Not Quite Married (13 page)

She had not seen the gesture or the genuine concern in his face.

She was tired from the journey. This was neither the time nor the place to air her plans, but she thought it might be good to give him something to think on.

“I’ve a mind to study commerce and perhaps enter the trading business. I have a quick mind, and it would be good to put my education to practical use.”

“Given time, I am sure you will find more suitable pastimes. You have only just arrived and are surely—”

“I shall spend my time as I see fit!” She whirled on him. “I am a woman. That was nature’s cruel jest on us both, but I’ll not live a life of misery because of it. I have strength and wit aplenty and I’ve had a stomach full of womanly duty. I am a thinking and feeling person, and I’ll not be sold again at any price.”

Her glare withered any reply he might have made before it could form in his mind. He shoved his hands into his vest pockets and went to stare out the window. He was a study in bewilderment.

His daughter hated her very womanhood, and likely him as well.

“I apologize.” A hard-won civility returned to her voice. “I had not meant to say all of this to you now. But perhaps it is best that we set things straight from the start. I don’t know what I want.”

She looked down at the gold band on her left hand. “I only know I don’t want what I have had.”

The earl turned to look at her. The sorrow and fatigue she felt showed plainly in her young face. Yearning to comfort her and uncertain how she would receive that from him, he gave in to an impulse and crossed the drawing room to take her hands in his.

Compassion filled his face and heart for the first time in years. He knew little of this woman-child of his, but he saw that he had been given a second chance with her. She needed him, and he would not fail her again.

“Rest now, before dinner.” His voice was thick with emotion and Brien searched his face as he squeezed her hands. “We will talk about the future later.” She nodded and started to leave, but his voice called her back.

“Brien, I only want your happiness.”

She studied his face for a long moment without replying, then left him.

THE HOUSEKEEPER AWAKENED Brien the next morning at seven o’clock and handed her a folio of documents with instructions from Lord Weston that he would discuss them with her over luncheon. Brien bounded out of bed, smiling triumphantly.

Each document detailing the architect’s plans for resurrecting Byron Place raised more questions than it answered. She hurried to her desk and took quill in hand to make notes to herself. She entered the dining room feeling quite prepared, but for every question she raised, her father had thought of three. When the barely tasted luncheon was cleared away, Brien realized that they had only begun for the day. The rest of the afternoon she spent in close attendance on her father’s every word. By dinner, her head ached and she was beyond comprehending more. She excused herself as soon as the last course was finished, and retired.

Lawrence Weston smiled to himself, confident his willful daughter had learned enough “construction” to last her a lifetime.

But the next morning she appeared at the breakfast table, fresh and eager to resume her lessons. She had several suggestions for the architect, based on several books she had discovered in her father’s library, and had listed their holdings in mines, lands, ships, and commodities, and had questions about them all. The earl rose to the challenge and by evening, Brien retired
before
dinner.

The third morning, the earl was considerably less enthusiastic about this course of education when Brien arrived at breakfast again armed with plans, ledgers, and questions. One thing Weston had already learned about this daughter of his: She was not easily dissuaded.

Brien proved a bright, capable student and by early summer, the earl found himself hard-pressed to best her in knowledge of the design and construction of Byron Place or in the family’s assets and financial matters. He took great pains to see that she was consulted on all major decisions regarding Byron Place and, increasingly, on all matters of importance to Weston Trading itself. She possessed a logical mind and was well read and concise in expression. Weston winced to think that his daughter’s depth and richness would have gone undiscovered by him, had it not been for a tragic accident.

He had occasional misgivings about allowing his daughter to escape her womanly responsibilities, but had to admit that there were few other options open to her in this year of deep mourning.

Her quick mind would be restless and resentful confined to the boundaries of an embroidery hoop. Truthfully, he enjoyed watching her as she plied her unique blend of charm and logic in matters of construction and commerce.

It was only in the matter of marriage that she defied his expectations, and he had not given up hope of steering her back toward more sensible attitudes regarding giving him grandchildren. She could not keep her heart hidden forever, and it was clear that Raoul Trechaud had never captured it.

Unknown to her father, Brien had set their solicitors to work on a private matter, conferring with them about it only in his absence.

She hoped to learn the whereabouts of her friend and loyal servant, Ella. They discovered that she had been sentenced without appearing before the magistrate in person and had been packed off to a constabulary to await a prison ship bound for Australia. That was the last anyone had seen or heard of her; the court and shipping records had been destroyed in a fire. Despite repeated warnings that the chances of finding her friend were dim, Brien would not abandon the search. A debt of gratitude kept the search alive when common sense poured doubt on its chance for success.

As the London winter slogged by, the black of mourning and the solitary life began to weigh upon Brien. By the first of April, she decided to end her total isolation and accepted the invitations of a few local ladies for tea.

It was painfully clear to Brien at these modest gatherings that she was the object of intense curiosity. The ladies, a number of whom came from estates neighboring Byron Place, asked thinly veiled questions about her marriage and the tragedy that ended it. Brien was demure and somewhat reticent in answering, unaware that with her studied omissions she gave them a picture of Raoul as a model of manly virtues and desirability. These ladies remembered all too well his dark, probing eyes and sensuous mouth, his broad shoulders, and his charming accent. And when they departed, they were more than eager to relate and even embroider her account.

But their curiosity did not stop with Brien’s marriage. They were cloyingly sympathetic, all the while measuring her very body with cool scrutiny. A young and beautiful widow was far more to be feared in the ranks of dowdy matrons than any comely maid. The possibility for temptations, once having tasted the forbidden fruits of marriage, was ever present. Feeling a responsibility to the sanctity of the homes of the community, they investigated all threats, however remote or highly placed. Brien perceived this element early on and let it slip that she was not eager to remarry.

By her elegant appearance and sedate actions, Brien added fuel to the legend springing up about her ill-fated marriage to the French nobleman. Unknowingly, she was becoming the heroine of an idealized love match. Everyone had quite forgotten the quiet, dowdy maid who had sat alone in the family’s box at church and was never seen otherwise. By all accounts, she was a beautiful woman tragically bereft of a handsome, virile young husband. Her very desire for a year of mourning seemed all the gossips needed to verify the tales that circulated about her.

But the year passed all too quickly. As the plans were being drawn for the fall social season, she had to excuse herself on the basis of half-mourning in order to avoid the deluge of invitations they received. Her excuse, spurious as it was, merely added fuel to the curiosity raging about her.

It was Monsieur Lamont who provided the spur that sent her out into the world again. He insisted she visit his salon for the final fittings of her new wardrobe, to view his wonderful creations in a wall of mirrors created for such elegant occasions.

Her lady’s maid for the past several months, Jeannie, had taken great pains with her hair the morning of the fitting and commented that she had never seen her mistress looking lovelier.

Brien put it down to the girl’s excitement at attending so elegant an establishment. But when Jeannie finished lacing her into the first of Monsieur Lamont’s creations, Brien was dumbfounded.

The deep décolletage of the ice-green-and-white silk ball gown barely contained her. The gossamer sleeves were snug on her arms their entire length, revealing while not binding them. The bodice was tight over a demi-corset that felt obscenely free and the high waist and narrow skirt skimmed her body too closely for propriety’s sake.

That was an old propriety, Monsieur Lamont insisted. This was the new respectability. One which adhered to more fluid lines and more healthful foundations.

She paced the fitting room in front of the massive mirrors, both scandalized and fascinated. As she whirled, the skirt wrapped voluptuously about her legs.

“You move like a symphony together,” the little
couturier
declared.

She tugged on the neckline. “After every dance I shall have to be restuffed into it. And no panniers? How would I dare wear it in public? My father would die.”

“The gown was not designed with fathers in mind,” Monsieur sniffed.

Brien’s face softened with wonder. “It’s marvelous. Truly, it is.”

By the end of the fittings she was exhausted. Left alone in the room for a few moments, she walked closer to the mirrored glass.

Was that her? Gracefully tapered legs, nicely rounded hips, and a narrow waist. Her breasts rounded pleasantly above the light boning, and her skin was clear and smooth across her bare chest, throat, and cheeks. She stretched her arms above her head, turning slowly to inspect all sides of this new creature. Then she moved closer . . . made faces at herself . . . fluttered her lashes.

She staggered back, unnerved by this new view of herself. Why had she been so unwilling to see the changes that had taken place in her when most girls scrutinized their looking glasses daily for improvements? Was it only that she had always considered herself plump and plain next to her stunning older sister Denise?

What else had she been unwilling to face in herself?

Jeannie returned just then to help her dress, but those thoughts persisted well into the evening. She had a great deal of thinking to do.

Eleven

A TRICKLE OF INVITATIONS APPEARED at Harcourt and on the first of December, Brien beleaguered her father with questions about which to accept. With his advice, she selected a dinner-dance given by Lord Randolph Hazelett, a former Chancellor of the Exchequer.

She was noticeably nervous as Jeannie did her hair and helped her into a gown of midnight-blue velvet, adorned with a tableau of blackwork embroidery that began at the waist and curled up over her bodice and down over her high-waisted gown. Jeannie had created a flow of ringlets and ribbons from the crown of her head down her back, and instead of jewelry she wore a simple black ribbon at her throat.

She held her breath as she descended the stairs into her father’s scrutiny, and the earl escorted her to the coach with a beaming smile.

Curiosity about her had spread to London with the story of her ill-fated bridegroom, enhanced by her seclusion and rumors of her beauty. Fairly, it could be said that no one in the room was disappointed by her appearance or manner. She glowed with fresh, vital beauty and possessed a natural grace that immediately put people at ease.

Weston watched his daughter making conquest of the men and confidantes of the ladies and was bemused by her obvious pleasure at the attention. She was no tepid, sighing bride; she was fully, irresistibly woman—perhaps her only legacy from the virile, passionate Raoul Trechaud.

The evening was made all the more memorable for Brien when she retired to one of the rooms on the upper floor where dozens of ladies repaired curls and laces and availed themselves of the facilities behind screens. She was straightening her skirts behind one of those screens when she overheard the excited chatter of some young girls.

“. . . never seen anything so elegant. That dress must have cost a fortune.”

“I’ve heard that her husband was deliciously dark and handsome—French, too. They say he was a rake before he met her and gave it all up.”

“It’s not hard to believe,” a third chimed in. “Not a man here has seen anything but her tonight.”

The first voice resumed. “They say when she heard he was dead, she howled and wailed like an animal for days—nearly mad with grief.”

“I wish I could have a love like that.” There was reverence in the second voice.

“I heard she vowed she’d have no other man,” the third girl giggled. “He must have spoiled her for all others.”

“I wish someone would spoil me like that,” the second girl dreamed again.

The voices faded as the girls exited, and Brien stepped out from behind the screen. How many other whispered conversations about her were even now taking place? They believed her marriage had been a blazing love match. The irony of it stunned her; the most painful thing in her life was now the cause of her overwhelming social success.

But there was a brighter, more practical side to this, she thought as she rejoined her father for the dancing. If this gossip was any indication, then she might be spared the matchmaking that plagued young widows in society. Let them talk, she decided, beaming at the curious faces turned her way. She’d not spoil their fun.

When the evening ended and they were again in the coach, Brien sighed and leaned back into the padded seat. “I had no idea it would be so lovely.”

“You enjoyed the dinner and dancing?” her father said.

“Of course,” she declared, turning to him in surprise, but smiling at the teasing in his eyes. “Do you think they liked me?”

“Liked you?” He pondered it. “Tomorrow we shall have to hire a secretary to manage the flood of invitations we will receive.”