Minor Indiscretions (21 page)

"She is quite talented, don't you think?" Melody suggested.

"Quite," Lady Wooster answered dryly, noting the doll-like blonde's arch look up at Rupert and her simpering smile for the rest of the company. "That one will see to her own interests, but what about you, my dear?" she persisted. "Do none of the gentlemen here please you?"

One pleased her all too well, in his dark blue superfine stretched across those broad shoulders Melody could see from here. Those were fruitless yearnings, however, so she answered Lady Wooster as honestly as she could: "I do not seek to marry, my lady. I find my independence comfortable and would not wish to become chattel to some domineering, high-handed male."

So the clunch had already made mice feet of it, his fond sister concluded, having no trouble recognizing Corey in Miss Ashton's description. She would cheerfully have strangled him for that shuttered look on the poor girl's face, but he was her brother and only a male, so what was one to expect?

"But a woman can only find security in marriage, and true fulfillment," Erica tried for her brother's sake.

Melody was astounded. Here was this woman, a widow who had flatly rejected the suitors her brother had brought for her perusal, who had a child born out of wedlock that she was determined to have by her side, who flaunted all of society's strictures, and
she
was advocating the married state!

"Forgive me, my lady, but I understood your own marriage was not entirely happy."

"Oh, that was my second marriage," Erica answered airily, applauding the end of Felice's performance. "Wooster was a pig."

"Your second? Then you were married before? And Meggie is not…"

She never got to finish the flood of questions or get any answers, because as Felice stepped down, that nasty, spiteful little witch tittered that it must now be Miss Ashton's turn to entertain the company. Miss Bartleby knew well that Melody had no voice and could barely read the music, but her nose was so firmly out of joint that Felice determined to depress Melody's pretensions once and for all. Little Melody thought she could choose the ripest plum, did she, cozying up to his elegant sister in that insinuating way she had, leaving the gleanings to Miss Bartleby? Even the lackluster governess had attracted a wealthier, handsomer
parti
than ne'er-do-well Rupert!

At first, with all eyes on her, Melody just blushed and demurred. Then, when Felice called, "Oh come, Melody, don't be missish," Melody apologized to the company and sweetly advised them that she was looking to their well-being, for she had no musical aptitude whatsoever.

Felice issued the coup de grâce: "I thought all young ladies of breeding had musical talent."

It was Lady Ashton, after a few too many cordials, who mumbled loudly enough for everyone to hear, "That couldn't be true, Felice dear, or you'd—"

She was interrupted by Lord Coe. Throwing down his cards, Corey strode over to Lady Ashton and took the glass out of her hands. "What Lady Ashton meant to say was that Miss Melody's talents lie elsewhere."

The entire company was still; this was better than a Punch and Judy show. Melody was somewhere between horror-struck and hysterical. Lady Wooster patted her hand nervously.

"I am certain Miss Ashton is too modest to blow her own horn, unlike others, but she is a crack shot. As a matter of fact, to repay your generous hospitality and for your entertainment, I should like to invite everyone present to the Oaks in three days' time for a picnic and a rifle tournament."

The women were delighted at the idea of a picnic, and the men were curious. It was Lord Pendleton, not surprisingly, who pointed out that it was not at all the thing for young ladies to be competing with weapons. Archery, perhaps, but never rifles.

Lord Coe grinned and his eyes sparkled. "Who said anything about the ladies competing, Pendleton? I will back Miss Ashton against any of you gentlemen!"

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How could he have singled her out that way in front of everybody? Melody would have done better to have thumped her way through some scales or sung Ducky's favorite nursery song, if she could have recalled it at that awful moment. She remembered the tune fine, now that she was home in her own bed. She also remembered every eye at Squire Watson's gathering being fastened on her, some in pity, some gloating at her discomfort. If she had just thought to recite a poem or something, her embarrassment would have been over by now, instead of having to be gone through again in three days' time, in front of the same group of neighbors and London sophisticates.

Melody's cheeks burned at the very thought of putting on a demonstration of marksmanship, having gentlemen wager on her prowess. She may as well tie her garters in public! If Miss Meadow got wind of such unladylike behavior, she'd choke on a macaroon and go off in a purple apoplexy. Even Miss Chase, when applied to before bed, considered the situation unfortunate but unavoidable without making the viscount look no-account. A shooting match was not what one could like, the schoolteacher declared, but if Miss Ashton was going to do it, Major Frye wanted inside information to know what odds to back, and even Miss Chase had an extra shilling or two.

So much for responsible advice. Miss Chase was correct, however, about the viscount. He had stood up for her after Felice's troublemaking pronouncement, at least temporarily directing attention away from Miss Ashton's shortcomings. Therefore, she owed him the rifle match, even if it labeled her a hoyden.

Then Melody sat up amid her rumpled bedclothes and laughed. How could she lose her good name when she never had one? She had just been whining to herself how the world and Copley-Whitmore considered her no better than she should be, with all of Mama's "minor indiscretions." Let them. Melody Ashton was going to stop feeling sorry for herself and start having a good time. The London guests would be gone all too soon, and there would be little enough joy after that. If one in particular of the town crowd chose to place his wagers on her skill, meantime, Melody vowed to do her damnedest to see he won.

He liked her, he really did. He had stationed footmen around her house at night to guard against another intruder, and he'd made sure that Lady Tarnover's stepbrother did not stay around to cut up her peace of mind. The man had to return to London, pressing government business, don't you know. Melody had it from Harry, who heard it from one of the stable lads, that it was more like a rock-hard fist pressing up alongside his chin that sent the man scurrying. Of course, Corey could have been acting for the children's welfare in those instances, but he had given Felice a biting setdown on the ride home from Squire's, saying he would rather see the infants at his lawn party than a malicious shrew set on embarrassing his friends. Felice fled in tears, and Melody was still cherishing his words. Friends. She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

The next days were too busy to get into flutters over the match, anyway. Melody did not even have a chance to get Lady Wooster aside to ask for an explanation of that lady's enigmatic remarks about an earlier marriage. "You'll see," was all Erica laughingly teased before she tripped off to hand out the formal cards of invitation. Lady Tarnover offered to do floral arrangements, and Lady Cheyne took over Baby's care so the nursemaid could help Betsy and Mrs. Tolliver with the extra baking and cleaning. Additional staff was hired from the village, along with carpenters to erect an awning over the south lawn, in case of inclement weather. The gentlemen were hunting one day, fishing the next, to provide more delicacies for the tables and to get out from underfoot. Melody spent hours consulting with Antoine, and then she, the children, and Angie went berry picking, flower gathering, pig washing. Felice sulked, and Mama was prostrate from the exertion of checking the wine cellar.

The day of the picnic dawned on a perfect spring morning, crisp and clear and smelling of new-mown grass. The sky was as blue as Lord Coe's eyes, and the bird songs were as joyful as Melody's mood. She put on her prettiest gown, the white muslin with the violets embroidered on the bodice, so that no one could find fault with her dress. It might not be as suitable for target shooting as her father's padded hunting jacket, but what a figure of fun she would look in that! No one laughed at Miss Ashton today. They all thought she looked exactly what she was: a beautiful young woman very much in love with the man who made her eyes sparkle with his compliments and her dimples appear with his teasing and her cheeks turn rosy when he took her hand in his to greet the arriving guests. As for Corey, he had given up on his determination to keep his distance. One glorious smile from Melody had melted all resolve.

"Come," he told her, "for you are surely hostess here today. Not only is it your house, but I know I have you to thank for making it a delight for my company. I am disgustingly proud of you, Angel, and you haven't even fired the rifle."

No, but she was already reeling from the recoil.

Melody decided she was having the very best day of her life. The house was glowing, the lawns looked like a fantasy from Araby with cushions and rugs spread around, and the menu would have shamed a Carlton House dinner. Meantime, the children were as shiny and polished as the silverware and on their best behavior. Ducky sat on a cushion under the awning with Nanny knitting nearby, and everyone stopped to bring him a tidbit or a flower. Lady Cheyne sat with him and Baby and taught the little girls how to make daisy chains to wear in their hair. Harry presided over the refreshments table, and Pip was deep in conversation with the vicar and Mr. Hadley. Even Angie's coat gleamed from a brushing, and the favorite pigs wandered around, ribbons in their tails and soon collars of flowers around their necks. No one mentioned the you-know-what roasting on a spit for supper after the shooting, when the twins would be back at Dower House.

Melody's heart soared. When Corey served her himself from the food tables or brought her a cool lemonade or tucked her hand in the crook of his arm as they strolled among the happy, complimentary crowds, she felt as if she was two feet above the ground. What crowds? Melody only saw his smile.

When it was time for the tournament, some of the guests, especially the older women from the neighborhood, chose to stay behind on the comfortable cushions and lounges set out. Mama was napping. Felice and Rupert were off on a stroll, and Lady Erica Wooster was nowhere in sight. To no one's surprise, Lord Pendleton loudly disdained to take part in such a rackety pastime. Melody did not call him a rasher of wind as she wanted to, for trying to ruin her lovely day, or accuse the pedantic popinjay of defecting rather than be proved a failure at what he himself considered a manly art; she merely directed him toward another path through the woods, where she was sure the scenery could not help but please.

The rest of the company followed Melody and Lord Coe along the path to the clearing, where chairs had been arranged a safe distance from the targets and tables had been set out with chilled wines and lemonade. Corey took charge, directing the contestants into groups and distances, ladies going first. There were three women beside Melody on the distaff side: Squire Watson's eldest daughter who giggled nervously, the Marchioness of Cheyne, and Lady Tarnover. The local lass was a passable shot, hitting the target with her four attempts, but the two London ladies were poor marksmen at best, leading Melody to think they were taking part merely to keep her from being singled out. She smiled her appreciation for their thoughtfulness as she stood to the firing line.

Melody's first shot was wide, catching the target on the outer circle. She could hear wagers being called, Lord Coe being teased for his boasts. She settled her mind to the task at hand and hit the center blue circle with her next three tries.

Laughing, Corey took the rifle from her. "Sweetheart, it's obvious you'll never be a gambler. You're supposed to lose the first round to make the odds go higher."

"But the ladies shoot at close range," Squire put in. "I'll still take her on."

Two of the local youths stepped forward and the rest of the houseguests. Major Frye winked at Melody when he took his turn, getting two of his balls into the blue. Lord Cheyne had the best round, and only one of the local boys managed to hit the target all four tries. The other retreated to good-natured hoots and whistles and Miss Watson's ministrations.

Lord Coe refused to take a turn, declaring himself impartial judge. Everyone laughed, and Melody felt her face grow warm. For the next round the target was moved back, and Lord Cheyne was declared winner among the men. Then the marquise and Melody took turns alternating their shots, both scoring four bull's-eyes. Wagering grew more enthusiastic.

"Much more distance would be unfair to Miss Ashton, with her lighter rifle," Corey declared, "so I propose a change in the procedure to moving targets. What say you, Cheyne?"

His lordship was game, so they called intermission while Pip practiced throwing wafers in the air, and the men cheerfully argued over Melody's advantage with the lighter weapon versus the male's natural hunting instincts and years of practice, to say nothing about wars and such.

Before they could resume the match, Lord Pendleton came blundering into the clearing, all red-faced and out of breath, his hair in disorder for the first time in anyone's memory, his clothing looking dampish.

"This is the most ramshackle household it has ever been my misfortune to visit, my lord," he informed his host and anyone standing nearby. "I shall inform my man to commence packing immediately. You'll understand, of course, this is not what I am accustomed to, nor what I was led to believe. In fact, I feel you were entirely unprincipled in your invitation, and I shall therefore be forced to sever our acquaintance. Good day, my lord." He stomped off.

Corey shook his head. "I wonder what bee that fool got in his bonnet now?"

"I, ah, think I can guess, my lord." Melody hesitated, not sure of Corey's reaction. Pendleton was a guest, after all. Corey's raised eyebrow bid her continue. "Judging from the path his lordship took, I believe he may have come upon the twins, who begged to be allowed a visit to the pond on such a lovely day. The water is quite shallow and sun-warmed, you know."