Beauty in Black Page 9

“Oh, poor Aunt!” Louisa exclaimed at once. “I shall make you a tisane that Aunt Caroline favors. And I can come up and rub lavender drops on your temples, that might help.”

  Marianne rubbed her forehead. “Thank you, Louisa, but truly, I only wish a few minutes of quiet. I’m sure I will feel better shortly.”

  Louisa had tried hard to offer her aunt aid, but she was determined to retire unattended. So Louisa took a copy of La Belle Assemblée up to her own room to study, too restless to lie down, and in an hour, she was pleased to see her aunt reemerge, apparently in better spirits. They strolled down to the shops to inspect the bonnet that Louisa had noted on their last shopping excursion, taking Aunt Marianne’s footman as escort. They returned home in time for tea, the servant’s arms laden with hatboxes and other bundles, and later a quiet dinner for just the two of them.

  Louisa had never lived without the convenience of a private carriage; she wondered if she should propose to her aunt that they should hire one for the duration of Louisa’s visiting. But when she suggested it, Marianne shook her head.

  “I have no stable in which to house a pair of horses,” she reminded her niece. “And no groom, so there would be many extra expenses. I do not wish to make such a charge upon your funds, Louisa.”

  “But I do not mind—”

  “We shall be fine with an occasional hired vehicle.” Her aunt’s tone was firm, so Louisa was silenced, though she thought she might bring the subject up again, perhaps on the next rainy day.

  At the moment, however, she was pleased enough with her progress. The marquess seemed suitably taken with Louisa’s charms. Now, if she could convince him to venture into a broader section of Society—he would have her nearby at all times, ready to bolster the poor man’s damaged pride, and he would be happier for it. She was sure he could not be content in such self-imposed isolation—and if others, such as a certain oafish young baronet, should note Louisa’s impressive new conquest, so much the better!

  The next morning, Louisa woke early once more. Since coming to London, she had been brimming with energy, and it was hard to lie abed as most fashionable ladies did. So she rose and dressed, and after toast and a coddled egg, she and her maid ventured back to the tiny park in the middle of the square.

  But this morning, in addition to a nursemaid and her small charges playing on the grass, Louisa was startled to see a young man of fashionable appearance and resolute expression awaiting her.

  “Sir Lucas?” she exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here, and at such an early hour?”

  “Miss Crookshank.” He bowed, the model of a correct gentleman. Was this the young man she had known for so many years, the lad she had played games with when they were children? The man who she would have sworn so recently had had feelings for her? Louisa bit her lip in chagrin.

  “I—ah—I called yesterday afternoon while you were out, and the footman told me you seemed to enjoy early strolls,” he admitted.

  Louisa stared at him. “You left no card.”

  “No, I only—I just—well, it seems to be awkward when we meet, and since in London, one is always running into some—um—acquaintance, I thought we should talk. I do not wish you to feel constrained.”

  Louisa exclaimed, a little too loudly, “Constrained—why should you imagine such a thing? You are too quick with your assumptions, sir! I am quite unaffected by your presence, or lack of it!”

  The nursemaid glanced their way, and Louisa paused. When Lucas answered, he kept his own voice pitched low, but his formal tone had disappeared.

  “Oh, come off it, Louisa,” he retorted, with some of their once-familiar ease. “You bristle like a gamecock whenever you see me, especially if I have—well—a young lady with me.”

  “I do not!” she argued hotly, then with an effort moderated her voice. “If you wish to escort any person of your choosing, why should I care?” She thought that this time, she had managed to sound lofty and disinterested, although she spoiled the effect by adding, “While I might wish to warn the young lady not to expect any great constancy from you, I will, of course, refrain.”

  “Unfair, Louisa!” He met her angry gaze without blinking. “I might, with much more purpose, say the same about you.”

  “Me? I am not the one who disappeared without a word, ignoring a sweet—an old friend whom you had known since childhood, and all because I laughed when you took a small tumble down a hill, and your pride was injured. After that afternoon, I waited and waited—”

  Louisa swallowed hard against the rest of the words she wished to hurl upon his head. He had not returned to her uncle’s house, not called, not appeared at the next dance at the Pump Room to provide his usual escort, not arrived in his chaise to drive her about the streets of Bath. She had felt surprise and dismay and a terrible humiliation, wondering how many other young ladies were laughing behind their fans at his sudden and unexplained abandonment.

  “Louisa, it was not merely my pride that was injured,” he told her, his voice suddenly grim. “By the time I took you and your maid home that afternoon and returned to my own house, my foot was swollen to twice its normal size. I had to have two footmen help me out of the carriage.”

  Shocked, Louisa stared at him. She did remember that he had limped after he had tripped on the loose rock on their walk along the riverbank, but she had thought it was only a touching play to gain her sympathy, especially as she had giggled at his misstep and sprawling fall; he had indeed looked very funny. But she had never dreamed he’d actually been injured.

  “My mother summoned a physician, who probed the swollen limb—most painfully!—and decided that I had broken a bone in my foot. I was not allowed to leave the house for over a month. I had to linger in my room with my foot propped up, helpless as a babe; it was a most trying time.”

  “Why did you not send word?” Louisa demanded. “I had no idea!”

  “You never asked,” he told her, and beneath the lingering anger, she thought she could detect hurt. “You knew that I had taken a misstep, you might have thought—”

  “But I didn’t.” Louisa tried to push aside stirrings of guilt. “How was I to know? And I never heard a word of gossip about it. Usually, one hears of the slightest ailment among Bath society.”

  “I hardly wanted it noised about! I forbade my mother to speak of it to anyone. Proper fool I should look,” Lucas retorted. “Breaking my foot on a simple stumble. But you were there, you knew I had taken a fall.”

  “You are always so healthy and strong, Lucas, I never conceived that you had truly taken harm. I thought—I thought you were angry at me. I could not understand why you suddenly ceased to call.”

  They stared at each other, their faces only a foot apart, and she had a sudden memory of a quarrel when she was eight and he ten, over an abandoned bird’s nest that both had wanted to claim. But this was much more important. Had she thrown away her first love over such a ridiculous misunderstanding?

  “But now that I know that you were truly hurt, Lucas—” she began, her tone tentative, prepared to make a proper apology. But she did not have the opportunity to finish; he pulled back, and she paused.

  “It’s not as if it were the first time you have only thought of yourself, Louisa, always expecting to get your way.”

  She flushed. “And you should not be so quick to take offense. Gentlemen are supposed to be courteous to ladies!”

  “Courteous, yes, but you have always been so indulged that—if your father had not given in to your every whim—”

  “Don’t you speak of my dear father in such a way!” She stamped her foot and glared at him.

  Sir Lucas paused, then plowed ahead, his expression stubborn. “I do not speak ill of your father; you know I was most grieved at his passing. But now that I realize at last just how shallow you are—”

  It was her turn to jerk back; she felt as if she had been slapped. “How could you say such a hurtful thing!”

  “Francis always said it was so—he cautioned me a
bout you often enough, warned me that you would break my heart, but I would not listen.” Lucas looked away, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

  “Mr. Lackland? He’s a lack-wit!” Louisa protested. “You would take his word on my character?”

  “He is my friend, and only concerned for my well-being. And he had grounds to base his opinion upon. He wrote you a poem once detailing his devotion, and you told him it did not scan well,” Lucas reminded her.

  “I was fifteen!” she flashed back. “I am older now, more mature, and I would not be so unkind.”

  “It’s no matter. He will not make that mistake again, nor will I,” Lucas said. He sounded calm again and entirely resolute.

  She felt a sinking feeling inside. She had driven Lucas away; it had not been his lack of constancy, as she had thought. But it had been an accident, a mishap of circumstances; he was reading too much into small arguments in their past; if only he would listen—

  But he showed no inclination to hear her rebuttal. “Now that you understand, I’m sure you will not regard my presence as of any consequence, and we can meet in Society without further awkwardness.”

  “To be sure,” Louisa lied, trying hard to compose her features. “You need not be concerned about me, Sir Lucas. I have new friends who have more faith in my character, and doubtless I shall soon form an even more permanent connection.”

  “My felicitations,” he told her, but his tone was dry.

  Louisa wished she could slap him. But instead she drew herself up to her fullest height and gave him a dignified curtsy. “I must get back before my aunt wonders at my absence,” she said. “Good day to you, sir. I wish you only good fortune.”

  Without waiting to hear his farewell—he had certainly said enough—she turned on her heel and hurried back to Aunt Marianne’s door. Behind her, Eva had to run to keep up. Once Louisa was safely inside, and the door had shut behind her and her maid, she put her hands to her face, feeling the tears already beginning to flow.

  Masters hovered in the hallway, but she ignored him and hastened up the stairs until she reached the solitude of her own chamber.

  “Miss,” Eva asked, coming in after her. “Does your head ache? May I fetch something for you?”

  “Yes—no,” Louisa blurted. “I just want some quiet.”

  So, after drawing the draperies, the maid slipped away, shutting the door behind her. Louisa fell upon the bed and pressed her face against her pillow so that no one would hear her sobs.

  Much later, after she had cried till the last tear had been drained from some deep part of her soul, she fell, exhausted, into a restless sleep. When she woke, she found that Eva had brought her a cup of tea and some sliced cucumber.

  Once again, she would have to try to hide the swollen eyelids and mottled cheeks, Louisa thought. Her head still ached, and a leaden weight seemed to have settled inside her.

  Broken his heart, Lucas had said. Could it really be true? And had he set himself against any feeling for her, so that no hope of reconciliation was possible?

  It seemed so.

  She took a sip of the tepid tea and had to force the liquid down past the lump in her throat.

  So, she had a much more eminent suitor now, one mature enough not to take offense where none had been offered or feel slighted by some stupid misunderstanding. Why should she care if a silly young man misread a lady’s perfectly proper reaction to an apparent rejection . . .

  Louisa felt one more tear slip down her cheek and dashed it angrily away. No, she would not allow another torrent of useless regret. Steeling herself, she reached for the cucumber slices.

  When Marianne went downstairs, after dressing and lingering over her breakfast tray, she was surprised to find Louisa still up in her room. However, it gave Marianne a chance to look through her mail. Two more invitations, a note from a friend to answer, and a bill for some of Louisa’s dressmaking excursions. Marianne put the last away to pay from Louisa’s account and sat down at her desk to write an answer to the friend, who was, for her health, spending a few weeks in the south of France. The invitations she considered briefly after checking her calendar, then, knowing that Louisa would welcome gaiety of any form, she penned acceptances to both.

  When Louisa appeared, looking a bit wan, Marianne told her ward of the dinner and the opera party, but the girl did not seem as excited as Marianne had expected.

  “Yes, that’s nice,” Louisa agreed, but without any of her usual sparkle.

  Only when Marianne mentioned today’s planned drive with the marquess did Louisa lift her head. “Oh, yes. I’m so glad we found a hat yesterday to match the new green dress—I must try it on again to be sure it is the right costume to wear to Hyde Park. I’ve heard that everyone in Society visits the park at the fashionable hour.”

  “Very close to everyone,” Marianne agreed. “And that also means that you must remember to be on your best behavior, Louisa. With so many eyes sure to be on you, you must not suggest any hint of forward conduct.”

  “Has Sir L—has someone suggested that I do not conduct myself properly?” Louisa demanded, her eyes flashing. “Because if so, I must protest—”

  “No, nor would I listen to specious gossip,” Marianne assured the girl. “But your contriving a meeting with the marquess was not really the thing, and I should not like you to repeat such a ruse.”

  “But I simply had to meet him,” Louisa argued. “And to have him appear right in front of my eyes—how could I resist?”

  Marianne shook her head. “Trust me, it would not do to give the Ton a bad first impression of you.”

  Louisa subsided, though her expression was still stormy. “Of course not. I promise to be on my best behavior, Aunt.”

  Marianne hoped her ward’s resolve would last through the afternoon. Something was not right with Louisa, though Marianne could not put her finger on the change. But she sensed emotions tightly suppressed beneath the younger woman’s lovely surface, like a volcano ready to erupt, lava seething unseen beneath smooth green meadows. If so, Marianne only hoped that the eruption would not occur in a public place!

  Her sense of unease was such that she wondered if they should cancel their expedition or postpone it. Surely the marquess would understand. But when she hinted at such, Louisa protested angrily.

  “But why? I am not overly tired nor am I agitated. I am perfectly calm!” Her voice rose dangerously.

  Marianne gazed at her. She didn’t believe Louisa’s statement for a moment, but without a better reason, it would be too unkind to deny the younger lady an outing so obviously important to her. Perhaps Louisa was only overexcited by the stimulation of London’s merriment. Although heaven knows, they had done little enough. Could it be that she was losing her heart to the marquess, already? This could not be wise, but again, Louisa reacted angrily to Marianne’s reminder about the dangers of rushing into a commitment.

  “My heart is my own,” the younger woman said stubbornly. “I am not a child!”

  Marianne decided to let it go, at least for the moment. But she would keep a close eye on Louisa until she had some hint of what new plot was being concocted behind those guileless blue eyes.

  So when the marquess arrived promptly at five, they were both ready. Louisa wore the new green dress and matching bonnet, and Marianne had donned an older, but still pleasing, plum-colored walking costume.

  The marquess bowed. “You look as lovely and bright as two spring blossoms,” he declared.

  Louisa’s smile broadened. “You’re too kind,” she said, her tone mild and not at all forward. She glanced at her aunt as if to say, There, you see? I can be proper.

  Marianne was thinking that Lord Gillingham’s praise sounded a bit forced; he was not the kind of man, she thought, to go about spouting compliments. But he was obviously trying, and she admitted to a moment of secret satisfaction that she had not worn the drabber dun-colored walking dress. Not that she was the one he had come to see, of course. Perhaps he was as smitten with Louisa
as she was with him. To hide her frown, Marianne lingered as Louisa sailed out the door, only to pause in surprise upon the doorstep.

  “Oh, how splendid!” the girl exclaimed. “A new carriage? And it’s a barouche, very much the thing!”

  “I hired it this morning for my stay in London,” the marquess explained. “I thought it was a more proper vehicle for rides in the park, one that would ensure a lady’s pleasure.”

  A lady with less than sedate tastes, at least.

  Marianne blinked. This barouche was certainly in the latest mode, if not downright gaudy. It had a collapsible top, which had been pushed down to allow its occupants the opportunity to enjoy the pleasant day and to be easily seen when they rolled along the avenues and into the park itself. Its bottle-green body was accented with touches of gilding and high gold-painted wheels, and the horses which pulled it were well-matched cream-colored steeds. What a picture they were going to make! Marianne tried not to giggle at the thought; she put her hand in front of her face and turned the incipient laugh into a cough.

  Then she caught the marquess’s eye; he had lifted one brow in a quizzical glance that seemed to read her sentiment perfectly, and even, perhaps, to agree. For an instant, understanding flashed between them, and Marianne allowed her smile to show.

  Then he stepped forward to hand them both into the carriage, while his groom stood at the horses’ heads. No one could say he was not doing the thing properly, except perhaps for his own attire, which was as casual and out-of-date as ever.

  The barouche had two seats. He handed the ladies into the forward-looking bench and he himself took the one behind the coachman, facing them. Louisa, Marianne suspected, would rather have sat beside the marquess, but, after her aunt’s lecture on conduct, apparently did not dare to push her luck. So she kept her yearnings to herself and smiled as the marquess nodded over his shoulder to his coachman. The groom took his position at the rear of the carriage, and the driver flicked the reins and edged the flashy equipage into the thick London traffic.

  When they reached the park, the lanes were almost as crowded as the city streets. They joined the other carriages and riders who made their way slowly about the Ring, circling the park. As predicted, they found a multitude of fashionable people to gaze at, and occasionally Marianne saw friends or acquaintances to wave and nod to. A few times, she directed the marquess to pull up his vehicle so that she could perform introductions. Louisa smiled and greeted the new acquaintances sweetly. The marquess received some curious stares, but he held up stoically, inclining his head and speaking politely if briefly.