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Misfit Maid
Elizabeth Bailey
A MOST UNORTHODOX DEBUTLady Mary Hope, known as Maidie, refuses to allow herself to be pushed into marriage with a man she dislikes. So she presents herself to Laurie, Viscount Delagarde, and asks him to sponsor her for a Season. Laurie is flabbergasted–as a bachelor he is the least suitable person for such a task. But his aunt Hester has other ideas…. When his household is suddenly inundated with women, Laurie knows he has to make a stand–but will all be for naught when he spies the transformation of Maidie from a dowdy maid to a sparkling diamond?
“It would take more than your disapproval to offend me. It is immaterial to me what you think of me.”
“Is it indeed?” said Delagarde. “Then allow me to point out that it was not I who sought to place you under my sponsorship. But since you will have it so, you had better learn to take account of my opinion.”
Maidie’s brows drew together. “Well, I will not. I have not asked you to interfere beyond what I specify.”
“And what precisely do you specify?” Delagarde returned dangerously. “I may remind you that I have not yet agreed to anything at all.”
“Then why am I here?” asked Maidie.
“You are asking me? How the devil should I know?”
Misfit Maid
Elizabeth Bailey
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ELIZABETH BAILEY
grew up in Malawi, returning to England to plunge into the theater. After many happy years, she finally turned from “dabbling” to serious writing. She finds it more satisfying, for she is in control of everything: scripts, design, direction and the portrayal of every character. She lives in Surrey.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter One
T he sensation came of stark disbelief. But Lord Delagarde was only aware of blankness invading his mind. To steady himself, he carefully gripped the mantel with neatly manicured fingers. Resting his other hand on his hip, he examined the offending apparition seated on the gilded chair at the other side of the fireplace, so boldly confronting him in his own front parlour.
She did not look like the daughter of an Earl. The green pelisse and a glimpse of some dark stuff gown beneath were frankly dowdy, and no female of distinction would be seen dead in such a bonnet. Poke-fronted and unadorned, its bilious mustard hue framed an unremarkable face, out of which a pair of grey eyes regarded him with an unblinking gaze that was, in his present delicate state, singularly unnerving.
What she had said seemed so incomprehensible that he wondered if perhaps his ears had deceived him. ‘I don’t think I quite understood you. Once again, if you please.’
‘Certainly.’ Her voice was clear and light, and free from any trace of consciousness. ‘I require you to arrange my debut.’
‘You require me…to arrange your debut,’ he said slowly, aware that the words must make sense, if only he could shake off this feeling of unreality. ‘Yes, I thought that was it.’
‘It was,’ she agreed, adding in a matter-of-fact way, ‘So that I may be settled in life.’
‘Settled…’ He put a hand to his head, conscious of a slight ache. There was, he supposed vaguely, a faint hope that the entire scene was a figment of his imagination. Perhaps he had not really been roused from his bed at a hideously early hour, been obliged to scramble into his clothes and come downstairs—unfortified by anything more substantial than a few sips of hot chocolate—to be faced with an unorthodox visit from a female of unknown origin, who threw at him this preposterous demand. She required—required!—him to arrange her debut.
Yes, he must be dreaming. Or else last night’s imbibing had unhinged his brain, subjecting him to this extraordinary hallucination. It spoke again, rousing Delagarde from his abstraction.
‘You are not dreaming,’ it said.
Delagarde had not been aware of speaking aloud. ‘I must be,’ he protested, ‘or else I have run mad.’
The hallucination looked him over with a wide-eyed innocence belied by its next words. ‘It is more likely that you are suffering from a morning head. Be assured that my appearance here has nothing to do with the liquor in which you overindulged last night.’
Delagarde blinked, and regarded her with rising indignation. ‘Are you insinuating that I was inebriated?’
‘Weren’t you?’
‘No, I was n—’ He broke off, resolutely shutting his mouth. Why was he responding to such a question? He glared at the girl. ‘Even if I was, it is no possible concern of yours.’
‘No,’ she agreed, taking the wind out of his sails.
‘Then what possessed you to mention it?’ he demanded belligerently.
‘To help you.’
‘Help me?’ Blank again.
‘To show you that you are neither mad, nor dreaming,’ she explained.
This time Delagarde put both hands to his swimming head. ‘We seem to be going round in circles,’ he complained.
‘There is nothing complicated about the matter, as you will realise when you are more yourself.’
Which, Delagarde reflected, might not be for some little time. He began to wish he had not allowed his valet’s disapproving comments to pique his interest. The young female, Liss had reported in fastidious tones, had announced herself to be one Lady Mary Hope, and had declared that she would not leave the premises until she had seen Lord Delagarde.
‘Why the devil did Lowick let this female enter the house in the first place?’ Delagarde had demanded, bleary-eyed.
It appeared that it was the porter, new to the Viscount’s service, who had taken this fatal step. To his lordship’s irritable inquiry as to why the butler had not then shown her the door, the valet had replied haughtily, ‘The young female having been allowed in, my lord, and taking up a peculiarly intransigent attitude, expressing herself in such terms as no real lady—’ He had caught himself up, and coughed delicately. ‘Suffice it, my lord, that even Mr Lowick did not feel he could force her to leave without laying violent hands upon her. Which, my lord, he was loath to do, in the remote contingency that her claim of identity might be proven.’
Which it was not, Delagarde remembered suddenly. He frowned at the girl. ‘How can I be certain that you are indeed Lady Mary Hope?’
‘Who else should I be?’ she countered.
‘How the devil should I know?’ retorted Delagarde, pardonably annoyed. ‘You might be anyone. An adventuress…a schemer, imposter—I have no idea.’
‘Humdudgeon!’ snorted his visitor in a most unladylike way. ‘As a member of the peerage, you know well enough who is who. I am obviously related to the Earl of Shurland, if I am a Hope.’
‘If you are,’ Delagarde retorted, stressing the ‘if’. ‘And if you are Lady Mary, I suppose you to have been fathered by Shurland—or his predecessor. But I have yet to see proof of your identity.’
‘Oh, if that is all,’ came the airy response, ‘I can furnish you with proofs enough very easily.’
‘Well, where are they?’
‘I can readily bring them—after we have settled everything.’
Was that a hint of challenge in her eye? Delagarde made an effort to shake off his creeping lethargy and take control of this absurd situation. Was he to be intimidated by an impertinent chit? He did not think so.
‘My good girl, there is nothing to settle,’ he told her in his loftiest tone. ‘If this is some sort of trickery, you have mistaken your man. Whether you are, or are not, Lady Mary Hope, I have not the remotest intention—’
‘Pray do not let us waste any more time on that matter,’ she interrupted impatiently, not in the least crushed. ‘You had as well accept my identity without further ado. However, I dare say it will be wisest for you to address me as Maidie—for everyone who knows me well uses my pet name—which will help to make people believe us to be very well acquainted.’
‘I have no desire to make anyone believe it,’ objected Delagarde, refusing to avail himself of this permission. ‘And I am far from accepting your identity.’
‘I can’t think why. You must see very well that I am indeed Lady Mary.’
‘I see nothing of the kind,’ declared Delagarde, losing what little patience he had. ‘All I see is a strange young female, who comes to my house—at, I may add, the most unseasonable hour—’
‘It is past ten o’clock!’
‘—unseasonable hour, I say, for visiting. And while we are on the subject, it may interest you to know that any female with the smallest pretension to gentility would not dream of visiting a gentleman—’
‘She would if she had my circumstances.’
‘—in his own house, which, if you were indeed Lady Mary Hope, you would be quite aware is the height of impropriety.’
‘I am aware of it,’ Maidie said, ‘although I have never been able to understand why.’
‘It is obvious why,’ Delagarde snapped. ‘Quite apart from the damage to your reputation, you are alone and unprotected.’
‘Do you mean to assault me?’
‘Of course I don’t mean to assault you!’
‘Then why are we discussing it?’
‘Oh, good God!’
Unable to decide which of several infuriated utterances to make first, Delagarde paced about for a moment or two until he remembered what he had begun to say. He turned on the girl.
‘All this is quite beside the point. What I have been trying to impress upon you is that it is utterly unheard of for a complete stranger to walk unannounced into a gentleman’s residence and throw a ridiculous demand at his head.’
Maidie raised her brows. ‘What is ridiculous about it?’
Delagarde threw up his hands. ‘If you can’t see that, then you are the one who is mad—which I am beginning to suspect is indeed the case. Arrange for your debut, indeed! Even if I had any idea of doing so—which I emphatically do not—it would be quite impossible.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I am not equipped to do so. What were you thinking of? That I should launch you from this house?’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not!’ Delagarde felt an almost irresistible urge to clutch at his hair. ‘You don’t mean to say you really were thinking of such a thing? Good God, girl, I am a bachelor! You need a respectable female to sponsor you—a chaperon.’
Maidie sank back in her chair. ‘Is that all that is troubling you? You need have—’
‘No, it is not all!’
‘—no further concern,’ she said calmly, ignoring his interruption. ‘I have thought of all that. I have brought my own duenna. She is your cousin, so there can be no impropriety in us both staying in your house.’
‘Staying in my—!’ For a moment or two, Delagarde regarded her speechlessly. Then he sank into the chair on the other side of the fireplace and dropped his head in his hands.
Maidie watched him with interest. He was not at all what she had expected. She had anticipated that there might be a trifle of explanation required, but not to have her identity called in question. Why Lord Delagarde should make such a piece of work about a simple matter she failed to comprehend.
He did not look obtuse. Quite the contrary. One might not call him handsome, but it was a strong countenance—if a trifle jaded at present; she could not think he had always such a pallor—with a firm line to the jaw, a straight nose and a broad brow from which dark locks waved back into a long crop. Whether the dishevelled look of this style was deliberate, or due to the gentleman’s current state, Maidie could not say. He certainly had the air of a man of fashion. She knew little of such things, it was true, but even to the untutored eye, there was an unmistakable elegance to the cut of the cream breeches and the blue coat.
From the point of view of appearances, he would certainly do, and his establishment was eminently suited to her purpose. A house in the best part of town, with a deliberate decor influencing even this small room, the simplicity of which impressed her. Nothing elaborate. Warm-shaded wallpaper, its apricot picked out in the faint stripe of the cushioned seats. Maidie approved the slim lines of the furniture, the plain brown carpet, and the sparse decoration to the mouldings about the fireplace.
She was less satisfied to have discovered Lord Delagarde to be a creature of uncertain temperament. It did not augur well for her plans. But it was possible that he was not always so. Had her timing, perhaps, been unfortunate? He had been abed on her arrival, and had kept her waiting quite forty minutes—really, could one take that long to dress?—and the traces in his face of a late and dissipated night had been evident to the meanest intelligence. Even Great-uncle had become crotchety of a morning after indulging too freely in his favourite port. Perhaps Lord Delagarde might respond more readily if his head were not aching so badly.
Maidie leaned forward a little, and addressed him in a tone of solicitude. ‘Shall I send for some coffee?’
Delagarde started. God, was she still here? For a brief moment of silence, in which he had allowed his seething brain to subside a little, he had almost succeeded in forgetting her unwelcome presence. Dropping his hands, he gripped the wooden arms of his chair and braced himself to look at her again.
What had she said? ‘Coffee?’
‘I would strongly advise it. My great-uncle used to say that it was the best cure for your sort of condition.’
Delagarde opened his mouth to consign her great-uncle to the devil, and instead drew a steadying breath. Be calm, he told himself resolutely, be calm.
‘I do not want any coffee,’ he said carefully.
‘I assure you—’
‘No!’ A pause, then pointedly, ‘Thank you.’
She relaxed back. ‘As you wish.’
Resolutely, Delagarde sat up. ‘Now then, Lady Mary, let us be sensible.’
