The Indomitable Miss Harris (19 page)

Following this course of thought, she began to wonder why Landover tolerated his sister’s busy interest in his future. Lady Harmoncourt was presently bemoaning Clara FitzWilliam’s poor judgment in preferring a mere viscount to a so well-endowed marquis, but Gillian could easily interpret the speculative gleam in her ladyship’s eyes as they scanned the crowded ballroom. Clara FitzWilliam was already a dead issue. Lady Harmoncourt was looking for another prospect to present to her brother.

Why did he put up with it? Gillian glanced up at him. He, too, was watching her ladyship, but the expression in his eye was one of tolerant amusement. Did he think it was a game? she wondered. She remembered Lady Sybilla describing him earlier as lazy and likely to take the course of least resistance. She herself had seen little sign of laziness, however, and although he made a great fuss about fearing his sister’s temper, Gillian shrewdly suspected that he exaggerated his fears in order to indulge the lady. But surely, he must realize that the game this time was a dangerous one. So far, thanks to her, nothing had come to a head, but he could not go on behaving as he had been with impunity. Sooner or later, if he continued to let Lady Harmoncourt lead him by the nose, he would be standing at the altar watching his bride walk down the aisle. Which was, of course, exactly what Gillian wanted, was it not? She sighed at the thought. Of course it was, since he would then be too busy to interfere with her. But only if the girl walking toward him would make him a suitable wife. And so far, the qualities Lady Harmoncourt deemed essential were not the same ones that Gillian herself would have sought for Landover’s marchioness.

The right girl for him, in her opinion, would be kind and gentle, willing to put his interests ahead of her own, submissive to his will, and completely uninterested in matters of title and wealth. She sighed again. Surely an impossible task, to discover such a paragon. But arrogant and dictatorial though he was, interfere though he constantly did in the affairs of others, still did he deserve a wife who would be cherished years after the wedding, not some shrew who would spend his money as though his pockets were bottomless, and flaunt her title as marchioness rather than basking in that of wife.

She realized he was looking at her, and the color crept into her cheeks again.

“I fear we have missed our dance, Miss Harris.”

She rallied. “I shall endeavor to bear up, my lord.”

He smiled at her, and the rest of the evening passed quickly in a blur of partners. Linden appeared briefly with Miss FitzWilliam blushing demurely at his side, but as he informed the company at large, they came only to collect Lady FitzWilliam and Mrs. Robinson before departing.

“This affair is becoming entirely too rowdy for such an innocent as Clara,” he pronounced firmly. “We’ll bid farewell.” He turned to the marquis and held out a hand. “You’ve been dashed decent about all this, Landover, and I appreciate it. I’ve told Clara I’ll speak to her father in the morning. You may look for the announcement immediately in the
Gazette.”

Clara blushed more deeply, not daring to look at Landover, but he merely grinned at the erstwhile rake. “I meant what I said earlier, Linden. You’ll suit each other down to the ground. Good night.”

Immediately after the official unmasking, Lord Harmoncourt announced that he, too, had had enough, and Sir Avery very kindly offered to help him escort his ladies home. Following closely upon their heels, Landover’s party paused to pay their respects to Mr. Brummell, who lounged in one corner with Lords Alvanley and Petersham to bear him company. The Beau smiled at them. “Nice to meet friends amongst all this rabble.”

Landover returned the smile with a dry one of his own. “You’d be astonished at whom you might meet, George, if you would but bestir yourself to mix with the company.”

“Too true, my lord,” replied the Beau as, with a droll but speaking grimace, he waved a languid hand in the direction of the royal party. “But only a fool would attempt to compete with the big guns this night. I am content, sir, to linger here amongst the peasants.”

Petersham bridled at such a reference, but Alvanley chuckled. “Hold hard, my lord. Surely you recognize bait when you hear it. He seeks to stir coals and will be disappointed only an your embers stay banked.”

Petersham subsided with a rueful grin and helped himself to a pinch of snuff with the flair of an expert. Gillian had heard it said that he had a separate snuffbox for each day of the year, but she was singularly unimpressed. She had not thought kindly of the eccentric earl since the night he had betrayed her visit to Vauxhall. Brummell shook his head now in mock despair.

“They take the fun out of sharpening one’s wit, Landover. Truly they do.”

“Don’t expect sympathy from us, George. We’re leaving.”

It was not as easy as that, of course, for they still had to make their way through the seemingly undiminished mob to the main entrance. Then it still remained for one of the numerous linkboys to fetch their carriage, but at last Landover, Gillian, and Mrs. Periwinkle were able to relax against the plush squabs of the comfortable, crested coach. Mrs. Periwinkle sighed deeply as the carriage rolled away from Burlington House and down the now silent stretch of Piccadilly.

“That was quite a do,” she said appreciatively. “Prinny will be well pleased, I think.” When neither of her companions vouchsafed a response, another thought struck her. “Ought we to have stayed until the Regent and his guests departed, Landover?”

He chuckled. “My dear Amelia, it is nearly two o’clock in the morning, and I’d wager it will be three at least before they
even find
the Tsar. No one will notice our departure or care a hoot if they do. But if it will make your mind easy, I’ll promise to tell his highness that Miss Harris was taken ill. He’ll never be so ungallant as to blame us for taking her home.”

“Well,” declared Gillian roundly, “I trust the circumstance will not arise, for I’d hate to be the subject of such a plumper. I am not such a poor spirit, sir.”

Once home, Gillian’s head had scarcely touched the pillow before she drifted into deep slumber that lasted well into the next morning. It was a lazy day spent paying and receiving calls, and it ended with an evening concert of sacred music at Carlton House. The following morning, the visiting sovereigns, accompanied by the Prince Regent and a noble retinue, including the Marquis of Landover and the Earl of Harmoncourt, left London for Portsmouth, where there would be five days of farewell activities, including a Grand Naval Review, before the visitors set sail from Dover.

Gillian and Mrs. Periwinkle accompanied Lady Harmoncourt and Sybilla to Almack’s that evening, but freed of Landover’s constant vigil, Sir Avery begged off, leaving the ladies without a male escort. Lady Harmoncourt and Mrs. Periwinkle saw nothing amiss in this defection, but Sybilla confided to Gillian that Almack’s was becoming rather
ennuyeux.

Gillian agreed, and when Lady Harmoncourt announced that since the sovereigns’ departure would mean a lull in the social activities in town, she meant to pay a long-overdue visit to her sister-in-law Daisy in Bath, it was an easy matter to convince Mrs. Periwinkle and Gillian to accompany her.

They left early the next morning, and once again, Sir Avery declined to grant escort. Gillian knew that since Landover intended to deal with some minor business on the Harris estates after the sovereigns’ departure and meant for his secretary to meet him in Sussex, he had arranged for Sir Avery to receive his quarterly allowance a few days ahead of time. Therefore, she assumed that her brother would renew his acquaintance with his tailor and bootmaker and revert to his former habits, at least until the marquis returned. So she could not be surprised that the prospect of a week in Bath failed to tempt him.

Sybilla’s Aunt Daisy proved to be a kindly lady, and her house in Laura Place was large enough to accommodate them all easily. What with the assemblies and card parties, visits to the Pump Room and the Abbey, and shopping in Milsom Street, there were certainly enough activities to occupy two young ladies, but oddly enough, both seemed to find the visit sadly flat and looked forward to their return to the metropolis. Thus it was with a touch more dismay than might properly have been expected that they greeted the information, the afternoon before their scheduled departure, that Aunt Daisy had taken to her bed with an unknown complaint.

Her doctor was speedily summoned, and after much head-shaking and thumbing of side-whiskers, that learned gentleman diagnosed a mild attack of the ague, prescribing bedrest and herbal doses to be taken four times daily, alternately to be accompanied by mustard footbaths and hot tansy tea.

Lady Harmoncourt was clearly impressed by the doctor’s expertise but noted in an aside to Mrs. Periwinkle, after his departure, that if all else failed, Dr. James’s Powders were always to be relied upon in such cases.

“And calves’-foot jelly,” observed Mrs. Periwinkle, nodding her agreement. “I have always set great store by the efficacy of calves’-foot jelly.”

Gillian and Sybilla sighed in discontented unison. Clearly, neither Lady Harmoncourt nor Mrs. Periwinkle meant to leave Aunt Daisy until she was at least well on the road to full recovery. It took several days, and all four ladies were exhausted enough to agree that a break in the return journey to London was a necessity. Therefore, it was not until the second Wednesday after their departure that the Harmoncourts’ heavy traveling coach lumbered back into Berkeley Square.

Gillian was still tired, but when Mrs. Periwinkle kindly suggested that she might prefer an early retirement to a visit to Almack’s that evening, she speedily disabused her of the notion. She and Sybilla had discussed the matter at length.

“We have been out of touch long enough, ma’am, and I look forward to seeing all our friends again as soon as may be. A nap will put me right as a trivet, and I promise I shall not fade before the evening is done.”

Landover had returned some days previously and greeted them cheerfully at dinner. The news that both he and Sir Avery meant to accompany them sent Gillian’s spirits soaring. It had been very dull without a man in their party, she told herself. It would be far more comfortable to have two of them.

As it happened, they actually had three, for Lord Darrow presented himself soon after their arrival and seemed disposed to linger. Nonchalantly scribbling his name after three of the entries on Gillian’s dance card, he then took Sybilla’s and scrawled “Darrow” twice.

Landover, taking Gillian’s card next, glanced down, raised his eyebrows, and cast the younger man a rather speculative look. Gillian had been about to remonstrate with Darrow and insist that he limit himself to the acceptable two dances, but Landover’s attitude dissuaded her, and she decided that if he took issue over the matter, she would insist upon that third dance. She must and would show his lordship that her sojourn in Bath had done nothing to make her more amenable to his arbitrary rule. She would behave herself in most matters, but she would insist upon making her own decisions whether he liked it or not.

He glanced at her a bit narrowly; however, he made no comment, and Miss Harris was astonished to feel a surge of disappointment. But after all, she told herself firmly, it was only that he had denied her an opportunity to put him in his place. It could not possibly be anything else. Not possibly.

She threw herself into the evening with enthusiasm. So gay was she that even her brother made comment.

“You must have been well-nigh stifled in Bath, my dear, to be so gay as this tonight. Lady Sybilla, too. It is as though you are both tasting freedom after being caged.”

“Nonsense,” Gillian laughed, hoping to disconcert him. “Sybby and I had a prodigiously exciting time. You can have no notion how lively it is in Bath. Sybby, especially, left a good many beaux bewailing their sorrow at her leaving.”

“Indeed.” His tone seemed a shade on the chilly side, and Gillian chuckled silently to herself.

“Indeed, sir. Did you think we would be wallflowers?”

“Of course not,” he retorted gruffly. “Didn’t think about it at all. Far too busy myself.”

His tone belied his words, but much as she would have liked to pursue the matter, Gillian wisely fell silent. He would not thank her for her interest.

A short time later, Sir Avery could be seen dancing with a petite brunette when a relaxed and smiling Countess de Lieven approached to greet Gillian and Mrs. Periwinkle. The latter told her that she was in excellent looks, to which she responded with a nearly girlish grin. “So my husband has said several times tonight. Things have certainly grown more peaceful since our royal visitors took their departure.” The three of them chatted amiably until Gillian’s next partner arrived to claim her hand.

Her first two dances with Lord Darrow were the lively sort that make intelligent conversation impossible; therefore, she was not surprised when he approached her for the third time to be informed that he wished to sit out.

“There is much I would discuss with you, Miss Harris.”

“Of course, my lord. I confess I shall be grateful for the respite.” She assumed he would wish to exchange news and opinions of Miss FitzWilliam’s betrothal to Viscount Linden, but when she would have taken a seat near Mrs. Periwinkle, Darrow guided her firmly toward the familiar little withdrawing room instead. She went obediently enough, becoming disconcerted only when he closed the door behind them.

“My lord, ’tis not seemly,” she said quietly. “You should leave it open.”

“I do not wish to be disturbed,” he replied, striding toward her. “But do not worry about your reputation, my dear. I’ll see to everything.” He smiled tenderly. “Ah, Gillian, how I have missed you! Had I known you meant to be away so long, I swear I’d have followed you to Bath.” And to her astonishment, he moved to take her in his arms.

“My lord!” she exclaimed, stepping hastily backward. “Whatever are you saying?”

He grinned at her discomposure. “Do not dissemble, my love. You have driven me near to distraction, but I know you care for me, and I can wait no longer. I want you for my own.” He moved forward again, and this time her astonishment held her motionless while he put one arm gently around her shoulders and, with his other hand, tilted her chin up and lowered his lips to hers. She had never really been kissed before, except of course for that rather chaste experience with young Featherstonhaugh at the Bedford House ball. But the sensation was not an unpleasant one. Darrow’s lips were soft against hers, and although she had wondered from time to time how it was that noses did not get in the way when lovers kissed, it seemed to be quite an easy matter indeed. He raised his head and looked down at her, his eyes filled with warmth. “That was very nice.”