Lucy Muir (7 page)

Lord Murray pictured each of the three women in his castle and came to a decision. Miss Hartwell. No one else fit quite perfectly. Lady Sheridan was too cool and remote, Miss Laurence too flighty and immature. The only way he would find out if Miss Hartwell would consider his proposal was to ask her. He would be attending a card party that evening with the Atwoods and would endeavour to find a moment to speak with her there.

* * * *

Phoebe stared at her cards, willing herself to concentrate on her hand, but it was no use. She could not ignore Wilfred, who had been making urgent signs to her from the doorway on and off for the past hour. She very much feared she was letting her partner down, and was glad she happened to be as good-natured a lady as Mrs. Phelps.

Finally, the hand of whist was over, and she excused herself from the game. She made her way to the refreshment room, feeling sure Wilfred would see her leave and join her there. Her supposition proved to be correct, for she had barely obtained a glass of lemonade when Wilfred was at her side.

“Miss Hartwell, would you speak to me a moment in private?” he asked urgently, running his hand through his hair in a nervous gesture.

Phoebe could tell the impropriety of his request had not even occurred to Wilfred. However, he looked so harassed that she did not feel she could in good conscience refuse.

“I think I shall be forced to accede to your request if I wish to be able to acquit myself creditably with the cards this evening,” she said lightly.

Wilfred had the grace to look slightly abashed. “I’m sorry, Miss Hartwell. But please hear me out. It
is
important, I assure you.”

“Very well.” Phoebe set down her glass of lemonade and followed Wilfred to a small room behind the porter’s hall. She seated herself on a rather outdated sofa with crocodile feet and noted with relief that Wilfred was not so lost to propriety as to close the door.

“What is it, Mr. Atwood?” Phoebe encouraged, as Wilfred, now that he had her attention, seemed unable to speak. He scuffed his boot kicking the marble fireplace and did further damage to his appearance by nervously loosening his cravat and worrying the once-sharp points of his collar. Phoebe waited patiently, sure he would tell her what was on his mind once he got up his courage. Her patience was shortly rewarded, for he soon gave a final tug to his cravat, completely untying the unfortunate piece of linen, and turned to face her with a rather sheepish expression.

“Well, Miss Hartwell, it’s like this. Tucker and I were having a discussion on the best way to hold one’s left hand driving a high perch phaeton. It’s obvious the best way is with one’s arm extended, elbows straight, but Tucker insists one’s left hand should be held at one’s knee. Well, the long and short of it is, Miss Hartwell, that Tucker challenged me to a race around the Ring, to prove which is the best way.” His recital halted, and Phoebe spoke encouragingly.

“That should not be a problem, Mr. Atwood. I have every faith you will emerge the victor, for I know you are considered an excellent whip.”

“If that’s all there were to the challenge, Miss Hartwell,” Wilfred said, not meeting her eyes. “But you see, we must carry a passenger—much more difficult, y’know, to keep a phaeton steady with two, and,” he added in a rush, “the passenger must be female.”

“Female? But why?”

“More of a challenge y’know. Must be very careful not to tip and spill her in the road. Problem is,” he burst out, “I don’t know any females. ‘Cept Livvy, and
she
wouldn’t help. Would
you
be my passenger, Miss Hartwell?”

Phoebe looked at Mr. Atwood with mingled amusement and surprise. What Wilfred was asking was most improper. Still, she felt she could not refuse his plea. She could not desire Mr. Atwood to be embarrassed before his companions, as he surely would if he failed to race on the terms outlined. And he would no doubt be too embarrassed to ask one of his male friends to find him a female passenger. No gentleman liked to admit he was not a hand with the female sex.

“When is the race to be held, Mr. Atwood?” Phoebe asked. A ridiculous picture of herself seated on a high perch phaeton clutching the seat for dear life while it careened about the Ring in Hyde Park leapt to her mind. What a figure of fun she would appear!

“Saturday morning at six o’clock,” he replied, letting out a deep breath as it appeared she was going to agree to his request.

Well, that was early enough that no one would be likely to be about, Phoebe thought philosophically.

Besides, one of the advantages of being only on the fringes of the ton was that one was not well known and people did not pay much attention to one’s doings. She would be unlikely to lose her reputation, particularly if she covered her recognizable hair.

“Very well, Mr. Atwood, I shall do as you request, provided that you do not make my identity known to anyone,” she stipulated, thinking to preserve her anonymity as far as possible. “But you must never again become involved in a challenge which requires the participation of another whom you have not already asked,” she added severely.

Mr. Atwood was too happy at her acquiescence to note Phoebe’s mild reprimand.

“I say, you are a right’un,” he proclaimed, and in his joy took her hands in his and leaned down to place a kiss on her cheek. A faint noise in the hall made Phoebe move her head slightly and Wilfred found that he had missed his mark and placed his lips upon hers. He was surprised at their inviting softness and kissed them lightly. Finding the sensation surprisingly enjoyable, he kept his lips upon hers, tentatively deepening the kiss. Phoebe allowed Wilfred to kiss her a moment, and then gently pushed him away,

“That is enough of that, Mr. Atwood,” she said in her best elder-sister voice. She did not wish to hurt his feelings, knowing how easily his ego was bruised, but neither did she wish to encourage him.

“Sorry,” Wilfred said, flushing. “I was, urn, overcome for a moment. It will not happen again,” he announced grandly, feeling quite a man of the world.

* * * *

Lord Murray backed silently away from the door and found his way to the garden, wishing to be alone to think. After coming to the decision to speak to Miss Hartwell that night, he had been pleased to see her at the card party and had watched for an opportunity to talk to her. When he saw her leave her table to go to the refreshment room he had thought that might be his chance, and as soon as he could leave his own table he had gone in search of her.

The last thing he had expected to find was Miss Hartwell and Mr. Atwood in a passionate embrace. He still found it difficult to believe. Perhaps his eyes had been playing tricks upon him. The idea of Miss Hartwell having a fondness for Mr. Atwood would never have occurred to him, although he supposed it should have. Young Atwood, who appeared to be in terror of most females, had always displayed a strong liking for Miss Hartwell. He had, in fact, Lord Murray now recalled, said Miss Hartwell was the lady who would be his choice. Lord Murray could not be certain that Miss Hartwell returned Atwood’s affections, yet he himself had remarked she always treated the youth with patience and kindness. She must be five years his elder, Lord Murray mused, but that was not necessarily a disadvantage. Indeed, perhaps Atwood needed an older, more mature woman.

The devil of it was that he Liked Atwood. Wilfred was a callow young gentleman, graceless and bumbling, but essentially good-hearted. He could not attempt to cut Atwood out in Miss Hartwell’s affections. Fiercely he submerged the resurgence of his impulse to throttle that good-natured young man when he had seen him embracing Miss Hartwell. It had evidently been an intense embrace, for Lord Murray had noted that Atwood’s cravat had been completely undone. Impudent young cub! he thought angrily. He wondered why, if the two returned each other’s affections, they did not announce their betrothal? Probably opposition from Atwood’s family, he guessed. The Atwoods were not likely to approve their only son’s alliance with someone of inferior rank and, if Miss Atwood’s information was to be believed, no wealth, either.

Lord Murray walked aimlessly about the small rose garden, trying to come to terms with the new circumstances. He supposed he was now down to two choices, Lady Sheridan and Miss Laurence, yet he felt he could not reconcile himself to the loss of Miss Hartwell just yet. A picture of Miss Hartwell and Atwood kissing flashed through his mind again, and though he knew himself to be the veriest of fools, he preferred to think that perhaps there was an explanation for the scene he had witnessed. Atwood might have forced himself on Miss Hartwell, or perhaps the embrace had been entirely innocent. He would observe Miss Hartwell and Atwood closely when they were in each other’s company and see if he could detect mutual affection. After all, marriage was for life and he could not feel comfortable with himself were he to give up too easily.

Now that he had determined a course of action. Lord Murray decided to make his excuses to his hostess and return to the Atwoods’ town house. He found he did not want to begin his observations of Miss Hartwell and Atwood together quite yet.

* * * *

The next morning brought new hope to Lord Murray. Reviewing in broad daylight what he had witnessed the previous evening seemed to confirm his private opinion that it was quite impossible things had been as they appeared. Miss Hartwell and young Atwood could not possibly have an understanding. Lord Murray made a good breakfast and went down to the stables to meet Wilfred for their customary morning ride in a cheerful humour. Greeting the callow youth only served to emphasize how ridiculous it was to imagine him in the role of ardent lover, and the two set out on their morning ride in great good spirits.

Lord Murray and Wilfred had become accustomed to their rides being constantly interrupted by those who wished to further their acquaintance with the Scottish lord. Lord Murray was unfailingly polite, but never succumbed to the lures even the most practised of the ladies sent his way. Had he but known it, this aloofness only added to his appeal. He was considered to be the quintessential Highland lord, dour and remote.

That morning Lord Murray was expertly depressing the pretentions of a particularly pushy matron when he heard a gentleman hail Atwood.

“Hope you’re in form tomorrow, Atwood. I have a bundle riding on you.”

“You won’t have cause to regret it,” he heard Atwood reply, and the gentleman rode on.

The matron finally proceeded on her way and Lord Murray turned to Atwood with interest.

“Are you engaged to race tomorrow?”

“Yes, Tucker challenged me to a phaeton race. We disagree as to the best method to hold the reins.” Remembering his promise to Phoebe, he said nothing about the passengers.

“What method does Tucker endorse?” Lord Murray asked.

“The knee.”

“And I observe you prefer holding your elbow straight,” he said.

“Yes,” Wilfred agreed.

“I prefer your method myself,” Lord Murray told his young friend. “I’ll have to put some blunt on the outcome. Do you mind if I go along tomorrow and observe the race?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Wilfred assured him, flattered to have Lord Murray taking such an interest.

The two finished their ride with a frequently interrupted discussion of the finer points of driving, during which Lord Murray almost completely forgot the previous night’s worries.

* * * *

That afternoon Lord Murray had his first opportunity to study Miss Hartwell and Mr. Atwood together. Gunther’s had announced in the
Gazette
that they had received another cargo of ice from the Greenland Seas and would once again be offering their fruit and cream delicacies. Olivia proposed an outing to the favourite sweets parlour of Society and even suggested Phoebe and Celeste be included, a gesture that earned her an approving look from Lord Murray. He could not know her invitation was motivated by a plan to outshine the two in his presence.

When Lord Murray and the Atwoods collected Phoebe and Celeste that afternoon, Olivia’s spirits rose upon viewing her friends’ attire. Phoebe and Celeste’s matching frocks of spotted yellow cambric could not begin to compare to her new pink muslin with its huge puffed sleeves and intricately embroidered skirt. Olivia welcomed the two friends with her sunniest smile, and it was a gay party that drew up to Gunther’s in Berkeley Square. They stopped under the shade of one of the many plane trees, and a waiter appeared immediately to take their order.

As they greedily consumed their refreshing ices, Lord Murray watched Miss Hartwell and Atwood closely, his observations convincing him there could be no secret understanding between the two. Miss Hartwell hardly looked at Atwood, and Wilfred seemed entirely absorbed in his ice. Of course, it could be that they were being cautious because of the presence of Miss Atwood, but somehow Lord Murray did not think that was the case.

“Simply delicious,” Celeste said, finishing her ice and licking her perfect lips to get every last taste. “I must have another.”

“Do you think that would be wise, Miss Laurence?” Olivia commented. “You must think of your complexion.”

Celeste ignored Olivia’s remark, and Lord Murray summoned a waiter to bring Celeste another ice. While she was waiting for it, a barouche halted beside their carriage and an attractive but haughty-looking woman scanned their party.

“Lord Murray, Mr. Atwood, Miss Atwood, good afternoon,” she said, only recognizing the presence of Phoebe and Celeste with a slight nod.

“Lady Jersey, good afternoon,” Olivia responded, delighted. This encounter must show Lord Murray that Celeste and Phoebe were not truly accepted in the best society and that he should reconsider his partiality for them. Her idea for the outing had been truly inspired.

“I hope you plan to attend my rout this evening with the Atwoods, Lord Murray?” Lady Jersey enquired. Upon receiving a reply in the affirmative, she instructed her driver to move on.

“Snooty old cat,” Celeste muttered.

Phoebe said nothing, but she could tell by Olivia’s smug expression that she felt her superiority had been established beyond dispute. She wondered how Olivia could be so blind. Surely it was obvious that Lord Murray was not so shallow a gentleman as to base his friendships on rank alone. She glanced at him and he smiled at her reassuringly. Phoebe felt her heart give an odd little jump.