To Win the Lady (7 page)

‘It doesn’t
match,’ she said, unwilling to admit that it was an improvement.

‘No,’ he agreed,
looking at her shorn locks; one minute they seemed a rich brown chestnut, the
next, auburn, and, when caught by the light, a real ruby-red. Never had he seen
such colouring; if only there had been more of it to work with...’ He sighed.
‘You must dye your ‘air, mam’selle.’

‘No, I will
not. Find a match.’

He sighed. ‘It
will be difficile, mam’selle. The couleur, it is not ordinary.’

She laughed.
‘Then I shall start a new fashion for short hair.’

She did not
know how he did it, but on the evening of the ball, when she was being helped
into the green gown by Fanny, Monsieur Michel arrived with a hairpiece which
was as near a match as made no difference and she sat with a powder cloak about
her shoulders and watched in the mirror as he transformed her.

She hardly knew
herself when he had finished. With a topknot of her own hair hiding the ends of
the false ringlets so that they blended perfectly, a touch of pearl powder on
her cheeks and with the garnets which had belonged to her mother about her
throat, she had to own that the boyish look had gone and in its place was a
lady of fashion, as feminine as anyone could wish, except for her height.
Nothing could be done about that but she carried it well and it made her look
stately, almost regal. Fanny laid a gossamer shawl about her shoulders and
handed her the cotton gloves which would hide her hands and told her fervently
that she would be the belle of the ball and if someone did not offer for her,
then they needed their cocklofts looking into. Georgie, slipping her feet into
the delicate satin pumps, thanked her with a smile and went in search of her
sister.

Felicity,
petite and tiny-waisted, with her golden ringlets and peach-bloom complexion,
was dressed in light blue net laced with silver and looked like a beautiful
doll. There could not have been a greater contrast than the two sisters as they
went downstairs to join their aunt who waited impatiently in the drawing-room,
tapping her fan against her ample bosom. Both were striking in their way and
Harriet found herself more optimistic than she had been for days that she might
find a match for them both.

‘Come, my
dears,’ she said briskly. ‘The barouche is outside the door and we must be off
or we will be lost in the crush.’

Neither girl
understood what she meant until they found themselves at a standstill at least
a quarter of a mile from their destination. Little by little the carriage
inched forward as those in front deposited their passengers and drove away and
the next vehicle moved up in the line. It took half an hour to reach the door
of Lady Hereward’s town house in Bedford Square and another fifteen minutes
before the three ladies found themselves at the head of the stairs and being
greeted by their host and hostess and Juliette, for whom the ball was being
given.

‘He’s not here
yet,’ Lady Hereward whispered to Harriet after the girls had been presented to
her husband. ‘I do hope he means to come. You’ll find Melissa and John in the
alcove by the potted palm, endeavouring to keep seats for you. It is a fearful
crush; I am sure I did not invite all these people...’

‘Indeed you
did,’ her husband put in. He was a very small man with gingery whiskers and a
red face. His twinkling blue eyes, which showed a wry humour, were his saving
grave for he would otherwise have been nothing out of the ordinary. ‘You
invited the whole ton, you know you did.’

‘Not quite all,
Basil,’ she said, smiling fondly at him. ‘But I’ll allow I asked extra to
account for refusals.’

‘There haven’t
been any,’ he said.

‘I should hope
not!’ she retorted, making him roar with laughter.

A country dance
had just finished and the couples were strolling back to their places. Mrs
Bertram guided her charges across the floor to where Mrs Melford sat, with John
standing at her elbow. He bowed to Mrs Bertram and made an elegant leg to
Felicity before being presented to Georgie. ‘Miss Paget, your obedient,’ he
said, sweeping her a bow, but it was obvious that his eyes were only for her
sister as he arranged chairs for them all and offered to fetch cordial or
ratafia.

He hurried away
on his errand and the two girls sat looking about them at the glittering scene.
The myriad chandeliers alone would have been enough to make the eyes ache, but
added to that there was the sparkle of jewels and shimmer of silks and satins
and so many flowers and so much greenery that one could have been forgiven for
thinking the garden had been brought indoors, not to mention the hum of chatter
and the music of the orchestra; it was an assault on the senses which both
astonished and perplexed them. Surely their aunt was not proposing to equal
this extravaganza for them?

‘The Major has
not come?’ Harriet queried of Mrs Melford, settling herself in a chair beside
her friend and lifting her quizzing-glass to see who was present.

‘Not yet. John
thinks he may not.’

‘No matter. He
is not the only one; there is quite a gaggle of young blades in that corner. It
is a pity no one has instructed them how to go on. They must be winkled out.’

As soon as John
returned with a waiter carrying a tray of full glasses, she insisted that he go
over to the young men and suggest that some might like to be presented to the
Misses Paget.

Georgie watched
as he interrupted some uproarious joke that one was telling, saw him speak and
nod in their direction, saw them lift quizzing-glasses and then frowned as they
all came clamouring over demanding to mark the girls’ cards. In no time at all
Felicity had no dances left and was scolded by her aunt for not leaving at
least one free, in case the elusive Major Baverstock should arrive. And even
Georgie had few spaces left on hers.

She was quite
sure the Major would not appear, for he had told her he was going to his home
and had no plans to return to London. She didn’t know how she felt about that;
she would have to see him again, and more than once, if their business
relationship was to develop, but did she really want to dance with him?

Yes, yes, her
traitorous heart told her, while her head insisted that business should not be
mixed with pleasure, lest both should suffer. And if their aunt had set her
mind on capturing the Major for Felicity, who was she to object if that was
also what Felicity wanted? She had no idea how such a thing could be brought
about; it all sounded so contrived, so calculated. Sitting beside her aunt,
watching Felicity dancing a gavotte with John, she was reminded of how her
father bred horses, mixing the best characteristics of stallion and mare -
looks, speed, stamina - and she found herself smiling. Was it any less
cold-blooded for humans?

‘Miss Paget,
may I present Lord Barbour to you?’

Georgie looked
up, startled out of her reverie, and found Lady Hereward standing in front of
her with a man in his late forties. He was heavily built and, she suspected,
tightly corseted, his complexion was florid and his grey eyes slightly watery,
but she could easily see that he might have been handsome in his youth. He was
dressed in old-fashioned knee breeches and white stockings with a long coat of
ochre satin trimmed with pearl buttons, a shirt whose collar-points reached his
cheeks and below which a diamond pin gleamed in the folds of a cravat of
immense proportions. His dark hair was cut short and curled forward over his
ears. He gave her a sweeping bow and held out his hand. ‘Do me the inestimable
honour, Miss Paget, of taking a turn round the floor?’

Nudged into
action by a sharp dig from her aunt’s elbow, she rose and accompanied his
lordship on to the floor for a minuet. They were the same height and she found
she could not avoid those watery eyes.

‘Liked the cut
of your jib as soon as I clapped eyes on you,’ he said as the music began and
they bowed and curtsied. ‘Asked our hostess who you might be. Old Henry Paget’s
daughter, so she told me. Isn’t to be wondered at. Knew a good bit of horseflesh,
that one. Same for me. What happened to his horses when he stuck his spoon in
the wall? Sell up, did you?’

‘No,’ she said,
not at all sure that she liked to be compared to a horse. ‘Rowan Park still
deals in horses.’

‘That so?’

‘Yes.’

‘Got a brother
or cousin to run things for you?’

‘No.’

He was
certainly out of condition and his questions had been asked breathlessly, but
now he paused suddenly, making the following couple collide with them. ‘Beg
pardon,’ he said, turning to make them a bow. ‘Talking too much. Come, Miss
Paget, let us perambulate.’ And, without waiting for her to reply, he offered
her his arm and led her to the side of the ballroom, where they circulated
round the perimeter in stately fashion.

‘No one to run
things?’ he asked. ‘How do you go on?’

‘Very well, my
lord. I manage everything myself.’

Her answer
seemed to amuse him but she would not let it fluster her. If she wanted to
breed and sell horses, she must be prepared to answer questions, and she had
nothing to hide. But when the questions became a little too personal she was
not so sure.

‘Left you well
up in the stirrups, did he, old Henry?’

‘Well enough,’
she said.

‘Good dowry?’

‘Lord Barbour,
that is hardly a question I care to answer.’

‘Have to answer
if you want to wed, m’dear.’

‘Naturally, I
shall answer such questions when the time comes...’

‘Had no offers,
then?’

‘That, too, is
a question I do not care to answer.’

He smiled
easily, not in the least offended. ‘Just wanted to know the odds. Ain’t one to
waste my time.’

She was so
astonished, she could only turn and gape at him, but he did not elaborate;
instead he said, ‘In the market for a horse. I’ve a mind to look over what
you’ve got.’

‘Of course,’
she said as they reached her aunt’s position. ‘I shall be returning to Rowan Park
next week.’

‘I shall look
forward to that but I hope I may further our acquaintance before that. Call on
you tomorrow. Your servant, ma’am.’ He bowed to both ladies with a flourish
which set his corsets creaking and strolled away.

Georgie
collapsed into the seat beside her aunt. ‘Who was that?’

‘Lord Cedric
Barbour - surely you were introduced?’

‘Yes, of
course. I meant what manner of man is he?’

‘He was widowed
a little over a year ago and one must surmise is looking for a wife and a
mother for his children. Two of them, I believe. Let me see... The boy must be
about thirteen or fourteen and the girl a year or two younger. He is very well
up in Society and has influence at court, so I am told, and he is prodigious
rich. What’s more he keeps a good stable. You could do worse, my dear.’

Georgie,
thoroughly taken aback, swung round to face her aunt. ‘You can’t mean that he
and I...?’

‘If he chooses
to drop the handkerchief, why not pick it up? It could be the answer to your
dilemma.’

‘What dilemma,
Aunt?’

‘Why, becoming
respectable. You must, you know, not only for your own sake but for Felicity’s.
Who would want an eccentric for a sister-in-law? If you persist in that
ramshackle life you have been living, you will both be the talk of the ton for
a Season and then forgotten. You may not mind it, but I am persuaded your
sister would hate it. Oh, she is loyal to you now and sees no wrong in it, but
later, what then? When you are both ape-leaders, will she blame you for not
making a push to put matters to rights?’

Georgie could
find nothing to say in her own defence and did not answer, but deep in her
heart she knew her aunt was right. But Lord Barbour!

She was so
engrossed in that horrible prospect, she was not aware of anyone approaching
until a shadow loomed over her. She lifted startled green eyes to see Major
Baverstock, splendid in dark blue regimentals with silver-laced crimson facings
and silver-tasselled epaulettes, bowing to her aunt. ‘Your servant, ma’am.’

Chapter Three

‘La, major, we had almost given you up,’ Mrs Bertram
said. ‘Never mind, you are here now. Let me present you to my niece, Miss
Paget.’

‘Miss Paget?’
Richard turned to Georgie and the expression of surprise on his face made her
smile, for it was obvious that he had only then realised who she was.

She found
herself laughing. ‘Oh, Major, have you never seen a foolhardy woman before?’

‘Only one in
your mould,’ he said, making a swift recovery. She looked beautiful, not at all
like the mannish woman he had met at the stables. And her hair was magnificent.
He was tempted to ask how she had achieved it but decided that would be asking
for a put-down and her aunt was looking from one to the other in a very
disapproving way. He bowed. ‘Your servant, Miss Paget.’

‘And this is my
other niece, Miss Felicity Paget,’ Mrs Bertram put in as Felicity was returned
to her on the arm of her latest partner. ‘Felicity, my dear, this is Major
Baverstock.’