The Masked Heart (Sweet Deception Regency #2) (11 page)

Despite the casualness of his pose, it was apparent that Robbie was far from relaxed. The expression in his eyes was a mixture of anger, hurt feelings, and admiration for the girl he loved. As though he felt their eyes upon him, Robbie turned and immediately his expression changed to the congeniality expected of a host.

Blaine poked Drew with the knob of her cane. "Tell that flighty chit I would like to go home," Blaine said through gritted teeth.

The carriage ride back to Weathers was made in an uncomfortable silence. Fleur pouted at their early departure but Blaine was much too annoyed with the girl to do anything but glower at her. She followed Fleur to her room determined to lecture her on the inappropriateness of her behavior with Stoddard but before she could launch into speech, her sister's eager thanks took the wind out of her sails.

"Oh, thank you, Blaine, for making this evening possible." The girl twirled around the room in her exuberance. "I know it must have been horrid for you to tramp around in that fusty gown. Never has a girl had a more unselfish sister."

"I'm glad that you had such a good time." Blaine sighed heavily, loath to cut up the happiness she saw reflected on her sister's face.

"Everything was perfect," Fleur enthused. "I was terrified at first that everyone would think I was gauche but the gentlemen were ever so kind. Talbott, I mean, Lord Stoddard was most attentive."

"He is not a man to trifle with, Fleur," Blaine warned. "I cannot like the fact that you spent so much time with him. He is far too experienced and sophisticated for you."

"He did not think so."

Blaine groaned as Fleur raised her chin in rebellion. She realized she had handled this poorly and she tried to soften her tone. "It is just that I find Robert Farrington so much more the gentleman," she said. "He is very handsome too."

"Oh, Robbie is aces." Fleur's voice was breezy with disinterest. "He is a good friend but he is hardly a romantic figure. Talb-Lord Stoddard is much more fascinating." She lowered her voice as she stared wide-eyed at Blaine. "When he looks at me, my heart jumps and I do not know whether it is fear or excitement."

"It is probably indigestion," Blaine drawled, hoping her prosaic tone might pierce the bubble of romanticism that surrounded the girl.

"Oh, piffle! How can you be so practical," Fleur said, stamping her slippered foot in annoyance. "No wonder you're not married if you look at everything that way. You've been too long with Cousin Lavinia. It must be dreadful being at someone's beck and call. You need to think of yourself more. Haven't you found anyone special in London? Someone who would make a loving husband and father?"

"No, dear. I have not come across such a paragon of virtue."

"I noticed that you spent a great deal of time with Lord Farrington. I thought at first I might attempt to attach him but there is an air of amusement about him that I do not fully understand." Fleur looked across at her sister consideringly. "It is a shame that you could not have met him when you were dressed as yourself not as an old lady. He is a bit intimidating but I do not think that would bother you, since you can be quite bossy when you want. Do you think he is too old for you?"

"Much too old," Blaine answered, moving quickly toward the door before her sister could question her further. "Off to bed now or you will look quite hagged in the morning."

At her words, Fleur raced to the mirror and Blaine made her escape. Back in her room, Tate was waiting to help her off with her makeup and to hear a report of the evening. The dresser reminded her that Wesley Upton would be arriving in the morning to present her with the year's allowance and Blaine groaned that the masquerade would continue for another day.

Climbing into bed, she felt close to tears and put it down to the lateness of the hour. She lay on her back, staring up at the bed hangings, trying to fall asleep. However Fleur's words kept circling in her mind.

She was glad that her sister did not realize the unintentional cruelty of her questions. How ludicrous that Fleur thought she was sacrificing her life in the service of the fictitious Cousin Lavinia. In actual fact the only men she saw, outside of the actors she performed with, were John Tibbles and Sarge. As an actress she was not recognized by society. The only relationship she could hope for was as the mistress of one of the gentlemen who vied for her attention. Men like Talbott Stoddard and Drew Farrington.

Her heart jolted at the thought of Drew. She had to admit that, since her coming to Wiltshire, she had discovered a different side to him than she had considered possible. If, as her sister had so wildly conjectured, she had met him as Blaine Margaret Meriweather, she might have fallen in love with him. He surely had a great many qualities that she could admire. He might even have asked for her hand, she fantasized.

A silent sob shook her body and a tear rolled out of the corner of her eye and slid into the tangle of her hair. She was only castle-building. She could never meet Drew as herself, the sister of Fleur Meriweather. He already knew her as Maggie Mason, the notorious La Solitaire. Men of his class thought of actresses as playthings and as one, he would never accept her as anything other than a woman of easy virtue. Rolling over on her stomach, Blaine buried her head in her pillow and cried herself to sleep.

In the morning, her eyes were swollen, but Tate made no comment as she applied the white makeup to her face. The gown was similar to the black dress she had worn to dinner but this time the color was a dark brown, cut in a style long out of fashion. Tate fussed with the cap, until she was satisfied that the fake ringlets covered Blaine's ears, then she handed her a black lace fan and her walking stick.

"Mr. Upton has been cooling his heels in the drawing room this half hour. He brought you roses." Tate snorted at the idiocy of the man.

"Good Lord," Blaine muttered. Shaking out her skirts she made for the door, already leaning on her stick to get herself into the role of Aunt Haydie. "You better come down with me before the flowers wilt. Then if I don't ring for tea in twenty minutes, come in and rescue me."

One of the disadvantages of her perfect acting as Lady Haydie Yates was the fact that Wesley Upton, somewhere in his late sixties, thought of her as his contemporary. He was a sweet man and she hated deceiving him so she had always been especially warm toward him. They had corresponded over the years, concerning the business of the estate, and she thought they had become friends.

The last time she had seen him, she was horrified to discover he had mistaken her warmth for affection and developed a tendre for her. If she hadn't been so desperate for the yearly allowance, she would have ended the charade in the face of the man's pursuit.

"Ah, my dear Lady Yates," Wesley Upton croaked, rising stiffly to his feet as she entered the room followed by her dresser. His arm was burdened with an enormous bouquet of red roses.

"Mr. Upton," Blaine acknowledged, keeping her voice friendly but impersonal.

"I am delighted to find you well, Lady Yates. I have taken the liberty of bringing you some flowers which I hope you will accept as a token of my regard." His gold-rimmed spectacles had slid down his nose and in his nervousness as he pushed them back into place, he fumbled the bouquet.

"You are too kind, Mr. Upton. Roses are a favorite of mine." She lowered her head in a regal bow of approval. "Tate, perhaps you would be good enough to put these in water."

The dour-faced dresser took the flowers from Wesley and, with a final sniff, left the room, leaving the door partially open. The solicitor extended his arm and led Blaine to the blue and silver striped sofa. She sat down in the very center precluding any action of his to seat himself at her side. She grandly waved him to one of the armchairs facing her across a low table of burled walnut. Watching him, she groaned inwardly. The dapper little man was showing all the nervous twitches of an amorous schoolboy.

Blaine had grown quite fond of Wesley Upton over the years. She found his old-fashioned courtly manners quite endearing. He was shorter than she, with skinny legs below a generous paunch. His head was bald, although there was a fringe of soft white hair which made her think of a halo. His plump face did have the look of some benign saint, she decided, studying his blue eyes and pink cheeks.

"I trust your journey from London was uneventful. As I know how busy you are, I think we should conclude our business immediately. I am sure you are in a hurry to shake the dust of Wiltshire from your heels," she suggested.

"Not at all, dear lady. I thought perhaps this visit I might extend my stay to take in some of the beauty of Salisbury Plain."

"Oh." Blaine knew her reply was less than adequate but she did not know what else to say. Without any encouragement, Wesley launched into a lengthy praise of the district, while Blaine kept a stiff smile of interest riveted to her face. She closed her eyes, praying that the little man would not choose this time to make a cake of himself. She was much too tired to cope with any sort of a scene. Waiting only for the man to pause for a breath, she burst into speech.

"This is all quite fascinating, Mr. Upton. Perhaps we should get our business over with so that we might talk more over tea."

"Excellent. Excellent," the solicitor said, fidgeting with his high collar and resettling his treacherous spectacles.

"Have you the papers for me to sign?" Blaine asked. She tried to keep her voice cool although she felt perspiration bead her lip. She flicked open her fan and plied it briskly as she eyed him warily.

"My father always approved of your business acumen, Lady Yates." He waggled his white eyebrows in a roguish manner that sent his glasses lurching down his nose. "It was his opinion that you were the model for the perfect spouse."

"Fustian, Mr. Upton," Blaine snorted. "Your father thought I was a stubborn old harridan. And he was right."

Wesley chuckled and reached inside his coat to withdraw a long envelope. Blaine had to restrain herself from snatching it out of his hands. While the little man bustled around to bring the tray of writing materials from the dainty lady's desk at the far side of the room, she clasped her hands tightly, the sticks of her fan crackling ominously at the pressure. He spread the papers on the table, then with great ceremony, he dipped the pen and handed it to her. She clamped her teeth together in annoyance and hastily forged Lady Haydie Yates' signature, feeling like the veriest criminal. She sighed as he rolled the blotter across the wet ink.

"The money will be deposited with your man of business, Lady Yates." He refolded the paper and carefully tucked it inside his coat and patted the pocket lovingly. It was a ritual Blaine had become used to over the years and she smiled, grateful that it was over for another year.

"Perhaps you would care for tea, Mr. Upton."

"I would like that very much, my dear lady," Wesley said, beaming down at her.

She had not realized how close the man had come and now she shifted on the sofa as he made to move toward her. Her eyes squinting with wariness, she swallowed nervously as the little man seemed to marshal his forces. He brushed his hands across his paunch and tugged at the edges of his coat with all of the solemnity of a warrior preparing for battle. Hoping to head him off, she spoke.

"If you would be so kind as to pull the bellcord."

"Before I ring, milady, I would have a word with you."

"Oh, I wish you wouldn't," Blaine blurted out.

"Beg pardon?" Wesley was clearly put off his stride by her outburst. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and the pink scalp of his bald head. "But, Lady Yates, I have planned everything I wish to say and I know I shall never have the courage again."

"Sometimes, Mr. Upton, it takes more courage to leave a thing unsaid."

Blaine struggled to her feet in agitation, wanting to put as much space as possible between herself and the amorous solicitor. She grasped her fan in one hand and her stick in the other, raising her arms as if to ward off some horrifying spectre.

"Oh, Lady Yates, please calm yourself," the little man cried, reaching out as if to take her arm.

Blaine swatted at him with her fan, feeling that the entire scene was degenerating into low comedy. She wanted nothing more than to race from the room before the man could foolishly declare himself. Seeing the determination on his face, she finally decided that nothing would do except to let him have his say. As he reached for her again, she drew herself up, until she towered over him, and raised her stick much like a prophet of old.

"Devil take it, Mr. Upton! There is no need to maul me," Blaine snapped in the imperious tones of a gentlewoman. "I was having a spasm. A slight fit of the vapors, don't you know. It is rather close in here."

She seated herself and permitted him to take the fan from her hand and wave it briskly in front of her face while with the other hand he mopped his streaming forehead. Finally she could stand the suspense no longer and snatched the fan away and waved him back to his seat. She gritted her teeth waiting for him to declare himself, praying that he would refrain from throwing himself to his knees in an undignified manner.

"Have your say quickly, good sir," she said, finding it increasingly difficult to be gracious. Although the situation was ludicrous, she felt no urge to laugh. She felt sorry for the sweet old man and was annoyed with herself for letting things come to such a pass.

Wesley stood across from her, tugging at the edges of his coat, his mouth partially open although no words issued forth. A tremor shook his body and his eyes, behind rapidly descending spectacles, were slightly glazed.

"I have always admired you, d-dear lady," he stammered. "Over the years I have come to appreciate your fine qualities and I have hinted, on the occasions that we have met, that I was desirous of a warmer relationship. I had no intention of trifling with your affections and hope I have not given you a disgust of me for desiring something that was above my touch."

"Please know, Mr. Upton, that I have always considered you a fine gentleman," Blaine answered kindly. She could feel perspiration soaking through the palms of her mittens and, placing the fan on the table, reached into the voluminous pocket of her skirts to withdraw a black-bordered handkerchief. "I have always thought of you as a friend," she continued, stressing the final word.