Beauty in Black Read online

  “Of course not, I would not suggest that you waste your favors on inferior persons, but there are better men out there,” Lady Sealey promised, sipping her own tea.

  Unbidden, the image of the marquess came into her mind’s eye. Marianne pushed it hastily away. “Not for me,” she murmured.

  The countess raised her brows.

  “I mean, I have been entrusted with a young relation to chaperone for the Season; it is her possible suitors I have to pay heed to,” Marianne explained. “She was called elsewhere this afternoon, but I will introduce her to you, if I may, very soon.”

  “Ah, I see.” Lady Sealey nodded. “I shall look forward to it. One has responsibilities, of course. But do not forget your own needs, my dear. You are too young to forswear pleasure entirely and spend all your time doing charitable deeds. You need a good man beside you.”

  “I had a good man,” Marianne reminded her. “And I mourned his death sincerely.”

  As the countess knew well; Marianne had met Lady Sealey several years ago after Harry’s death. She had found the older woman, a widow herself, very much in sympathy with others who were bereaved, and helpful in advice and support as the new widows gathered their courage and remade their lives. Some of Marianne’s deepest friendships had been made inside this salon. Not all of the women here were widows, of course, but many were or had been, and the women who assembled at the countess’s weekly gatherings were sometimes called, jocularly, the Merry Widows.

  “But I had to go on, and to be truthful, life is much more easily arranged when one has only oneself to consider.”

  “I said a good man, my dear. You had a nice boy, I think,” the countess argued gently. “You married young, did you not? I do not think you really know what it is to have the love of a man.”

  Marianne blinked and for a moment was not sure how to respond. Should she confess her conflicted feelings for her own niece’s fiancé? No, that would make her sound totally devoid of principle. Fortunately, another guest entered the room, and Lady Sealey turned to chat with the new arrival.

  Marianne moved across the room to speak with several friends. Therese LaSalle, a vivacious redhead who had been one of the party at Vauxhall the night of Marianne and Louisa’s excursion, asked about Louisa.

  “How is your charming niece doing, Marianne? Still in raptures over London’s urban delights?”

  “Oh, yes,” Marianne agreed, thinking, over his lordship’s courtship, especially, but she could not remark upon that . . . “Though she has suffered a sad setback, sad at least, on Louisa’s part.” She described the episode in the park with the dog—it was not as if it was not surely being talked about, anyhow, and she might as well get a version more favorable to Louisa circulating—ending with, “It’s a shame, and it really was not Louisa’s fault. The poor dog ran right beneath her feet, and fortunately, it was not injured.”

  Therese, who adored animals, nodded. “Le pauvre chien! I am relieved to hear it. It’s a shame that it had to be Sally Jersey. I know some people do not like her, she does chatter incessantly, and there are times when she can rush to judgment. However, I do not believe that she is truly hard-hearted. When I was newly come to London, she was most welcoming.”

  A tall, fair-haired beauty with classical features who stood nearby had apparently overheard; she moved closer to join their tête-à-tête. “But she does hold a grudge, I fear. If my aunt were in town, she might persuade her to relent. I think Aunt Sophie is one of the few females that Sally does not dare to contradict. But as it is, I fear your niece will have to be patient if she wishes for the opportunity to obtain vouchers to Almack’s.”

  Marianne nodded. “I agree; it would not be prudent to apply to one of the other patronesses just now. Lady Jersey would think we were trying to go behind her back and become even more incensed. She might never forgive poor Louisa. And for new applicants, it takes two of the patronesses to agree, if I remember.” Marianne tried to recall the name of this elegant blond with whom she was speaking; Marianne had chatted with her briefly at previous teas. Not a widow, Marianne remembered; not every woman here was bereaved. The countess had many friends. The name came suddenly to her mind—Lady Gabriel Sinclair. Sinclair?

  Of course, the marquess had mentioned her name at Vauxhall. Marianne studied the woman with more interest. “I believe I have met one of your, that is, your husband’s relations,” she said.

  Lady Gabriel lifted her perfect brows. “Really?”

  “Lord Gillingham,” Marianne explained. “We were—ah—introduced the night he was part of your party at Vauxhall Gardens, and since then he has been to call and has been most attentive to my niece.”

  Why did the newcomer’s expression turn so thoughtful? But after a pause, Lady Gabriel nodded.

  “Of course, I was only surprised—that is, he is newly come to town and has not yet made many new acquaintances. I am happy to hear that he has ventured out a little,” the other woman said.

  “Lord Gabriel has a brother?” Therese’s eyes sparkled. “Is he as handsome and charming as your so-amazing husband, Lady Gabriel?”

  The other woman hesitated. “He has his own particular charms, I believe.”

  Therese interpreted this correctly. “Ah, a shame if he has not Lord Gabriel’s so beautiful looks, but it’s often so with siblings. One gets all the cream at the top of the milk, and the rest must make do. At least, he must have the same polished appeal? But I should not ask you such a thing; how could you compare the two, when your own still-new husband is so dear to you?”

  Lady Gabriel smiled. “In truth, I don’t know my brother-in-law very well. He has not come to London in the past, but I am hoping to become better acquainted with him this Season.”

  “No doubt Lord Gabriel is pleased to have his brother in town,” Marianne suggested. She handed her teacup to a passing servant and accepted one more scone from a silver tray.

  “Umm . . .” Lady Gabriel paused, turning to gaze at the servant’s offering. “No doubt. What wonderful pastries Lady Sealey’s cook concocts.”

  “Of course, he is French,” agreed the outspoken Therese, who was also, but she would not be diverted. “Are the brothers not in sympathy?”

  “My husband spent several years abroad, so they have been separated for some time. I am hoping to see them become closer,” Lady Gabriel said.

  Therese seemed poised to question her further, but a conversation among another knot of ladies chatting nearby caught her attention.

  “Lucy, do not tell me that your husband has really declined the offer of a greater title from the prince regent,” one lady said, her voice carrying. “I hear the prince is still so grateful to your husband for—you know—the whole affair with that cursed ruby that he’s eager to shower him with honors.”

  “Hush, Julia, you know that Richmond would never be so rude to his future monarch,” the petite blond answered, but her eyes twinkled as if there was much more to the story.

  “But surely, you have something to say about it, too,” her friend argued.

  “Do you think that I am not perfectly content to be a viscountess?” The fair-haired lady chuckled. “In fact, just being Nicolas’s wife is quite enough honor—and delight—for me.”

  Therese’s brows lifting in ready curiosity, she turned to join the other women and hear the rest of the chat.

  Now Marianne could speak quietly for one woman’s ears, only. “I don’t wish to be inquisitive, Lady Gabriel, but I believe—that is—my niece sees Lord Gillingham in the light of a serious suitor.”

  Lady Gabriel raised her light-hued brows. “Really? My felicitations. His rank and estate should please any lady.”

  “I am more concerned with his character.” Marianne could be blunt, too, when the occasion demanded. “I do not wish Louisa to regret her choice. You have heard Lady Sealey speak on unwise choices.”

  Lady Gabriel looked thoughtful. “She is quite right that one should choose carefully, Mrs. Hughes. To be equally candid, I know
nothing to his discredit except that my husband says that his brother bullied him as a lad. And that is not unusual among small boys.”

  There seemed something more hanging at the edge of her tongue, but she paused.

  Marianne hesitated. “And now that they are men, does Lord Gabriel still feel that his brother is overbearing? I would not ask, except for concern about my niece.”

  “I’m not sure,” the other woman said slowly. “They have not been close for years, and only recently have they spent time together.”

  Marianne knew that her own brows had knitted. What could have brought such a falling out? Although she felt the question too personal to ask; even when unspoken, it hung in the air between them.

  “It was their father,” Lady Gabriel explained. “He was not the most exemplary of men, and he was not an affectionate parent. When my husband committed a youthful transgression, Gabriel was disinherited. His brother, the present Lord Gillingham, did not support him, and the rejection still rankles.”

  “That is understandable,” Marianne agreed. She sighed. “I don’t know. We have spent a little time in his company, and the marquess does not seem to me a vicious person. But I also feel that there is much beneath the surface that he does not wish to share—and Louisa is truly naive, even more so than most young ladies in their first Season.”

  “At least she has your guidance,” Lady Gabriel pointed out. “Some mothers, or aunts, would be interested only in Lord Gillingham’s estate, wealth, and title. If you will forgive me for speaking frankly, I am glad that he has made the acquaintance of a young lady who is not ruled only by greed or a desire to improve her station.”

  Marianne smiled a bit ruefully. “Louisa has her faults, like all of us, but she is not greedy, nor does she need to marry for money.” She thought it might be best not to delve into Louisa’s expressed interest in the man’s title. “And to be equally candid, Lady Gabriel, I think a good many of the world’s ills, and many a family misunderstanding, could be avoided by an honest talk.”

  “A commendable sentiment.” The other woman nodded. “And please, call me Psyche. I have a feeling that we may be seeing more of each other, and the prospect pleases me.” Her clear blue eyes sparkled.

  Marianne found that she liked this woman’s intelligence and directness of manner. “And you must call me Marianne.”

  By the time Marianne made her farewells to the countess, she felt that the afternoon had been profitable. She had no more worries about the marquess’s lack of wealth, or that he might be interested in Louisa only for the fortune she would soon inherit. Which only led her back to the central question of his character. She still wondered a little about that, even though she did not think him mean-spirited. But something dark hung over him, and Marianne would much like to know what it was that sometimes, out of nowhere, shadowed his face.

  Did she wonder for Louisa, or for herself?

  A nonsensical question, she was only concerned for her niece, of course. What did her own feelings have to do with it? If there was no obvious impediment to the proposal, she was duty-bound to aid her niece in securing such an advantageous match. But only in time, and she would not allow Louisa to rush into a hasty marriage.

  So she steeled herself to a cool propriety as they prepared for the dinner. Louisa’s shopping expedition had been successful, even if she had had to visit three shops before locating the exact shade she desired. The younger woman merrily described her arduous pursuit of the perfect ribbon, and Marianne nodded and maintained her air of interest. At least the girl was no longer moping over the Lady Jersey debacle.

  When the marquess arrived in his fancy barouche, they were both ready. This time, the top had been raised, since the air had cooled with sunset. They rode to the hotel that the marquess had selected—he had obviously been inquiring about fashionable meeting spots—and were shown into a private parlor, where a fire burned merrily on the hearth and the linen on the table was spotless, the host obsequious as he bowed them into the room.

  Allowing the servant to take her wrap, Marianne pulled off her gloves before accepting a glass of wine. She sipped it as she listened to Louisa being her most charming and well-mannered self and the marquess responding appropriately. He had greeted Marianne politely but otherwise said little to her, and if she felt somewhat bereft, she scolded herself for it.

  It was only proper that he would direct most of his attention toward her niece, the woman he had just offered for. Nor would Marianne respect him if he tried to court both women! Rakes and Lotharios she had absolutely no esteem for, so she was most pleased that he behaved with choice and discretion, she assured herself. And if he seemed a bit distant with her tonight, it was understandable. It was not easy for one man to entertain two women at one time, especially if the man himself was quiet by nature and obviously unused to his role as host.

  At least indoors, in the softer glow of candlelight, he had put aside the wide-brimmed hat with which he often shielded his face from strangers’ too observant eyes. But his costume was still as unfashionable and ill fitting as ever. Did the man not realize how well his wide shoulders would look in a properly cut coat? She had to find a way to convince him to refurbish his wardrobe, now that she was sure he had the funds for it.

  Although the food was well prepared, the dinner seemed interminable. Sighing, Marianne accepted a helping of roast goose and thrust her fork into the crisp browned skin.

  John watched her from the corner of his eye, then pulled his attention back to Louisa, who seemed unable to stop chattering. When did the child pause long enough to swallow a mouthful of food? Would this dinner stretch on till the spring flowers outside turned brown and spare with winterly chill?

  John thought it likely. He had afforded the manager complete license to produce a meal suitable for two discerning ladies of quality, and the man apparently had determined to lavishly uphold the honor of his chef, not to mention inflate his bill as much as possible. The courses were many, and the side dishes alone ample for feeding a small cavalry troop.

  And meanwhile, John had to focus his attention on Miss Crookshank, undoubtably alluring in palest pink, with some of the rosebuds he had sent her now beribboned and tucked into her fair hair. While she smiled and blushed and rattled on, he was duty-bound to pay heed to her ramblings on shops and amusements and coming balls.

  To his alarm he found that what he really wanted was to gaze upon her companion, whose calm demeanor hid more interesting thoughts, he was somehow sure, and whose appearance, her darker hair and lovely face flattered by a gown of deep ruby-red, made his pulse beat faster. But he could not regard her as closely as he would have wished because the girl at his elbow, the young lady he had so rashly chosen with such precipitate haste, gazed up at him in patent adoration. He cursed his own need to escape the rigors of the capital, with its keen-eyed, sharped-tongued Society, and the speed with which he had, even if inadvertently, bound himself to a stranger.

  Louisa had come in with more thanks and praise to offer. To his great discomfiture, she had called him her hero.

  “No, no,” John said. “The merest trifle.”

  Her blue eyes widened. “To jump in front of a charging steed? It was the most gallant, the most intrepid thing I have ever seen. A knight saving a damsel from a dragon could not have been more brave. To risk your life for me—”

  John shifted restlessly. “I assure you, I took little risk.”

  Louisa smiled at him, her expression angelic. “It was a marvelous feat of courage, and I shall never forget it! I know that I will be perfectly safe with you, always, my lord.”

  He wished she would direct her soulful gaze back down at her plate of roast goose and boiled lobster. But Louisa had eaten little; she seemed much more anxious to keep his attention riveted. She had explained earlier her aunt’s request for a delay in the announcement.

  “We must write to my uncle and seek his blessing,” she told him. “But I’m sure there will be no objection made.”

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nbsp; “Of course,” he agreed. “I should have spoken to him first. I did not realize that your guardian was—was not Mrs. Hughes’s husband.”

  Still smiling, Louisa nodded. His new fiancée seemed to read nothing additional into that statement, although John was beginning to suspect it was the biggest blunder of his life.

  Instead, she chatted about wedding plans. He tried not to wince.

  Almost absentmindedly, he leaned forward as if to pay more heed to her comments. In so doing, his wineglass tipped a bit too far. The ruby-colored liquid spilled upon her pale-hued gown.

  Miss Crookshank squealed in dismay.

  “My apologies,” John said quickly. He pushed back his chair and waved to the footman hovering nearby. “Fetch a maid, at once, who can take this lady to a private chamber and see to her gown.”

  His betrothed had at last lost her sweet smile; she frowned down at the stain on her skirt. “It is ruined!”

  “It was entirely my fault,” he told her. “A moment of inexcusable carelessness—I was listening too closely to your comments. You have my deepest apologies, Miss Crookshank. You must allow me to replace the gown.”

  Louisa shook her head, though she still struggled to regain her usual cheery serenity. “It is of little import, my lord. Please do not trouble yourself.”

  A maidservant had appeared, and the marquess turned to her. “See what you can do to aid this lady,” he directed.

  The servant curtsied quickly. “Oh, miss, let me sponge that with soda water—we’ll have you right as rain in no time, we will.”

  Mrs. Hughes had pushed back her chair and seemed ready to follow her ward out of the room. John put out one hand, assured that the others were too absorbed to notice, and murmured, “No, stay, if you please.”

  She looked at him in surprise, but, happily, she seemed as quick-witted as ever and made no comment to attract attention. But when the younger lady, with the servant still chattering of what could be done to alleviate the damage to the muslin gown, disappeared through the doorway, Mrs. Hughes drew back just a little, her expression wary.