The Painted Lady (23 page)

About ten minutes, it turned out. Enough time for her to open the wardrobe door in her bedchamber, then find her way back downstairs and ask his direction. So angry was she that Lilyanne did not even notice the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books.

She marched up to Kasey’s desk and crossed her arms over her chest. “Your Grace, there are dresses in my room.”

He stood and came around the desk, but leaned back against it, casually crossing his own arms over his own broad chest. “Yes, that’s where they’ll be most convenient. I could have them moved to the butter’s pantry, but I doubt old Henesley will appreciate them.”

“Stop being flippant. I know you have no sisters, and you know I cannot accept your mistress’s castoffs.”

“The gowns are new, I swear. I have Madam Celestine’s bill to prove it, if you wish to see the thing.”

“In that case, I cannot accept your charity. Nor a present. Such a gift from you is so scandalously improper my reputation would be all to pieces in an hour.”

“I am well aware of the rules of polite behavior, Miss Bannister. You may be assured that the gowns are not from me at all, although I did arrange for their delivery and for the bill to be sent here, pending your uncle’s arrival. Sir Osgood and I discussed the matter before I left Bannister House, you see. He agreed that you could not appear in London looking like a servant.”

“He did?” Lilyanne was astonished, but then she insisted, “But that is what I am to be, a ladies’ companion. Hired, receiving wages, earning my keep. That, Your Grace, is a servant.”

“Ah, but before you can apply for such an upper position, you have to prove that you are indeed a lady. The dowager set does not take country greenheads into their homes, you see. They require a gentlewoman who can take her place at the dinner table, converse with the guests, help manage their household. In other words, they seek to hire a lady, in manners if not in title. Furthermore, if you are dressed befitting your station, perhaps you might catch the eye of some lucky gentleman. One who does not require a wealthy bride, merely a well-bred, well-behaved lady. Then you would not have to seek employment at all.”

Kasey watched her carefully, wary of her answer. He was not as disappointed as he should have been when she replied, “No, I am not looking to marry. Why would I go from one form of bondage to another? I would rather seek a position, and thereby win my independence.”

“I fear the post of ladies’ companion does not offer a great deal of freedom, Miss Bannister. Nevertheless, you see that you must dress the part of lady, don’t you? At your uncle’s expense, of course.” He’d have to wake Sir Osgood from his afternoon nap to tell him.

“I suppose so.” Lilyanne glanced at the correct footman who stood outside the correctly opened door, then complained, “There is a maid in my room also. I know she was not Uncle’s idea, nor is he paying her wages, for she wears the uniform of your staff. I do not require a dresser, Your Grace, although I thank you for the gesture.” Her still-rigid posture was not exactly indicative of gratitude. “I am, however, quite capable of taking care of my personal needs myself.”

Kasey smiled, enjoying himself. “Ah, but Fanny is in need of training. She asked for this opportunity to improve her skills so she might better her own position in life, rather than staying an upstairs maid forever. Would you deny the girl a chance while you are taking one?”

Lilyanne bit her lip in frustration. She did not want to be in this man’s debt, nor be a burden to him. The very fact of this trip, the luxurious coach ride, the possibilities ahead of her, were enough. Fanny did not have half those options. “Of course not.”

“Good. You will be too busy to fuss over ironing and mending anyway, even if it were acceptable for a guest to be fetching her own hot water and warming pans, which, I must say, it is not.”

Lilyanne hadn’t thought of that, of fetching her own chocolate in the morning or making up her own fires, things she was used to doing at home. She could not see herself, in flannel robe and slippers, tiptoeing through the Caswell House kitchens. The corners of her mouth turned up, just thinking of it.

“Fine, so that is settled.”

“Yes, Fanny stays, too. I am sorry I intruded on your privacy, Your Grace, over what must seem foolish concerns.” Lilyanne curtsied, ready to leave.

“You are never an intrusion, my dear Miss Bannister,” Kasey said, low enough for the footman to miss.

She colored and looked away, finally noticing the large room with its vast collection of books. “Oh, how wonderful! This is how I imagine Heaven should look, with a few clouds.”

“Please feel free to borrow anything you wish, or sit here any time.”

“Truly? That is a much better gift than the gowns!”

Lilyanne was overjoyed to be offered the use of Caswell’s library. Here was a place she could hide, somewhere she could feel at home, not that her home ever approached this magnificence, of course. But Lilyanne knew she could find a place among books, if not among the ton.

She did not belong here, in London, in Grosvenor Square, in Caswell House. She’d always known it, but actually entering Kasey’s home proved that her dreams were just that: impossible air castles, built on soap bubbles. Why, half of Bannister Hall could fit in the ballroom here, the servants were dressed better than she was, and the dog’s collar likely cost more than the tea they were served could have fed the entire Bannister household, residents, staff, and Wolfie, for a week. Caswell was a duke, for Heaven’s sake. This was not the country, where he could pretend to be a modest gentleman of leisure, where Lilyanne could forget the incredible difference between their stations. She barely stopped herself from curtsying again.

“Are you well, Your Grace?” she asked when she realized he was waiting for some response.

“Better, I think. I am making some changes, considering others
.
”

“Good. I am pleased for you.”

He bent his head and stepped closer to her. “Ah, you might be interested in this section of books, Miss Bannister,” he said for the footman’s benefit, guiding her toward a standing shelf in the corner, out of sight of the doorway. There he swiftly pulled her into his arms.

Now he was better.

Lilyanne placed her arms around him, too, where they seemed to belong. He was a duke, but he was Kasey, too. She might not belong in his house, but his arms were another matter entirely.

Because Lilyanne still seemed uncertain, still anxious about her place in London—a place he’d vowed just last night that she did not fit—Kasey kissed her. He was already insane, Kasey reasoned. What was one more lunatic act?

* * * *

They were promised that evening to a small ball at Lady Lamport-Jones’s, small being a relative term. The countess had invited a mere two hundred persons into a room large enough to accommodate seventy-five. Sir Osgood stayed behind, to no one’s surprise or dismay.

As the highest-ranking gentleman, Caswell opened the ball by dancing with his hostess.

Then, very properly, he led Lady Edgecombe out for the following set.

Equally as decorous, the duke next danced with his aunts’ house guest, Miss Lilyanne Bannister.

Entirely improperly, he then propped himself against a pillar at the side of the crowded ballroom, scowling at every gentleman who approached his aunts to beg for a dance with the newest comet in London’s glittering sky.

She was unknown, she had the blessings of the Duke of Caswell’s powerful aunts, and she was beautiful in the rose gown he’d picked out for her. The silk graced every soft, gentle curve. Her black hair was piled high on her head, with one long curl trailing down an alabaster shoulder, the way he’d directed Fanny to fix it, and one of his conservatory’s roses was tucked in the upswept tresses.

Lilyanne did not need a fortune to be a success. Kasey did not need a fortune-teller to tell him she would be. He had only to look at half the gentlemen in London, tripping over themselves to bring her a glass of lemonade. His own brother was drooling worse than Ticket over a tenderloin. His friends, sophisticated men-about-town, were about to come to blows over taking her in to supper.

Kasey was happy for Lilyanne. He just could not decide which gentleman to call out first. Could he challenge his own brother?

He damned well would, for not only was the clunch too close to Kasey’s Miss Bannister, but then Jason danced Lady Phillida in the duke’s direction. His Grace had no other choice but to ask for the lady’s hand for the next set. It was a waltz. Jason was a dead man.

“I have been hoping to speak with you, Caswell.”

“Indeed?” Kasey was amazed. He was holding a lovely young woman, the ideal bride for a man in his position, in his arms, and he felt nothing: not the faintest glimmer of desire, not the least wish to parade about with her on his arm, not even an urge to paint her perfect beauty. He only wanted the dance to end. Meanwhile, he waltzed her backward, so he could see who was speaking with Lilyanne. She, naturally, had not been approved to waltz yet. He did not know if she knew how to waltz.

Annoyed, and knowing he was lost to her in truth as well as in his thoughts, Lady Phillida said, “Caswell, I am speaking to you.”

“So you are, my dear. So you are. What was it you wished to say?”

“I wanted to tell you that I am not holding you to any understanding I may have led you to believe we shared. I know that my father might have raised certain expectations, but I have concluded that we really would not suit.”

“You are releasing me from my ... obligations?”

Lady Phillida smiled brilliantly, as if her pet canary had laid a golden egg.

He smiled back, happier with Lady Phillida’s company than he had ever been. “Why, thank you, my dear, for being so frank. I am, of course, devastated, but I do respect your honesty.”

He respected the earl’s daughter so much, so suddenly, that he laughed out loud, causing heads to turn in their direction. Then he introduced her to His Royal Highness Prince Heinrich of Ziftsweig, Austria, who was seeking allies, trade agreements, and a wealthy English bride.

* * * *

Long before the ball was officially over, Kasey took his party home. Lady Edgecombe might have danced till dawn, but his aunts were asleep in the gilt chairs along the wall, and Lilyanne was yawning. Unused to City ways, unused, indeed, to any but her uncle’s strict parsimony, Lilyanne was struggling to remember the names of her partners and the steps of the dances. She was pleased to return to Caswell House, where she placed the rose from her hair between the pages of her Bible to press it. She thought she’d fall asleep, recounting to herself the wonders of the evening, the compliments, the champagne, Caswell’s kiss. She lay awake, though, seeing him laugh with the blond woman his aunts thought Kasey was going to wed. She got up and tossed the rose onto the dying coals of the fireplace. Silly schoolgirl tokens were not good for the Bible, nor for her.

Chapter Twenty-five

The gentlemen’s clubs served as refuges from the rigors of the Beau Monde. They were also high-stakes gaming parlors, political forums, and finance offices. The purpose places like White’s predominantly served, however, was to proliferate gossip. More rumors were passed over cards and conversation here than at any ladies’ tea party, despite all claims to the contrary.

The clubs were also excellent venues for outwitting the on-dits.

Kasey spent hours at White’s, making certain that everyone saw him there. He was in plain sight, from the time he delivered his party home, till nearly dawn. He was, therefore, not in bed with the luscious but possibly lunatic Lady Edgecombe, nor with the dewy, delectable Miss Bannister. He was not with any ladybird either, one who might fly off come morning.

Such behavior was unusual for the duke, so would be doubly noted. He’d often left balls early, if he bothered to attend, but most nights he spent with a Bird of Paradise in a love nest, not with a brandy snifter in a leather armchair. What no one knew, of course, was that after the painted women went home, Caswell painted. He felt no urge for the former tonight, and a certain dread of the latter.

His reputation as a womanizer might suffer, which was no great loss. If Kasey hadn’t needed models, he would not have hired so many mistresses. At least no one was speaking about the disappearances from the ranks of straw damsels. No, they were too busy nattering on about Caswell’s house guests.

Lady Edgecombe did not have a breeze in her cockloft; she had a bastard for a husband. Miss Bannister was not an adventuress; she was an orphaned gentlewoman. Sir Osgood was not a charlatan; he was a—well, Kasey did the best he could with what he had. The gentlemen at White’s Club that night were satisfied with His Grace’s answers to their questions. They did not, however, dare to ask the formidable duke all their questions, so speculation was still in the air, along with the tobacco smoke.

When he decided he’d done his best to quash most of the rumor-mongering, Kasey found a friendly game of whist. Between hands, his companions discussed the Lamport-Jones ball, the next balloon ascension, the war news, that new artist going up for auction, and Prince Heinrich’s prospects for finding a wealthy bride. Kasey placed his money on Lady Phillida.

All in all, the duke congratulated himself, he’d had a pleasant evening. It would be the last one he’d enjoy for days.

* * * *

Kasey never got to see Lilyanne alone. He barely got to see her in company, since she was always surrounded by a swarm of beaus. That was better for her reputation, but did they have to monopolize her every minute? Kasey had wanted to take her to the balloon trial, but his aunts had formed a party of young people to go—in his carriages, lunching on his food. He’d be the oldest gentleman present—by at least five years.

Their box at the opera was filled. Zeus, his sitting room was filled with her callers. Even his breakfast parlor was crowded! And there were so many flowers on every surface of his house that he felt ill, from both the overwhelming scents and the bad poetry that accompanied the offerings. Kasey had wanted to be the one to bring her posies. He’d wanted to give Lilyanne her first taste of opera, of Gunter’s ices, of Society on the strut in Hyde Park. By Jupiter, he’d wanted to get her off by herself to taste her lips again, to press her slim body against his heat, to take the pins out of her silky black hair.