Lady Adventuress 01 - His Wayward Duchess Page 21

  Lord Myles glanced at his fob again. “Well now, Compton, since you already have the situation so very well in hand, I trust the present company will pardon my departure – I seem to have recalled an appointment at White’s with my brother, and I really must be punctual. You know the sort of thing. Dear Miss Dacre – I can but hope that you feel imminently better. I shall blame myself forever if you take poorly – for it was my fault entirely that you slipped!”

  “Not at all,” said Verity dazedly, eyes still fixed on Sir John.

  Lord Myles seemed to bristle at this inattention. “You are the soul of kindness. I shall call on you tomorrow, if you would but deign to receive me,” he said with his most dazzling smile.

  “Yes, just as you would,” she murmured, gaze flickering to his face briefly and then away again.

  “Excellent. Well, good day then. Compton, Lady Strathavon, Miss Sanford.” With another perfect bow, he was gone.

  “I think I had best take Miss Dacre home in my carriage,” Sir John said to the ladies. “The seat should be comfortable enough for her ankle.”

  Holly gave him a wide smile. “Then shall I drive you home in mine, Miss Sanford?”

  “Yes, that would be very kind, Lady Strathavon.”

  “Good,” said Holly briskly, turning to her injured friend. “I will come and see how you are feeling after I have driven Miss Sanford home, my dear Verity – but I can see you are already in the very best possible hands.”

  “Yes, I think I just might be,” Verity said, her wide eyes meeting Holly’s carefully observant ones. The tears were gone, to be replaced by a strange wonderment.

  As Sir John helped Verity into his curricle, Holly directed Miss Sanford to her own waiting Phaeton.

  Despite Verity’s accident, which was not such a big thing after all, she felt a satisfying confidence that all would now work out very well indeed.

  *

  When Holly arrived at last at the Chenefelt London residence, she was promptly shown into the parlour, where a sleepy Verity reclined on a sofa with an empty cup and a pot of tea at her side. Sir John sat in an armchair near her, reading to her from a book of travel stories, while Verity’s maid dozed quietly near the window.

  The baronet promptly rose to his feet and Verity looked pleased to see her friend. Sunlight streamed into the room.

  “How are you, my dear?” Holly asked, taking note of the extremely cosy scene.

  “Oh, much better. Mama was very angry that I had been so careless, and especially in such flimsy shoes. But I think she cannot be too angry, for she immediately had carnation tea sent up to help my nerves and the swelling. She also sent coffee for Sir John. She has already left for the opera. Sir John has been most attentive – everything that is good, I ought to say!”

  “Not at all, Miss Dacre,” the gentleman dismissed softly, though Holly saw a light tinge of pink high on his cheeks. “But I ought to take my leave now that Lady Strathavon is here.”

  “I shouldn’t at all like to hold you up, Sir John,” said the young lady with a look of regret in her eyes. “But… if I might ask…”

  “I am your servant, Miss Dacre.”

  “Might you come back and read to me again tomorrow? You have such a fine voice…” she added shyly.

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  The maid, startled out of her nap by the commotion of Holly’s arrival, rose to show their visitor to the door.

  Once they were alone, Holly gave her friend a knowing smile, and Verity called for another cup and a pot of chocolate to be brought for Holly.

  They spoke about the walk, and the advice given by Verity’s physician, while the young lady made a truly concerted and herculean effort avoid the least mention of the baronet. And that was how Holly knew that the pieces were definitely falling into place. At last, Verity was unable to bear the silence a moment longer.

  “You must think me terribly fast, asking him back like that – and he with a reputation for roguishness. Only, you must believe me, dearest Holly, that he isn’t at all like that. Not really. He is such a kind, gracious man. I expect you don’t know how right you were when you said you were leaving me in very good hands. He has been so attentive. I didn’t expect that from a rakehell. And I find that the hint of his wild nature, which one hears about so much these days, makes the whole even more thrilling! I cannot forget the quiet confidence with which he took charge of me after my fall… But it is also that he is very kind to me.”

  Holly smiled and wondered how long it would be before their betrothal would appear in the papers. She had a strong suspicion that Sir John would have no need of gathering a fortune to woo his lady after all.

  “I expect you must also think me hopelessly besotted, but I assure you I am not. In fact, I am the furthest thing from falling victim to such sensibilities,” Verity insisted.

  Only a woman utterly in love could deny her feelings with such burning fervour. Holly knew exactly how that felt, because she had been in the very same position before she had finally acknowledged Strathavon’s fatal effect upon her.

  While Verity did her best to avoid admitting to her feelings, Holly found herself pressed into the service and obliged to play cards and speculate on Sir John’s many unexpected virtues, until it was time for her to return home.

  Chapter 12

  There was no denying that Holly had been truly looking forward to visiting the British Museum, where the treasures of Ancient Greece and Egypt could be viewed almost as though opening a window through time.

  She enjoyed the vast echoing halls, and the look of wonder on the face of the other visitors almost as much as she enjoyed the exhibits themselves.

  She had been delighted when Strathavon produced two of the much-coveted tickets for them, issued for the following day, and rewarded him with her brightest smile.

  Now that they had at last arrived at the stately museum, she could hardly contain her excitement. In the front foyer, they joined the three other visitors who would be part of their group, but Holly kept looking around, wondering when their guide would join them. The duke seemed greatly amused by her enthusiasm.

  “I own, my dear, that I have never met a lady who would be more pleased with old vases than a visit to her seamstress. I would almost suspect that you like this even better than gadding about town with your Lady Louisa.”

  Holly laughed. “Ah, but I don’t enjoy visiting my seamstress much at all – one gets very tired of being poked with needles by her apprentice. And you, Your Grace, are laughing at me.”

  It was the outside of enough when Sylvester saw his wife produce a quizzing glass, attached to her gown by a pale blue ribbon. She proceeded to level him a look of mock disapproval, holding up the glass in the manner of the most accomplished dandy. He was greatly reminded of Avonbury and his own ridiculous quizzing glass.

  The duke could not abide the things.

  It was an absurd affectation and it could not be allowed to go on. What’s more, Holly was evidently enjoying his expression very much.

  Fortunately, their guide, a scholarly young man, arrived just in time to pre-empt any squabbles, and Holly lowered the blue ribbon as they proceeded into the first gallery.

  “Can you imagine how delightful it would be to work here,” she whispered breathlessly to her duke as they followed the rest of the group through the museum.

  He shot her an amused look. “Do tell me if you ever tire of presiding over your coterie, and we’ll see if we can’t arrange it,” he found himself teasing her. Her mood was infectious.

  Holly smiled and the look in her eyes told him that she would have liked that very much.

  Strathavon chuckled softly. She really was an impossible enigma. She did not even complain of the soreness of her feet as they were shepherded through the halls for well over an hour, looking at pillars and Grecian urns, ancient relief carvings, and wondrous headdresses.

  It was as though all the astonishing marvels of the world had been gathered in one trove, there to
be admired.

  At last, their little group reached a display of ancient jewellery. There was a silver Roman medallion in one of the glass cases, worked over with a border of turquoise to which the guide drew their attention.

  The young man cleared his throat politely and smiled.

  “And this, the last piece in our tour, is the Morpheus medallion. You can see his likeness in the silver. I have personally been working on a full assessment of the piece since it first came to be housed in our museum.”

  “Morpheus?” asked an elderly lady, whose dark dress, spectacles and outmoded poudrée hair marked her out as a dowager of some standing.

  The guide looked very pleased that she had asked. “Yes, madam. The winged Ancient Greek deity of dreams and sleep. He was also in possession of a thousand siblings, commanded the spirits of somnolence and shaped the dreams of sleepers. Ovid writes of him at length in his Metamorphoses. Our scholars believe that this amulet was worn to encourage slumber and to chase away bad dreams. It was found…”

  Holly was awed by how much history such a little pendant could contain.

  When their tour was finished, the guide took his leave, suggesting that the guests wander on their own, to look again at any objects which they had found particularly striking.

  Holly lingered by the amulet. A frown marred her smooth forehead as she contemplated it from the other side of the glass.

  “A curious piece, isn’t it?” said Sylvester softly. Holly was surprised to find that he had drawn so close to her. His warm breath tickled her ear and sent a pleasurable shiver through her.

  “Yes. I was just thinking how marvellous if such a thing actually worked,” she replied, just as softly.

  “Worked? To chase away bad dreams and such?”

  “Exactly so.”

  “Hmm. And what bad dreams would you chase away?”

  Holly shot him a grin that sent a bolt right into his old heart. “I never have bad dreams – I have been dreaming of the sea lately, and there is nothing more wonderful than the sea!”

  “Just the sea? Well. I would have thought your dreams much more nefarious than that.” The duke gave a look that might almost have been flirtatious. “But I think you mean there is nothing more wonderful than the sea, apart from ancient urns?”

  “Well, yes, naturally,” Holly replied, matching his tone and feeling a strange, delighted tingling go through her at this intimate moment. Unconsciously, he raised a gloved hand to adjust her bonnet, and Holly couldn’t breathe.

  “Then I can only hope that you have had your fill for now, my dear, for I must pry you away. Shall we?”

  And she could move again. And breathe. She did both and accepted the duke’s arm.

  Strathavon helped Holly into his curricle, and sent his groom home on foot. Holly wondered what he was about as he drove them to the park to enjoy the pale autumn sunlight while they could.

  The park was blessedly deserted at such an unfashionable hour, and they were free to drive without any obligations of civility.

  “Well, I trust I have upheld my part of the wager?”

  “You did very well. You didn’t even complain – I might be so bold as to venture, Sylvester, that you enjoyed yourself.”

  Strathavon was astonished to discover that he really had done.

  “It occurs to me that, while I have told you what I’ve been dreaming about, you have been keeping mum. So, what do your dreams contain, Your Grace?” Holly asked, her eyes sparkling.

  For a long moment, Strathavon did not answer. Regretfully, Holly concluded that he did not mean to answer her at all when he spoke at last, surprising her, his voice ragged.

  “I dream of my brother, still. Of the last time I saw him. I told you that we had had a quarrel, just before he died. We were both in our cups, and a missive had come about some flooding on the Pontridge estate. When Max seemed to laugh off the problem as an unnecessary fuss, I accused him of neglecting Pontridge, and the memory of our parents with it – that it was a selfish and lazy thing to do.”

  The duke laughed bitterly, and stared off into the distance.

  “Max grew angry in his turn, and responded. I won’t repeat what was said, but it is amazing how good one grows at lacerating the people one has known the longest. We almost never quarrelled, but somehow we both lost our tempers that night... Then he died, and I never did take my words back.”

  A scuffle between siblings was such a small thing, Holly thought sadly. And yet it had turned so tragic.

  “And it eats at you to this day. I am sorry.” She touched a hand to his sleeve and he shot her a look of surprise, as though he had forgotten that she was there. “Is it for him that you are so determined to restore the house?”

  “For him, for myself, and for our parents, whose memory Max could never tarnish no matter my angry words. I have never spoken of our quarrel. No one knows but you.”

  Holly’s eyes traced the beloved lines of his face, his strong jaw and high cheekbones, but his own gaze was intent on the horses.

  Did he mean that? Was she really the only person in whom he had ventured to confide? Her heart melted at the trust, the confidence, that he had rested in her to share such an intimate thing.

  “Thank you for telling me.” Her voice contained all the things that she didn’t have words to say.

  The duke nodded.

  They drove in silence for a while.

  “I think that it is hardest of all to forgive ourselves,” Holly said eventually. “Forgiving others is nothing compared to that task.”

  “And is it possible, do you think? Forgiveness and happiness?”

  It seemed he meant more than just the present subject. It was a vast question, and a treacherous one. Holly considered how to reply.

  “Yes. I think it is always possible to forgive. And happiness, true happiness, is finding the one place in the world where you really want to be.”

  She put her whole heart into her words. It was true, after all, even when such happiness came at a price, because there could never be joy without pain. Some joy was worth all the pain in the world. She realised that she refused to believe that love was only about illusions and masquerades as the fashionable circles would have it.

  The duke nodded at that, and Holly wondered how much he had read into her answer.

  *

  It was all Strathavon could do to keep a firm hold on his coolly disinterested expression when Lord Bettenhall ventured to tell him the latest rumours of the debauchery and daring-do of Sir John Compton.

  The story had started as the merest whisper, but had grown exponentially when the baronet was sighted carrying Miss Verity Dacre out of Hyde Park in his arms, while the Duchess of Strathavon and Miss Sanford led the way.

  Someone had taken the liberty of adding in robbers and a thunderstorm to give drama to the occasion and Lord Myles Wooley was now saying that he had personally challenged their assailant with his rapier. The entire narrative reeked very strongly of imaginative fiction.

  In fact, the entire situation reeked very strongly of a very specific imagination. He doubted that it was a coincidence that Holly had been in attendance during the episode – but he felt sure that no one could believe Compton a heroically reformed rake. Or any sort of rake, really. The man spent his spare time sketching geese and talking about wingspans!

  Except it seemed that society had stubbornly decided to believe exactly that in the face of all common sense.

  And Strathavon’s wife was wholly to blame. He’d know her handiwork anywhere. He wondered that Compton, the poor fellow, did not seem to mind. What’s more, Sir John only fuelled the outlandish tales whenever he earnestly attempted to deny them and set the gossips straight. The duke knew Holly well enough to be sure that that was exactly what she had been aiming for.

  It did not take any particularly keen powers of observation to notice that Holly was constantly on the verge of some new mischief: she was either causing trouble or just about to cause it. And she had somehow snagg
ed the mild-mannered Sir John Compton into being her most devoted partner in crime.

  But now she was safely at home, scribbling letters to her sisters, well away from Compton and the rest of the silly circle of admirers that followed her about town. The duke had every intention of taking advantage of this fact.

  He arrived home to find her finished with her correspondence and seated at needlework – which did not seem to be holding her attention.

  “Will you drive with me?” Strathavon asked, a little tentatively. “It has been such a fine morning that it would be a shame to let it pass without a picnic. I had an idea of going to Richmond.”

  Holly felt her heartbeat speed up as she set aside her embroidery frame. “I would like that.” More than anything else in the world, she added to herself.

  Undeniably, she was now in the most dire straits, because she would gladly have agreed to go with him to the moon if he’d asked it of her. That was not a good sign where her sanity was concerned.

  Holly found that she longed for no other company when he was near – no other conversation could ever please her, no other look warm her heart as his had done with so little apparent effort.

  No other voice could conjure a secret shiver of delight. She wondered if her feelings were plainly written across her face.

  Strathavon did not seem to notice. He nodded briskly. “Good! I shall order the horses and have Cook pack us a basket. I only pray the weather holds up.”

  *

  Richmond was lovely in the pale autumn sunshine, and there was but a slight scattering of clouds as they wandered over the lawns and groves, pausing to admire the rippling silvery water of the lakes.

  It reminded Holly so much of home that she closed her fashionable parasol and let the soft autumn sun stream over her face, eyes half-shut with enjoyment. She wished that she could have removed her shoes and stockings to feel the soft grass under her bare feet.

  Peters, the elderly groom, helped them lay out the picnic before returning to the curricle and his own carefully packed lunch.