sat down. “It was the Crush of the Season.”

“Yes, the very cream of the ton was in attendance,” Olivia said complacently. “
You
would not have recognized them, but the Duke and Duchess of Albany were there, as were Lord and Lady Miffington. Even the Beau put in an appearance,” Olivia added, referring to the last in the familiar way her brother might.

Phoebe smiled slightly at this not-so-subtle reminder of her lowly social status. Celeste’s eyes narrowed and her feet tapped soundlessly upon the worn Axminster carpet.

“I notice you and Miss Laurence are wearing matching gowns again this morning,” Olivia continued. “Such a charming idea. I think, however, Miss Hartwell, that you do yourself a disservice by dressing alike. It must lead to comparisons between yourself and Miss Laurence, to your detriment, I fear. And what could have persuaded you to have your hair cropped
a la Titus
! It is as though you wished to call attention to its unfortunate colour. I wish you had consulted my opinion before taking such a rash step.”

Celeste, who had been attempting to be on her good behaviour, since she also was a guest in her friend’s home, could not let this insult pass.

“Lord Murray did not seem put off by Phoebe’s hairstyle. I would have you know he seemed to find our appearance quite satisfactory, for he complimented us both.”

Olivia smiled condescendingly. “Indeed, he was most amused by your stratagem, and asked me who the two inventive schoolgirls were.

“Are you planning to attend Lady Clarendon’s ball tonight?” she asked, changing the subject. Olivia knew quite well that neither of them would have received an invitation. It was necessary to remind her friends that they mingled in the Society they did only when she, Olivia Atwood, chose to raise them there.

“No,” Phoebe replied, thoroughly aware of what Olivia was playing at and deriving considerable amusement from Olivia’s ploy, although she could see the remark had its desired effect on Celeste. Celeste was still very young in some ways. “We plan a quiet evening tonight. We are not as accustomed to staying up until all hours dancing as you are, and shall be quite content to rest from last night’s fatigues.”

Olivia glanced sharply at Phoebe, wondering if the older woman were quizzing her, and then decided Phoebe’s words were sincere. She smiled graciously.

“Of course, you could not be expected to be up to the rigours of the Social Season, Miss Hartwell. Perhaps,” she added, throwing a sop, “you and Miss Laurence will plan to attend the card party at Mrs. Majors’ next Thursday evening with us? I am sure you will receive invitations, for Mrs. Majors does not discriminate against those unfortunate enough to be forced to work for a living.”

“We shall contrive to be present,” Phoebe replied noncommittally, and was relieved when her guest, satisfied that she had set her friends in their place, soon took her leave.

“I told you she only came to warn us away from Lord Murray and remind us of our great fortune in having someone of her rank condescend to us,” Celeste said resentfully as she heard the outer door shut on Olivia.

“True, but I fear she does have a point,” Phoebe said thoughtfully. “Lord Murray will only be in London a fortnight. If we do not receive invitations to any of the functions which he attends, we cannot very well hope to fix his interest.” Phoebe noted to herself that she had gone from viewing Celeste’s plan with amused tolerance to active participation. One would not think she was all of two-and-twenty, Phoebe thought ruefully. “Of course, we could call upon Olivia at her home, but we would not necessarily find Lord Murray in.”

“Somehow we must think of a way to put ourselves in Lord Murray’s company. I refuse to abandon the field to Olivia,” Celeste said stubbornly. “The thought of her being the one to bring Lord Murray up to scratch is not to be endured.”