The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet (12 page)

Lord Francis was pursing his lips and Cora realized that her bonnet must have blown back on her head and that doubtless her hair beneath it resembled a tangled bush. Sometimes she wished her hair did not grow quite so thickly, but she could not bring herself to have it cut even though short hair was all the crack. Papa thought short hair on women was scandalous.

Cora lifted her arms and did some hasty repairs.

“Another heroic deed, Miss Downes?” Lord Francis asked her. His riding coat was a glorious shade of puce.

“Chasing after a child’s hat?” she said. “Hardly.”

But his grace was clearing his throat again. “Miss Downes,” he asked, “is that by any chance my
sister
in the center of the group of cheering gentlemen?”

To be quite fair, they were no longer cheering, though several of them were grinning and one of them was laughing out loud. And another of them cried “Bravo!” as she looked toward them.

“Oh, dear, yes,” Cora said. “We were walking here, your grace, for the air and the peace, and these gentlemen walked or rode by and were obliging enough to accompany us for a short distance.”

His grace had a quizzing glass to his eye and was looking in some distaste at Jane and the nine gentlemen.

Lord Francis chuckled. “And your maid looks as if she is wondering how she may divide herself in two and chaperon both of you in order to keep all decent and proper,” he said. “Do take my arm, Miss Downes. We will solve her problem by having you rejoin Lady Jane.”

The duke stayed where he was, holding the reins of Lord Francis’s horse as the two of them walked away.

“How glad I am that
you
arrived,” Cora said gaily. “Without you—and his grace—I do believe the infant duke would have chewed me up and spat me out. I had sentimental images of a poor child who was about to lose his new hat and would cry all day and all night over its loss and never be able to afford one to replace it until next year at the very earliest.”

“Doubtless,” he said, “with so many witnesses, Miss Downes, you will find that this heroic act will be added to the other two in order to swell your fame.”

She laughed. “Oh, what nonsense,” she said. “If I had been a true lady, I would have fluttered my eyelashes at one of the gentlemen and he would have raced after the hat for me.”

“And the incident would have lacked all sense of
drama,” he said. “You are to be at Lady Fuller’s ball tomorrow evening?”

“Yes, indeed,” she said. “Lady Elizabeth is betrothed to her brother, you know. Will you be there too, Lord Francis? Will you come early enough to engage a set with me this time? I was sorry last evening to find that there were none left for you.”

“I have noticed a tendency in you to take words from my mouth, Miss Downes,” he said. “Will you do me the honor of reserving a set for me tomorrow evening?”

“Yes.” She smiled dazzlingly at him. “Can you waltz? I have been
approved
, though I think it all a parcel of nonsense, and now may waltz myself.”

“Then I will request that you write my name in your card next to the first waltz,” he said.

They were almost up to the others, a fact that she found regretful. She would prefer a quiet stroll with Lord Francis. But a nasty thought struck her. “Oh, dear,” she said, “I asked you to dance with me, did I not? That is something a lady
never
does. I gave you no choice but to be gallant, did I? And I dare not ask now if you really
wish
to dance with me because of course you would be gallant again and say that of course you do. I
do
apologize.”

“Miss Downes,” he said, “you do seem to have perfected the art of rendering me speechless.”

“Well,” she said, “no matter. It is only you and you do not mind if I occasionally ask you to dance with me, do you?”

He looked sidelong at her but did not reply. She found herself surrounded by laughing, admiring gentlemen, who congratulated her on her prompt action with regard to the young Duke of Finchley’s hat.

“Well done, Miss Downes,” Mr. Parker said.

“Jolly good show,” Mr. Pandry agreed, returning her parasol to her.

“Miss Downes is tired,” Lord Francis said, sounding bored again and faintly haughty. “She has wisely decided to return home with Lady Jane. Good morning, gentlemen.” He made them all a slight bow.

The Earl of Greenwald was the first to leave after glancing across to the Duke of Bridgwater, who was still sitting on his motionless horse some distance away, observing the scene. The others wandered away too, one by one or two by two.

“Ladies?” Lord Francis bowed to both Jane and Cora before glancing at their maid—who was looking remarkably relieved. He turned and walked back to the duke and his horse without looking behind him.

“Cora.” Jane grasped her arm and hurried her back in the direction from which they had come. “Do you think Alistair believed there was an assignation?”

“Goodness,” Cora said, “I hope not. Why would any woman in her right mind make assignations to meet so many gentlemen at the same time and in the same place?” She laughed. “Unless it were because there is safety in numbers. Do you like puce, Jane?”

“Lord Francis always looks elegant,” Jane said. “Do you believe Alistair
knew
?”

“I doubt it.” Cora patted her hand reassuringly.

They lapsed into silence, each thinking her own thoughts about the eventfulness of their morning walk.

Cora’s thoughts were quite decisive and rather disturbing. She was not going to marry a gentleman, she realized. Gentlemen were silly. Remarkably so. Mr. Bentley had proposed marriage to her when he scarcely knew her merely because she was in fashion and wealthier than he was—or such was her educated guess. All eight gentlemen this morning had been silly, preening themselves before her in the hope of winning her favor.
Her
—Cora Downes! All of them had thought the distress of a little child comical—though, as it had turned
out, he had deserved a little distress in his life. None of them would have given a thought to rescuing the wretched hat themselves. And yet all of them pretended deep admiration for her mad and undignified dash after it.

And these were supposed to be her prospective
husbands
? She would lose patience with any one of them within a week—within a
day
. She would rather marry any of the men she had rejected at home. At least all of them were worthy men. She would rather marry someone of her own kind. Someone with a little sense between his two ears. What nonsense all this business of heroism was. She should have told her grace so before all this started. But of course the prospect of coming to London—and while the Season was still in progress—had been irresistible.

If there had been any doubt left in her mind about her decision not to marry a gentleman, it was put to rout as soon as she thought of Lord Francis. She had been so very glad to see him. She would have given anything to have walked off with him and forgotten about all her foolish suitors. And she was already warmed to exuberance at the thought of dancing with him again tomorrow—
waltzing
with him. And yet she was not thinking of Lord Francis in terms of marriage. How absurd! She felt a deep friendship for him, almost an affection—well, perhaps
quite
an affection.

If she could have felt so much more gladness to meet and walk with a friend, then, when eight prospective husbands had been waiting to receive her back into their admiring midst, how could she possibly take them seriously?

She would a hundred times rather spend a morning or afternoon with Edgar than with any of them. She would a thousand times rather spend them with Lord Francis. Lord Francis could make her relax and laugh. She could
say anything she wished to say to him without fear of shocking him. Lord Francis liked her, she believed. She preferred to be liked than to be admired. Especially when she suspected—when she
knew
—that the admiration was all feigned. How could anyone possibly admire her? She looked down at Jane’s bonnet and felt her own largeness again.

No, she was not going to marry a gentleman. She was going to go home to Bristol when she decently could and keep house for Papa until her ideal man came along. If he ever did. If he did not, well, then, she would remain a spinster for the rest of her life. There were worse fates—she could be a wife to one of this morning’s eight gentlemen.

She hoped Lord Francis waltzed well. She would wager he did. He did everything else so elegantly. She had only ever waltzed with a dancing master. She looked forward with such eagerness to twirling about a London ballroom in the arms of a gentleman with whom she could relax and perform the steps without tripping all over his feet—or her own.

She hummed a waltz tune and Jane smiled at her.

“I have promised the first waltz tomorrow evening to Lord Greenwald,” she said. “Is he not the most handsome gentleman you have ever seen in your life, Cora?”

Cora was feeling quite cheerful enough to concede the point, though she believed that to any impartial observer Edgar would have the edge.

“M
UCH OBLIGED
, K
NELLER,
” the Duke of Bridgwater said as they resumed their morning ride. “My mother made a huge mistake, I believe.”

“You believe so?” Lord Francis looked at him.

“You must confess,” his grace said, “that there was
something perilously close to—vulgarity about that scene, Kneller.”

Lord Francis chuckled. “I might have chosen the word
farce
,” he said. “I am beginning to think that farcical situations find out Miss Downes wherever she goes in public. But she is not vulgar, Bridgwater. I must quarrel with you there.”

His grace sighed. “No, I did not call her so,” he said. “Strangely, one cannot help but like the girl. But I must admit to some uneasiness when I recall that Jane’s chief companion here is a woman who vaults down from high-perch phaetons in the middle of Rotten Row in order to rescue a few miserable curs from a danger that was doubtless more apparent than real. And one who attracts admirers like bees to flowers and then leaves my sister in the midst of them while she dashes away, all bare ankles—and even one knee, I swear, Kneller—in order to catch a runaway hat.” He sighed again, sounding considerably aggrieved.

Lord Francis could only continue to chuckle. “She showed them a thing or two, though, Bridgwater,” he said. “Apart from the ankle and knee, I mean—I missed the knee, unfortunately. The ankles were well worth looking at, though. Come, you must admit that she is refreshing. I derive enormous amusement from her. And the admirers should please you. It was for the purpose of finding her a husband that her grace brought her here, was it not?”

“A husband,” the duke said. “Singular, Kneller. I am beginning to lose sleep over the chit. She refused Bentley, you know.”

“Good,” Lord Francis said without hesitation. “The man has not enough humor with which to paint his little fingernail. He would not be amused by her at all. She can do better.”

His grace sighed yet again. “I hope Greenwald comes
to the point this year,” he said. “He had to leave in a hurry last year—sick aunt or some such thing. I believe Jane has a
tendre
for him. How thankful I am to have only two sisters. Perhaps I will be able to concentrate on my own life once they are both settled.”

“Ah,” Lord Francis said. “You are thinking about setting up your nursery, Bridgwater?”

His grace frowned. “I had in mind other, ah, pleasures to precede that particular one,” he said, “though I suppose that is inevitable too. One tires a little of mistresses, do you not find?”

“I swore off them a year or more ago,” Lord Francis said, feeling his mood slip.

“And there is something to be said for nurseries, I suppose,” his grace said. “I never thought to see Carew so happy. Lady Carew is in a delicate way, so he informs me.”

“Yes,” Lord Francis said.

The duke looked at him sharply. “Oh, sorry, old chap,” he said. “I was not thinking.”

Lord Francis raised his eyebrows. “No harm done at all,” he said with a wave of one hand. “Ancient history.”

“Glad to hear it,” the duke said. “You are going to Brighton for the summer? You have not attached yourself to Lady Augusta’s court, I see. Maybe there will be some new beauties there.”

But Lord Francis was too busy fighting a familiar drooping of the spirits to give the matter serious thought. He concentrated on images that would perhaps restore his humor. The image of Cora Downes, for example, her skirts hitched almost to her knees, dashing across the grass, flushed and windblown and laughing, in pursuit of a ridiculous little child’s hat. Or the imagined picture of her waltzing with all her usual exuberance—in his arms.

Yes. He smiled. There was something about Cora Downes that would lift the lowest of spirits. Farce did follow her about. And a certain innocent charm. And of course she was deliciously lovely despite the bold face and tall stature. Perhaps because of them. And certainly because of the generous endowment of curves in all the right places.

“I have made no definite plans for the summer,” he said.

ORD
F
RANCIS KNEW AS SOON AS HE ARRIVED AT
L
ADY
Fuller’s ball that the Prince of Wales was expected. Not that one ever
expected
Prinny to honor any social invitation even if it had been duly accepted. He went where he wished to go, and no one, including the prince himself, ever knew quite where he wanted to go until the last possible moment. But at least if he had accepted an invitation, preparations were duly made.