Rules of Engagement (10 page)

"You exaggerate, my lord. Those garments were provided by a young maid from your very household who had outgrown them."

Her extravagant patience grated away at his normally dispassionate disposition. "A maid's clothing? I took her into public wearing a maid's clothing? Miss Lockhart, this is a disgrace I will long remember."

With a snap that few dared to practice on him, Miss Lockhart said, "You have eyes to see, my lord. If Beth's clothing displeased you, you had only to speak."

That woman.

Some people said dreams had meaning. He didn't believe it, of course. Dreams were nonsense, sometimes pleasant, sometimes horrifying, but never anything more than the meandering of an idle mind. But last night's dream! Those fleshy tints. Those high breasts. Those shapely legs.

That face. Miss Lockhart's face!

Out of the corner of his eyes he could see her. She sat beside him, only her knitting needles in motion. However, she radiated her own irritation, although how she dared he did not understand. "As if I would bother to notice the child's garments," he retorted. "That is what the governess does!"

Miss Lockhart gave a shrewish huff. "What a governess does, my lord, is guide a child through the intricacies of learning and conduct, not ride a miserable old nag on an ill-advised expedition!"

"Miserable old nag?" he repeated. Interesting that she saved her greatest scorn for her steed. Did Miss Lockhart fancy herself a rider? "You sound as if you would wish to be mounted on a finer horse."

The knitting needles clicked faster. "That is not the point. The point is that I had not yet considered Beth's wardrobe for I did not yet know where you would keep her or in what capacity." When he would have spoken, she overrode him with a strong,
"Also,
it never occurred to me you would wish to purchase an extensive wardrobe for a child you plan to discard when she had succeeded in getting you what you want."

Shocked, he asked, "Do you think me a catchpenny, then? This is as if you were saying I wouldn't purchase a uniform for a footman I hire only for a party."

The knitting needles faltered. "A… footman."

"Or some such." Perhaps comparing a foundling to a footman seemed a bit cavalier to Miss Lockhart, but her doubts in his beneficence wore thin. "I assure you I am famous for the fairness and honor with which I treat my staff. Have you had anything to complain about?"

"No, my lord."

"Your rooms are as you requested? Your half-days off are scheduled as promised? You have a nursery maid assigned to you to perform the inconsequential tasks of child care?"

"Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord."

"Well, then." Satisfied he had made his point, he adjusted his cane across his lap, crossed his ankle over his knee, and allowed his monocle to dangle from his fingers. "I promised the foundling would be given training in some trade, and so she shall be."

"No one could expect more of you."

Was she mocking him?

He should look at her to see, but all day long, by hint of staring toward her or over her shoulder, Kerrich had avoided looking directly at Miss Lockhart. Which was foolish, and could not continue, but he had to admit to a certain cowardice.

This was his grandfather's fault, of course. Grandpapa had congratulated Kerrich on his wisdom in courting Miss Lockhart. Grandpapa had implied Miss Lockhart was an attractive woman. And now, because of a silly dream caused by his grandfather's suggestions, Kerrich squirmed in the presence of Miss Lockhart. He had lusted after this crone who was not only unattractive, but older.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the full-length gilt-framed mirrors hung every few feet along the wall, reflecting their seated images at him from every direction. So he risked a glance at those hands, busily engaged in knitting.

He hadn't seen them without gloves before, and he noted how smooth they were, unmarked by spots, with skin so transparent he could observe the blue tracery of veins and so delicate it moved like fine, pale silk.

How very odd. In his observations, he had noted the first place age showed was in a woman's hands.

Madame Beauchard recalled him from his contemplations. "My lord, here is our little miss." She ushered Beth out of the dressing area in the newest selection, a simple yellow morning gown.

Leaning forward, he examined the child's apparel with the same intense interest he showed when selecting his own garments. "The style, yes. It is appropriate for lessons." With his fingertip, he touched Miss Lockhart's upper arm and noted a firmness of flesh he had not expected. "Don't you agree?"

"Most appropriate, my lord." Miss Lockhart inched away from him.

"But the color!" he continued. "Madame Beauchard, what were you thinking?"

"As always, my lord, you are right," said the modiste in her fake French accent. "Yellow is not the young lady's color." Then, slyly, she added, "Just as it is not yours, my lord."

Lifting his monocle, he fitted it to his eye and stared at Madame Beauchard. Did she dare to insinuate… ?

With the ease of a consummate liar, Miss Lockhart once again told her tale. "That is correct, Madame Beauchard. Beth looks like her father, an assistant at Lord Kerrich's bank who died while performing a heroic deed in Lord Kerrich's service."

"Her father?" Madame Beauchard looked at Beth, and Kerrich could see her reluctantly discarding her more fascinating speculation.

"Yes," Beth said. "Papa died saving Lord Kerrich's life."

"Beth!" Miss Lockhart failed to hide her amazement when she heard this new addition to the yarn.

"Didn't he?" Beth squeaked.

Kerrich rescued the child, and his character. "I am eternally grateful to your father."

Miss Lockhart recovered from her surprise and answered with composure, "Yes, Beth, but you sounded as if you were bragging, and I'm sure it was more than Madame desired to know."

"Never fear, my lord," Madame Beauchard said. "Everyone would tell you I am the most discreet of the fashionable couturiers."

Kerrich's incredulity overwhelmed him. "You?"

Madame Beauchard contrived to look hurt.

"Madame, I would take it badly if you were to question the child." He looked meaningfully at Beth. "She gets upset when reminded of the circumstances of her father's death."

Beth took the hint, and sniffed and knuckled her eyes.

Looking alarmed, Madame snatched her hand off Beth's shoulder. "Of course not, my lord. I have no wish to make the
petite fille
cry." Gingerly, she patted Beth. "Come along,
cherie,
let us dress you again for Lord Kerrich's inspection."

They disappeared behind the curtains.

Miss Lockhart put her hideous knitting into her bag and thrust her knitting needles back into the knot at the base of her head. "I should go back there."

"No."

"But, my lord, if Madame Beauchard does question Beth…"

"She won't. She hates children except when they bring her income and she knows if Beth becomes agitated our session will be cut short. I predict Beth is even now being stuffed with sweets and praised for her beauty." And besides, while many were the occasions he had sat here waiting for Madame to bring forth his mistress and her clothing for his approval, he had never found such a delicious way to pass the time before. If not for that damned dream, tormeriting Miss Lockhart would be quite the finest diversion he'd ever discovered.

Miss Lockhart relaxed back into her chair, but those hands, those soft, pale, slender hands, plucked at her atrocious black woolen skirt as if they could not be still.

Funny, that. She had given him the impression of imperturbable composure and strict control. What had she to be nervous about?

Perhaps he made her uncomfortable, although he wondered why. Perhaps he should prod her further, and discover why. "The tale of Beth's father gets more improbable with every telling. It should have been thoroughly thrashed out before we stepped foot out of the house. You should have thought of that."

Her hands stopped their wanderings across her skirt, grabbed a fistful of material, and squeezed. "My lord, I did advise against taking Beth out today."

"But you also advised we get to know each other and develop a rapport. I believe we have accomplished that. Wouldn't you say, Miss Lockhart?"

Her knuckles stood out white on her hands. "Yes, my lord."

"So I was right in suggesting that we ride. Good." Idly, he swung his monocle from its silver chain and contemplated how best to discomfit her. "Do you ride well, Miss Lockhart? Or is that private information which should not be shared with a dissolute gentleman such as myself?"

"I have not said I consider you dissolute."

"You have not told me whether you can ride, either." As the moment of silence stretched out, he amused himself by wagering whether she wished more to ride a fine steed or to put him in his place.

Finally Miss Lockhart admitted, "I can ride."

"Then I will mount you appropriately." Realizing what he had said, he wavered between laughter and horror.

She stiffened, and in the most stifling of tones said, "You are the epitome of graciousness, my lord."

Laughter won. A soft chuckle which lent him the fortitude he needed to look at her.

That face. In his dream, it had been grotesque, painted, cruel. Today it just looked… unnatural. In this feminine environment with its clear light, its gilt mirrors, its crystal chandeliers, Miss Lockhart appeared gawky and rumpled, badly fitted in an old-fashioned jacket and dress.

"I will buy you a gown." The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he had said, but at once he understood what was driving him. This female didn't understand the role of woman in civilization. Ladies were supposed to be soft and beguiling. They were supposed to talk a man around, flirt and tease, win their way with wiles. Maybe, if he could just get her out of those purple and brown and black monstrosities that she wore and into some agreeable color, she would no longer assault him with words—or, at least, he wouldn't mind so much when she did.

But of course Miss Lockhart didn't react like a normal lady, with flutterings and gratitude. No, she looked like a Gorgon, one of those Greek females with snakes for hair, who had just viewed herself in the mirror and turned to stone. He was surprised she could even move her lips to refuse him. "Lord Kerrich, such a suggestion is unacceptable."

He didn't know what made him do it. Maybe just pure incorrigibility. Probably it was that frigid expression of abhorrence that curled her lips. Certainly he was exorcising that abomination of the dream. But he leaned back in his chair and looked her over carefully. "A plainer style, just as I suggested for Beth, would lessen the impact of your impressive torso." Actually, under closer scrutiny, the shape of her body beneath the ill-fitting gown appeared to be genuine, not the result of corset trickery, and almost Gothic in its arches and buttresses.

"Perhaps you didn't hear me, my lord. It would not be appropriate for me to accept a gown from you."

"A nice pale blue, I think, would be less contrast to your extraordinarily pale skin." Good God, that looked like a trace of rice powder in the crease of her neck. She wasn't actually putting on powder to make herself paler!

Beth caroled from the door, "Look. Look what I have to wear!"

Before he turned to view the child, he stared carefully at Miss Lockhart. It was true. She did wear rice powder, and red rouge unless he missed his guess—and he never missed. Good God, he'd seen many a woman who powdered and painted to ill effect, but never had he seen a woman so obliterated beneath the laminate of cosmetics.

"Lord Kerrich, Beth and Madame Beauchard wish you to decide on this newest selection." Miss Lockhart sounded calm under his scrutiny, but again her nervous hands betrayed her agitation, and she withdrew a man's silver watch on a chain from her jacket pocket and opened it as if her schedule had been quite demolished. Probably it had, and probably she blamed him.

Beth wore the same pale blue he envisioned for Miss Lockhart, in batiste, with full skirts, long sleeves and white lace at the collar and cuffs. Her eyes were shining, and she touched the skirt with reverent fingers. "I haven't worn an ironed dress since my mother died, and today
all
the dresses have been ironed."

Miss Lockhart tucked her watch away and cleared her throat as if to clear away a lump of emotion. "From now on, we'll make sure all your gowns are ironed."

"Yes. Oh, please." Beth twirled on her toes again. "At Lord Kerrich's, even the scullery maids wear ironed aprons!"

"Even the scullery maids take baths once a week."

Miss Lockhart's excursion into sentimentality hadn't lasted long, Kerrich noted.

Beth grimaced, then shrugged. "Oh, as you say. As long as I can wear these fine togs."

The child knew how to strike a deal. Kerrich admired that.