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Ten minutes later she was in despair. Laetitia was a smaller woman than she, with a dainty, sylphlike figure. The pale green muslin gown was designed to sweep low across the bosom and shoulders and fall loosely from a high waistline. On Tallie the deeply scooped neckline clung, causing her bosom to bulge embarrassingly. The waist was too tight and her ankles were scandalously revealed. Tallie went to her wardrobe and glanced through it again, desperately hoping that by some magical process an alternative would present itself. Two winter day dresses, two summer day dresses, all rather worn and out of date. She sighed and returned gloomily to the green muslin.
She was no needlewoman, and even if she were she could not make larger that which was too small in the first place. After some experimentation she managed to fill in the neckline with a piece of old lace, so that it covered her decently at least, even if it was still too tight. She tacked a frill along the hem. It looked quite ridiculous, she knew, but at least it covered her ankles.
Finally she draped herself in a large paisley shawl to disguise the tightness of the dress. It would surely suffice to get her through dinner. She glanced at herself in the glass and closed her eyes in momentary mortification. The green colour did bring interesting highlights to her brown hair and eyes, and her curly hair was neat for once, but—she looked a perfect quiz! Still, she told herself bracingly, Laetitia was right. No one would take any notice of her. She was just an extra female—the poor relation—and she would slip away the moment dinner was over. In any case, she didn’t like her cousin’s guests, so what did it matter what they thought of her? Taking a deep breath, she headed downstairs to check on the arrangements for dinner.
Magnus took another sip of armagnac and wondered how much longer he could endure the girlish flutterings going on around him. His temper was on a knife-edge and he had no one to blame but himself. The house party had been a disaster.
Ten days of the unalleviated company of high-bred young women would have been bad enough—he’d nerved himself for that ordeal. But he should have realised that Laetitia would select a gaggle of young ladies most like herself—spoiled, vain, vapid and silly. Magnus was almost rigid with boredom.
And exasperation—for he’d hoped to observe the young ladies unobtrusively, make a discreet selection and quietly arrange a marriage. Ha! What a joke! His wretched cousin had about as much discretion as a parrot! That had been made plain to Magnus within days, when he’d realised he was being hunted—with all the subtlety of a pack of hounds in full pursuit.
Creamy bosoms were made to heave and quiver under his nose at every opportunity. Well-turned ankles flashed from modest concealment. And every time he entered a room eyelashes batted so feverishly there was almost a draught. He’d been treated to displays of virtuosity on harp, pianoforte and flute, had folios of watercolours thrust under his nose, his expert inspection bashfully solicited. His superior masculine opinion had been sought and deferred to on every topic under the sun and his every reluctant pronouncement greeted with sighs, sycophantic titters and syrupy admiration.
They accosted him morning, noon and night—in the garden, in the drawing room, in the breakfast parlour—even, once, behind the stables, where a man had a right to expect some peace and quiet. But it was no use—eligible misses lurked, apparently, in every corner of the estate.
Yet, despite his overwhelming aversion to the task in hand, Magnus was still determined to select a wife. The house party had convinced him it was best to get the deed over with as soon as possible. Any courtship was bound to be appalling to a man of his solitary tastes, he reasoned, and if he did not choose now, he would only prolong the process. And this collection of girls seemed no different from any others currently on the marriage mart.
The trouble was, Magnus could not imagine any of them as mother to his children. Not one had two thoughts to rub together; each seemed completely devoted to fashion, gossip and male flattery—not necessarily in that order. And, like Laetitia, they despised rural life.
That was a problem. He had somehow assumed his wife would live at d’Arenville with the children. Though why he should expect his wife to live in the country when few women of his acquaintance did so, Magnus could not imagine. His own mother certainly had not. She hadn’t been able to bear the country. But then he didn’t want a wife like his mother.
Freddie’s wife lived, seemingly content, all year round in the wilds of Yorkshire with her husband and children. The children’s obvious happiness had made a profound impression on Magnus—his own parents had been virtual strangers who had descended on his home at infrequent intervals, their visits the bane of his youthful existence.
But Freddie’s wife truly seemed to love her children. Magnus’s own mother had appeared to love Magnus—in company. So Freddie’s wife could have been fudging it, but Magnus didn’t think so. Freddie’s wife also seemed to love Freddie. But Freddie was, Magnus knew, a lovable person.
It was not the same for Magnus. He had clearly been an unlovable child. And was therefore not a lovable man. But he would do everything in his power to ensure his children had the chance to be lovable. And therefore to be loved.
Magnus glanced around the room again. He supposed it was possible that some of these frivolous girls would settle into motherhood, but it was difficult to believe, especially with the example of his cousin before him.
‘Oh, it is such a delightfully mild evening,’ cried Laetitia. ‘Let us stroll on the terrace before dinner. Come Magnus, as my guest of honour, you shall escort the lady of your choice.’
A dozen feminine gazes turned his way. There was an expectant hush. Magnus silently cursed his cousin for trying to force his hand. Clearly she wished the house party concluded so that she could return to Town and the myriad entertainments there. Magnus smiled. He danced to no female’s tune.
‘Then, as a good guest, I must look to the care of my charming hostess,’ he responded lightly. ‘Cousin, shall we?’ He took her arm, allowing her no choice, and they stepped through the French doors onto the terrace. The other guests followed.
Tallie trailed awkwardly in their wake. She felt most uncomfortable. Several of the young ladies had eyed her gown, whispering and tittering with careless amusement. Their mothers had totally ignored her and two of the gentlemen guests had made improper suggestions. The guests had taken their tone from Laetitia—Tallie was an unconsidered encumbrance, little better than a servant, and in the current mood of thwarted ambition she was a convenient target.
Tallie was angry, but told herself sternly that there was little point in expressing her feelings—they would be gone soon, and she would be left in peace again with the children and Brooks and Mrs Wilmot. It should be simple enough for her to ignore the spite of a few ill-bred aristocrats.
The pale young marquise held her chin high, ignoring the vile insults flung at her by the ignorant canaille, as the tumbrel rolled onwards. She was dressed in rags, her lovely gowns stolen by the prison guards, but her dignity was unimpaired…
Tallie slipped unobtrusively to the edge of the terrace and looked out over the stone balustrade to the closely scythed sweep of lawn and the woods beyond. It was a truly lovely view…
‘Aaargh! Get down, you filthy beast!’ Laetitia’s screeches pierced the air. ‘Get it off me, someone! Aaargh!’
Tallie hurried to see what had occurred. She wriggled between some of the gathered guests and let out an exclamation of distress.
Her cousin’s small son, Georgie, had obviously escaped from the nursery and gone adventuring with the puppy that Tallie had given him several weeks before. He stood in front of his mother, a ragged bunch of snowdrops held pathetically out towards her. His shoes and nankeen pantaloons were covered in mud, as was the puppy. It was the cause of the trouble—muddy pawprints marred Laetitia’s new jonquil silk gown.
Laetitia, unused to dogs, screeched and backed away, hysterically flapping her fan at the pup, who seemed to think it a delightful game. He leaped up, yapping in excitement, attempting to catch the fan in his jaws, liberally spattering the exquisite gown in the process.
Tallie was still attempting to wriggle through the press of guests when Lord d’Arenville grabbed the pup and handed him by the scruff of its neck to the little boy. Tallie reached the child just as his mother’s tirade broke over him.
‘How dare you bring that filthy beast near me, you wicked boy! Do you see what it has done? This gown is ruined! Ruined, I tell you!’
The small face whitened in distress. Mutely Georgie offered the wilting bunch of snowdrops. Laetitia dashed them impatiently from his hands.
‘Do not try to turn me up sweet, Georgie! See what you have done? Look at this dress! Worn for the first time today, from the finest of London’s modistes, and costing the earth! Ruined! And why? Because a wicked boy brought a filthy animal into a civilised gathering! Who gave you permission to leave the nursery? I left the strictest orders. You will be punished for such disobedience! And the animal is clearly dangerous! It must be shot at once! Someone call for a groom—’
The little boy’s face paled further. His small body shook in fright at the venom in his mother’s voice. His face puckered in fear and distress and he clutched the puppy tightly to his chest. It whimpered and scrabbled for release.
Magnus watched, tense in a way he hadn’t been since he himself was a small boy. He fought the sensation. His eyes darkened with sympathy and remembrance as he observed the frightened child and his puppy. He felt for the boy, but it was not his place to interfere with a mother disciplining her child. And anyway, he supposed it was how it had to be. It was certainly how his own childhood had been.
It would be hard for the boy to lose his beloved pup, but it was probably better for Georgie that he learn to toughen up now, rather than later. Pets were invariably used as hostage to one’s good behaviour. Once the boy learnt not to care so much, his life would be easier. Magnus had certainly found it so…although the learning had been very hard…Three pets had died for his disobedience by the time he was eight. The last a liquid-eyed setter bitch by the name of Polly.
Polly, his constant companion and his best friend. But Magnus had taken her out hunting one day instead of finishing his Greek translations and his father had destroyed Polly to teach his son a lesson in responsibility.
Magnus had learned his lesson well.
By the age of eight Magnus had learned not to become attached to pets.
Or to anything else.
‘I am sorry for the unfortunate accident, Cousin.’ It was the shabby little poor relation. Magnus watched as she interposed her body between the cowering small boy and his infuriated mother, her calm voice a contrast to Laetitia’s high-pitched ranting.
‘You are sorry?’ Laetitia continued. ‘Yes, I’ll make sure of that! The children are in your charge, so how was it that this child was allowed to escape from the nursery? I gave strict instructions…’
Magnus leaned back against a large stone urn, folded his arms and coolly observed the scene. He noted the way the dowdy little cousin used her body to shield the child, protecting him from his own mother. It was an interesting manoeuvre—for a poor relation.
The little boy pressed into her skirts, the muddy pup still in his arms. Magnus watched as the girl’s hand came to rest unobtrusively on the nape of the child’s neck. She stroked him with small, soothing movements. Magnus noticed the little boy relax under her ministrations, saw his shivers die away. After a few moments Georgie leaned trustfully into the curve of her hip, resting his head against her. She held him more fully against her body, all the time keeping her cousin’s rage focused on herself. Her words were apologetic, her body subtly defiant.
Fascinating, thought Magnus. Did the girl not realise what she risked by defying her cousin? And all to protect a child who was not even her own.
‘The accident was my fault, Cousin,’ she said. ‘You must not be angry with poor Georgie, here, for he had my permission to be out of the nursery—’
The little boy’s start of surprise was not lost on Magnus.
‘And I am sorry for the soiling of your gown. However, I cannot allow you to have the puppy destroyed—’
‘You? You cannot—’ spluttered Laetitia.
‘No, for the pup belongs neither to Georgie nor to you.’
The child stared up at the girl. Her hand soothed him, and she continued. ‘The pup is mine. He…it was a gift from…from the Rector, and I cannot allow you to destroy a gift because of a little high spirits…’
‘You cannot allow—’ Laetitia gasped in indignation.
‘Yes, puppies will be puppies, and small boys and puppies seem to attract each other, don’t they? Which is why I was so very grateful to Georgie here.’ She turned a warm smile on the small boy.
‘Grateful?’ Laetitia was astounded. Georgie looked puzzled. Magnus was intrigued.
‘Yes, very grateful indeed, for I have been too busy lately to exercise the puppy, and so Georgie has taken over that duty for me, have you not, Georgie dear?’
She nodded encouragingly down at him and, bemused, Georgie nodded back.
‘Yes, so any damage the puppy has done to your gown you must lay at my door.’
‘But—’
The girl was not paying attention. She bent down to the child. ‘Now, Georgie, I think you and my puppy have had enough excitement for one night, but would you do one more thing for me, please?’
He nodded.
‘Would you please return, er…Rover—’
‘Satan,’ Georgie corrected her.
Her eyes brimmed with amusement, but she continued with commendable control. ‘Yes, of course, Satan. Would you please take, er, Satan, to the kennels and wash the mud off him for me? You see, I am dressed for dinner, and ladies must not go to the kennels in their best gown.’
Her words had the unfortunate effect of drawing all attention to her ‘best gown’. There were a few sniggers, which she ignored with a raised chin. Georgie, however, stared at her, stricken.
‘What is it, love?’ she said.
Guiltily, he extended a grubby finger and pointed at the mud which now streaked her dress, liberally deposited by himself and the squirming puppy in his arms. She glanced down and laughed, a warm peal of unconcern.
‘Don’t worry about it, my dear, it will brush off when the mud is dry.’ She ruffled his hair affectionately and said in a low voice, ‘Now for heaven’s sake take that wretched pup and get it and yourself cleaned up before any other accidents happen.’
Relieved, the small boy ran off, his puppy clutched to his chest.
‘You’ll not get off so easily—’ began Laetitia, incensed.
‘Do you think it is quite safe for you to be out in the night air in a damp and muddy dress, Cousin?’ interrupted Tallie solicitously. ‘I would not want you to take a chill, and you know you are extremely susceptible…’
With a stamp and a flounce of jonquil silk Laetitia left the terrace, calling petulantly for her maid to be sent to her at once. The guests drifted in after her, and Brooks began to circulate with a silver tray.
Tallie bent down and gathered up Georgie’s scattered flowers. She straightened a few bent stems, gathered the shawl more tightly around her shoulders and stepped towards the French doors, then noticed Lord d’Arenville, who had remained on the terrace.
His expression was unreadable, his grey heavy-lidded eyes observing her dispassionately. The hard gaze made her shiver. Horrid man, she thought. Waiting to see if there is any more entertainment to be had. She raised her chin in cool disdain, and marched past him without saying a word.
Chapter Two
‘Well, Magnus, how do you like my candidates? Any take your fancy?’
Tallie froze. Partway into writing the events of the day into her diary, she’d run out of ink. She’d slipped down the servants’ stair to the library, secure in the belief that the guests were all in the ballroom, dancing, or playing cards in the nearby anteroom. Concentrating on the tricky task of refilling her inkwell, she hadn’t heard her cousin and Lord d’Arenville enter the library. She glanced around, but they were hidden from her view by the heavy velvet curtains pulled partly across the alcove where she was seated.
She stood up to announce her presence, but paused, recalling the shabby dress she wore. If she emerged, she would have to leave by the public route, enduring further sniggers and taunts. She’d had enough of that at dinner. Laetitia, still furious about the way Tallie had confronted her over Georgie and the puppy, had encouraged her guests to bait Tallie even more spitefully than before, and Tallie could endure no more of it.
Lord d’Arenville spoke. ‘You know perfectly well, Tish, that my fancy does not run to society virgins. I am seeking a wife, not pursuing a fancy.’
Tallie swallowed, embarrassed. This was a terribly private conversation. No one would thank her for having heard that. Perhaps she should try to slip out through the French doors onto the terrace. She edged quietly towards them. Stealthily she slid the bolt back and turned the handle, but it didn’t budge—the catch was stuck.
‘Well, dearest coz, which one has the teeth, the hips and the placid temperament you require for the mother of your heirs? They all have impeccable bloodlines, be assured of that.’
Tallie gasped at Laetitia’s effrontery and waited for Lord d’Arenville to give her a smart set-down for speaking of his intended bride with such disrespect. It was far too late to declare her presence now, and besides, she was fascinated. She edged back behind the curtains and wrestled half-heartedly with the door catch.
‘As far as those requirements are concerned, most of your candidates would do, although Miss Kingsley is too narrow-hipped to be suitable.’
Tallie’s jaw dropped. Requirements? Candidates? Those young women out there had been assembled as candidates? Miss Kingsley eliminated because of her hips? Laetitia hadn’t been joking when she’d referred to teeth, hips, placidity and bloodlines!
Tallie was disgusted. What sort of man would choose a wife so coldly and dispassionately? No wonder he was called The Icicle. Mrs Wilmot was right—he was as handsome as a Greek statue but he obviously had a heart of stone to match. Tallie passionately hoped he would select Miss Fyffe-Temple as his bride.
Miss Fyffe-Temple was one of the prettiest of the young lady guests and the sweetest-spoken—in company. In truth she was a nasty-tempered, spiteful little harpy, who took her temper out on the servants, making impossible demands in a shrill voice, and pinching and hitting the younger maids in the most vicious fashion. The below-stairs members of the household had quickly labelled her Miss Foul-Temper, and in Tallie’s opinion that made her a perfect wife for the great Lord d’Arenville!
‘Actually, I have come to see, on reflection, that my requirements were rather inadequate,’ said Lord d’Arenville.
Perhaps she was too hasty in judging him, Tallie thought. She did tend to make snap judgements, and was often forced to own the fault when she was later proved wrong.
‘Strong hocks, perhaps, Magnus?’ Laetitia had clearly imbibed rather more champagne than was ladylike. ‘Do you want to check their withers? Get them to jump over a few logs? Put them at a fence or two? Or ask if they are fond of oats? I believe Miss Carnegie has Scottish blood—she will certainly be fond of oats. The Scots, I believe, live on little else.’
Tallie shoved her fist against her mouth to stop herself from laughing out loud. Heavens! To think she would be in such sympathy with Cousin Laetitia.
‘Very funny, Tish,’ said Lord d’Arenville dryly. ‘I have no interest in the culinary preferences of anyone north of the border, nor do I wish to concern myself with any additional physical characteristics of the young ladies you selected for me.’
Tallie’s eyes widened. Laetitia had selected the young ladies? Did he simply expect to choose one? Without the bother of courtship? What an insufferable man! To be so puffed up in his own conceit that he need not consider the feelings of any young lady, assuming she would be flattered enough by his offer!
Well, if a spineless ninny was what he wanted, she hoped he would choose The Honourable Miss Aldercott. Already she showed what Tallie considered to be a very sinister preference for gauzy drapery and sonnets about Death and Lost Love. The Honourable Miss Aldercott had fainted five times so far, had had the vapours twice and made recourse to her vinaigrette a dozen times a day. With any luck, thought Tallie viciously, Lord d’Arenville would think The Honourable Miss Aldercott charmingly fragile—then find himself leg-shackled to a clinging, lachrymose watering-pot for the rest of his life!
‘So, Magnus, what other criteria do you have for the mother of your heirs?’
‘It has occurred to me that most of your candidates are rather spoiled and used to being indulged.’
‘Well, naturally they are a little petted, but that is only to be expected…’
‘You miss my point, Tish. Most of these young ladies have found it an almost intolerable hardship to come to the country.’
‘Well, of course they have, Magnus!’ Laetitia snapped acerbically. ‘Any woman would. Who in their right mind would moulder away in the country when they could have all the delightful exhilaration of London society? Is that your latest requirement?’
‘Yes, actually—it is. I wish the mother of my children to reside with the children, and London is no place for a child.’
‘What rubbish!’
‘You know it’s true, Tish, for you yourself keep your children here in the country all year round.’
‘Yes, Magnus, the children live here all year round, not me. And that is the difference. Why, I would go into a decline if I were buried here for an entire year!’
‘And the children—do they not miss their mother’s care?’
Tallie had to stifle another laugh at that. Laetitia, a doting mother! The children would love her if she would let them. As it was, they tiptoed around on their best behaviour during their mother’s visits, hoping to avoid her criticisms and sharp temper and heaving sighs of wistful relief when she left.
