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He was so caught up in his pleasantly erotic pursuit it took him a moment to recall that was him. Ashe stopped and nodded to the man who had hailed him. They had been introduced earlier. A baron… Lord Hardinge, that was it. ‘Hardinge.’
‘Enjoying yourself?’
‘Frantically remembering names, if the truth be told,’ Ashe lied to cover his hesitation. He liked the look of the other man who seemed bright, alert, with a humorous glint in his eyes.
‘Stuck with anyone in particular?’
‘I was wondering,’ Ashe said, ‘who the brunette in the pale-green gown was. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her.’
‘Want an introduction?’ The other man was already heading in her direction. ‘She’s Fransham’s sister.’
And who was he? The tall man she had seen on to the dance floor, presumably.
‘Miss Hurst?’ Hardinge said as they reached her. She turned as Ashe was working that out. Miss, so her brother was of the rank of a viscount or lower. That didn’t narrow the field much.
‘Lord Hardinge.’ Her smile was immediate and genuine. Ashe registered warm brown eyes, white teeth, attractive colour on her high cheekbones… And then she turned to smile at him and went pale, as though the blood had drained out of her.
‘Miss Hurst? Are you quite well?’ Hardinge put out one hand, but she flicked her fan open and plied it vigorously in front of her face.
‘I am so sorry, just a moment’s faintness. The heat.’ Her voice was low and husky. Ashe found himself instantly attracted, even as his senses grappled to make sense of what he was seeing. The fan wafted the subtle, sweet odour of jasmine to him and only yesterday those brown eyes, now shielded by lowered lids and fluttering fan, had glared indignantly into his as he lifted his mouth from hers. That mouth.
‘Allow me to assist you to a chair, Miss Hurst.’ He had his hand under her arm, neatly removed the fan from her fingers and was waving it, even before the other man could step forwards. ‘There we are.’ In front of them a window embrasure was shielded by an array of potted palms. The casement had been opened several inches for ventilation and there was a bench seat just big enough for two. ‘It is all right, Hardinge, I have her. Perhaps you could get hold of some lemonade?’ That would get rid of him for a few minutes.
Miss Hurst did not resist as he guided her through the fronds to the padded seat. For a moment he thought she was, indeed, overcome, but as he sat beside her he saw from her expression that she wanted privacy just as much as he did.
‘You!’ she hissed with real indignation. ‘What do you think you are doing?’
Ashe raised an eyebrow in deliberate provocation. The angrier she was, the more off guard she would be. ‘What was I doing when we have met?’ He began to count off points on his fingers. ‘Disembarking from a ship, shopping with my sister, attending a ball with my family. All perfectly innocent activities, Miss Hurst, or whatever your real name is. What is your objection to them?’
‘You are following me… No, you are not, are you? It is just horrible coincidence.’ She sighed, all the fight going out of her, and leaned back against the heavy brocade swags of the curtains as if suddenly weary.
‘I have been called many things, but never a horrible coincidence,’ Ashe said. ‘Ah, here is Hardinge with the lemonade. Thank you so much. Miss Hurst is feeling a little better, I believe. I’ll just wait with her a while so no one disturbs her.’ He smiled the frank smile that seemed to lull most people into believing him completely straightforward.
There was patently no space in the alcove. The other man handed over the glass with good grace. ‘Clere, Miss Hurst.’ He took himself off, leaving them alone in their leafy shelter.
‘Thank you, Lord Clere.’ Miss Hurst took the glass, drank and set it down on the cill. ‘If it were not for you, I would not require reviving.’
Ashe was tempted to observe that all the girls said that, but one glance at her expression warned him that perhaps humour was best avoided. ‘Hardinge never got the opportunity to introduce me. How do you know my name?’ Had she been asking about him?
‘I know your title, that is all, and he just called you Clere. I saw you come in with your family and Lady Malling deduced who you all were. I was attempting to avoid you,’ she added bitterly, apparently with the intent of flattening any self-congratulation that she might be interested in him.
‘My name is Ashe Herriard, Miss Hurst. Have you any other disguises I am likely to meet with?’
‘No, you have viewed them all.’ She regarded him, her head tipped a little to one side. He was reminded of Lucifer assessing a strange object for its potential as food or plaything. ‘Ashe. Is that an Indian name? I know a trader down at the docks called Ashok. He has been here for years and has an extensive business, but he told me he came from Bombay.’ She smiled. ‘A bit of a rogue.’
‘No, that element of my name is from my paternal grandmother’s family. If you want the lot I am George Ashbourne Talish Herriard.’
‘And Talish means?’
‘Lord of the earth.’
‘That seems… appropriate,’ Miss Hurst observed astringently. She was still leaning back, gently fanning herself, but the tension was coming off her in waves.
‘It is somewhat high-flown,’ Ashe agreed. ‘After my great-grandfather, the Raja of Kalatwah.’ He might as well get that out of the way now.
‘Truly?’ Miss Hurst sat up straight, dark arched brows lifting. ‘Does that make you a prince? Should I be curtsying?’ That last, he could tell, was sarcasm.
‘It made my grandmother a princess and it made my mother, who had an English father, confused,’ he explained and surprised a laugh from her. ‘I am merely a viscount with a courtesy title.’
‘She is very beautiful, your mother.’ He nodded. ‘And your father is exceedingly handsome. I imagine most of the women in the room have fallen in love with him.’
‘They will have to get past my mother first and she is not the demurely serene lady she appears.’ He stretched out his long legs and made himself comfortable. On the other side of their jungle screen the ball was in full, noisy swing. Cool air flowed through the gap in the window, wafting sensual puffs of jasmine scent and warm woman to him. There were considerably worse places to be.
‘Demure? She makes me think of a panther,’ Miss Hurst observed.
‘Appropriate,’ he agreed. ‘What is your first name? It seems hardly fair not to tell me when you know mine.’
She studied him, her brown eyes wary. ‘Indian informality, Lord Clere?’
‘Brazen curiosity, Miss Hurst.’
That produced another gurgle of laughter, instantly repressed, as though she regretted letting her guard down. ‘Phyllida. It is somewhat of a burden to me, I have to confess.’
‘It is a pretty name. And have I met Phyllida Hurst on a quayside, in a shop and in this ballroom? Or are there two other names you have not told me?’
‘I will reveal no more, Lord Clere.’
‘No?’ He held her gaze for a long moment, then let his eyes roam over her, from the top of her elaborate coiffure, past the handsome cameos displayed on the pale, delicious, swell of her bosom, down over the curves of her figure in the fresh green silk to the kid slippers that showed below her hem. ‘That is a pity.’
Chapter Four
Colour rose over Miss Hurst’s bosom, up her throat to stain her cheeks. It was delicious, Ashe thought, like the flush of pomegranate juice over iced sherbet on a hot day. She was no wide-eyed innocent if she took the meaning of his glance and words so promptly. But then she was obviously no sheltered society miss.
How old was she? Twenty-five, twenty-six? Attractive, bright, stylish, but not married. Why not? he wondered. Something to do with her secret lives, no doubt.
‘I would very much appreciate it if you did not mention that we had met before this evening, my lord.’ She said it quite calmly, but Ashe suspected that it was a matter of far more importance than she was revealing and that she hated having to ask him.
‘Members of the ton are not expected to be shopkeepers, I assume?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Hmm. Pity my maternal grandfather was a nabob, then.’ He was unconcerned what people thought of his ancestry, but he was interested in how she reacted.
‘If he was indecently rich, and is now dead, there is absolutely nothing for the heir to a marquisate to worry about. Society is curiously accommodating in its prejudices.’ Her expression was bleak. ‘At least, so far as gentlemen are concerned. Ladies are another matter altogether.’
‘So I could ruin you with this piece of gossip?’
‘Yes, as you know perfectly well. Ladies are not shopkeepers, nor do they walk about anywhere, let alone the docks, unescorted. Did you spend much time as a boy pulling the wings off flies, Lord Clere?’
Ashe felt an unfamiliar stab of conscience. This was, quite obviously, deathly serious to Miss Hurst. But it was a mystery why a lady should be in business at all. Was she so short of pin money? ‘I am sorry, I had no intention of torturing you. You have my word that I will not speak of this to anyone.’
The music stopped and dancers began to come off the floor. Another set had ended and he realised he should not be lurking behind the palms with Phyllida Hurst any longer. Someone might notice and assume they had an assignation. He could dent her reputation. ‘Will you dance, Miss Hurst?’
He hoped to Heaven it was something he could dance. He was decidedly rusty and the waltz had not reached Calcutta by the time they left. He was going to have to join in Sara’s lessons.
‘I do not dance,’ Miss Hurst said. ‘Please, do not let me detain you.’
‘I was going in any case. It would be more discreet. But you mean you never dance?’
‘I do not enjoy it,’ she said.
Liar. All the time they had been together on the window seat her foot had been tapping along with the music without her realising. She wanted to dance and for some reason would not. Interesting. Ashe stood up. ‘Then I will wish you good evening, Miss Hurst. Perhaps we will meet window shopping in Jermyn Street one day.’
‘I fear not. It is not a street where I can afford to pay the prices asked. Good evening, Lord Clere.’
He bowed and took himself off, well clear of her hiding place. He watched the couples whirling in the waltz, concluding that professional tuition was most definitely called for before he ventured on to the floor. After an interval Miss Hurst emerged and strolled off in the opposite direction.
Ashe wondered if there were any more unmarried ladies around with that combination of looks, style, spirit and wit. He had expected all the eligible young women to be cut from the same pattern: pretty, simpering, dull. Perhaps hunting for a wife would be more interesting than he had imagined. Miss Hurst had her scandalous secrets, and she was a little older than most of the unmarried girls. But she was certainly still well within her childbearing years and a shop was easy enough to dispose of.
He found his parents, who were watching Sara talk to a group of just the kind of girls he was thinking of so disparagingly. ‘There you are.’ His mother put her hand on his arm to detain him. ‘Lady Malling, may I introduce my son, Viscount Clere. Ashe, this is the Dowager Countess of Malling.’
He shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. This was the lady who had been with Phyllida when they had arrived at the ball. As he thought it he saw her again, talking to the young man he had guessed was her brother.
‘Perhaps you can tell me who that is, ma’am. The tall man with the dark brown hair just to the left of the arrangement of lilies.’
‘Gregory Hurst, Earl of Fransham,’ the dowager said promptly. ‘A good-looking rogue.’
Had his study of the Peerage been so awry? ‘I am a trifle confused. I thought the lady with him was his sister, but she was introduced to me as Miss Hurst and if he is an earl…’
‘Ah.’ Lady Malling lowered her voice. ‘She is his full, elder, sister. However, I regret to say their parents neglected to marry until after her birth. Such a scandal at the time! It makes her, unfortunately, baseborn.’
‘But she is received?’
‘Oh, yes, in most places except court, of course. Or Almack’s. Charming girl. But she won’t make much of a marriage, if any. Even leaving aside the accident of birth, she has not a penny piece for a dowry—goodness knows how she manages to dress so well or where those cameos came from—and Fransham is wild to a fault and no catch as a son-in-law. Except for the title, of course. He may attach a rich cit’s daughter with that.’
Hell and damnation. Eccentricity was one thing, but illegitimacy and no dowry on top of dubious commercial activities were all the complete opposites of what he had set out as essential qualities for a wife. Suddenly doing his duty seemed considerably less appealing.
Even as he thought it Phyllida turned and caught his eye. Her mouth curled in a slight smile and she put her hand on her brother’s arm as though to draw attention to the Herriard party.
Still wrestling with that revelation, Ashe raised one brow, unsmiling, and inclined his head a fraction. The smile vanished as she glanced from him to Lady Malling, then her chin came up and she turned away. Even at that distance he could see the flags of angry colour on her cheeks.
You clumsy fool. That had been ungentlemanly, even if it had been unintentional. He had been surprised and disappointed and… No excuses. You were a bloody idiot, he told himself. Now what? He could hardly go over and apologise, he had already dug himself into a deep enough hole and what could he say? So sorry, I have just realised you are illegitimate and poor as a church mouse and absolutely no use to me as a wife, but I didn’t mean to snub you.
And then he stopped thinking about himself and looked at his mother, the offspring of an Indian princess and a John Company trader with an estranged English wife.
‘Illegitimacy is not a barrier to being received, then,’ she observed as though reading his mind.
One glance at Lady Malling told him she knew exactly what the marchioness’s parentage was. ‘Goodness, no,’ the older woman said. ‘It all depends on the parents and the deportment of the person concerned. And rank.’
‘And money,’ his mother observed coolly.
‘Oh, indeed.’ The dowager chuckled. Her eyes barely flickered in the direction of the suite of stunning Burmese sapphires his mother was wearing. ‘Society can always make rules and bend them to suit itself. Do tell me, which are your days for receiving, Lady Eldonstone?’
‘Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday,’ Mata said. Only her family would know she had made that up on the spur of the moment. ‘I do hope we will see you soon in Berkeley Square, Lady Malling.’
‘Be sure I will call.’
Ashe looked back across the room. Phyllida Hurst had vanished.
The bigoted beast. Phyllida slipped through the crowd and into the ladies’ retiring room before she betrayed her humiliation by marching straight over and slapping Ashe Herriard’s beautiful face for him.
He had flirted—worse than flirted on the quayside—he had joked with her this evening, promised to keep her secret and then, the moment he discovered who she was, snubbed her with a cut direct.
She flung herself down on a stool in front of a mirror and glared at her own flushed expression. Stupid to let myself dream for a moment that I was a débutante flirting with a man who might offer marriage. Stupid to dream of marriage at all. What had come over her to forget the anguish of that struggle to resign herself when she had faced the fact that she would never marry? I will not cry.
‘Is anything wrong?’ She had not noticed it was Miss Millington on the next stool.
‘Men,’ Phyllida responded bitterly as she jabbed pins into her hair.
‘Oh dear. One in particular or all of them? Only I liked your brother very much, Miss Hurst, he is such a good dancer and so amusing. He has not made you angry, surely?’
‘Gregory? No, not at all.’ Gregory was being a positive paragon this evening. ‘No, just some tactless, top-lofty buck. I hope,’ she added vengefully, ‘that his too-tight silk breeches split.’
Miss Millington collapsed in giggles. ‘Wouldn’t that be wonderful? I believe the gentlemen wear nothing beneath them, they are made of such thin knitted silk. What a shocking revelation!’
Phyllida imagined a half-naked Lord Clere for a moment, visualised those long legs and taut buttocks, then caught Miss Millington’s eye in the glass and succumbed to laughter, too. ‘Oh dear. He is very good-looking and has a fine figure, but I suppose it is too much to hope for.’
The other young woman hesitated. ‘I wonder if you might care to call on Mama, Miss Hurst. Perhaps it is forward of me, but I think we could be friends.’
Phyllida cast a hasty glance around the room, but they were alone at one end. ‘United in our desire to study Classical statuary, or perhaps anatomy?’ she asked wickedly. ‘I would like that very much. Will you not call me Phyllida?’
‘And I am Harriet.’ Miss Millington fished in her reticule. ‘Here is Mama’s card. She receives on Tuesdays and Thursdays.’
‘Thank you, I look forward to it.’ Feeling considerably soothed, Phyllida dusted rice powder lightly over her flushed cheeks and went out to look for Gregory.
They found each other almost immediately, both, it seemed, ready to go home. ‘I have done my duty by all six of the young ladies you listed for me,’ he said as he helped her with her cloak in the lobby. ‘If I stay any longer I will get confused between bankers’ daughters, mill-owners’ heiresses and the offspring of naval captains awash with prize money.’
‘Did you like Miss Millington?’ Phyllida asked as he handed her into a hackney.
‘Miss Millington? She’s the tall brunette with a nice laugh and good teeth. She has a certain style about her.’
‘I have good news. She thinks you are a fine dancer, has invited me to call and we are now on first-name terms. I really like her, Gregory.’
‘I did, too,’ he admitted.
‘Now all we have to do is to make sure she falls in love with you and that you do not fall into any scandals that will alarm her fond papa.’
‘And we will do the difficult things after breakfast, will we?’ he asked with a chuckle. ‘I’ll do my best to be a good lad, Phyll.’
