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He rose and smiled. ‘I will return for her in an hour.’
They went down to the front hall together, where he retrieved his hat, bade Lavinia behave herself, and took his leave.
‘Well, he did not need to say that,’ Lavinia said, peevishly. ‘I am not a child. Anyone would think I was going to demolish the place.’
‘Oh, I do hope not,’ Frances said with a laugh. ‘I have only just got it looking the way I want it.’
Lavinia looked sideways at her and then, realising she was joking, smiled. Her smile, like her father’s, lit her eyes, making Frances wonder why she did not do so more often. There was the promise of great beauty and a telling charm, which should be nurtured. Was that what Marcus had meant about polish? And should she still be thinking of him as Marcus, when that intimacy had long ago vanished and she ought always refer to him, even in her thoughts, as ‘his Grace’ or ‘the Duke’?
‘Come along,’ she said briskly, leading the way through the main hall, past the carved oak staircase and along a corridor to a door which led into a conservatory filled with exotic plants. It was hot and humid and smelled of peat and the heavy perfume of tropical flowers. They passed quickly through it and out into the garden, where the air was dry and balmy. ‘Now, where shall we sit, in the arbour or by the pool?’
Lavinia shrugged. ‘It’s all one to me. I would sooner be sitting a horse.’
Frances laughed. ‘Do you know, so would I.’
‘Then why do this?’ Her arm indicated the drawing equipment.
‘Because we cannot always be doing what we want to do. We all, even you, have obligations, commissions, tasks, whatever you like to call them, which must be seen to before we can think of pleasure. Your papa is paying me to teach you to draw and so I must put my efforts into that. Now, let us make a start.’ She looked about her and pointed to a small wooden structure at the end of the path, which had fretted sides and a steep pitched roof with a cupola on the top. ‘Would you like to draw the pergola?’
‘Oh, very well.’ Lavinia gave a great sigh and took the sketch-book and charcoal Frances held out to her and sat down on a bench beside the pool. She slashed impatiently at the paper, making a line here and another there, a few bold curves and some squiggles and the pergola appeared. Without taking the least trouble over it, she had the line and perspective almost exactly right. ‘There,’ she said handing it back. ‘There is your pergola, my lady.’
Frances bit back the scolding she felt bound to deliver. Lavinia was a spoiled child who thought that being uncooperative might relieve her of doing something she did not want to do. ‘Did you suppose this would persuade me that you are a hopeless case, Lavinia, and that I would tell your father we would not go on with the lessons?’
Lavinia sighed heavily. ‘No, for he is paying you.’
‘That is true, but it is not the only reason we will go on, I assure you,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful and friendly, though she was very tempted to give the child a sharp slap. ‘I am afraid I must disagree with your governess—you are not a hopeless case at all, not when it comes to drawing, at any rate.’
‘How can you tell from that? It is nothing but scribble.’
‘Then pray do something that is not scribble. Add some refinements while I begin my sketch of you.’
Lavinia worked with an ill grace, her face set in a scowl, which Frances transferred to her own sketchbook. Then she turned the page and began on a clean sheet. ‘Lady Lavinia, do you think you could smile, or at least have some pleasant thoughts?’
‘Such as?’
‘Imagine you are out riding, or playing with your pet rabbit.’
‘How do you know I have a rabbit?’
‘Oh, no menagerie would be complete without a rabbit.’
Lavinia laughed and Frances began capturing the image, but she had to work quickly before the girl began to frown again. Both worked in silence for perhaps five minutes before Lavinia flung the pad on the seat beside her and began to roam about the garden. Frances continued to work. ‘I cannot capture your likeness if you do not sit still, Lavinia.’
‘Why not? It seems to me likeness has nothing to do with it. Paint what you think my father would like to see, someone demure and pretty, with hands neatly folded and empty eyes. That is what you do, is it not? Whoever pays the piper calls the tune and so you play it.’
Frances was taken aback, not only by the girl’s outspokenness but by her accuracy, and it made her feel uncomfortable. She was even more discomfited when she realised that Marcus had come into the garden and was leaning against a tree watching them. How long he had been there, she did not know. She shut the sketchbook with a snap and stood up. ‘I think we have had enough for one day, Lavinia,’ she said evenly. ‘Your papa is here to fetch you.’
‘Oh, do not stop on my account,’ he said, coming forward. ‘I can sit and watch you both at work.’
‘We have been getting to know one another,’ Frances said. ‘There has been little work done.’
He picked up Lavinia’s book and flipped it open. ‘I can see that,’ he said. ‘A child of six could have done this in three minutes.’
Frances smiled. ‘A child of sixteen did it in one.’
‘Lavinia…’ he began.
‘Oh, I know what you are going to say,’ the girl said. ‘You are going to tell me that is not what you are paying Lady Corringham for.’
Frances took the book from him. ‘Your Grace, we have both learned a great deal this afternoon, though it might not be obvious. Your daughter has a natural talent, which we must encourage. Scolding her for doing what I asked her to do will not make her any more willing.’
‘You asked her to do this scrawl?’
‘I asked her to draw the pergola. And she did. Her imagination added the rabbit, but as she has pointed out to me, I sometimes use my imagination to enhance an image…’
He gave a wry smile. ‘I heard her. It was insufferably impertinent of her and I apologise on her behalf.’
‘Oh, do not do that, sir. If any apologising needs to be done, Lady Lavinia will acknowledge it and do it herself. And perhaps I should crave her pardon for being too condescending.’
‘Fustian! If you are going to collude with her in her mischief, she will only become worse.’
‘Let me be the judge of that, my lord. Now, if you do not wish me to continue giving lessons to your daughter, then please say so. I shall not be offended.’
‘Of course I wish you to continue.’
‘Then she shall come again next Thursday, if that is convenient to you.’
‘It is perfectly convenient.’
She stood up and collected together the drawing equipment. He reached out to take it from her and between them they dropped the sketchbooks. They both stooped at the same moment to pick them up. Their hands touched and she felt a shaft of something akin to fire flash from his fingertips to hers and course along her arm and through her whole frame. She lifted her head and found herself looking into his eyes. His expression puzzled her. It was as if he were trying to convey something to her. Was it reproof? Sympathy? Desire, even? She held his gaze, unable to look away, almost mesmerised by those deep golden eyes.
It lasted only seconds, which seemed like a lifetime before he stood up and held out a hand to bring her to her feet. ‘My lady.’ His voice was perfectly normal.
She murmured ‘Thank you, your Grace,’ and led the way indoors.
Five minutes later, he and his daughter were gone, leaving her breathless. Never, never could she have foreseen the effect he would have on her. Had he noticed it? Had it given him a feeling of satisfaction, that, after seventeen years, he could still put her in a spin?
How was she going to deal with seeing him every time he brought his daughter to her? And if he really was looking for a second wife, he would undoubtedly be out and about, attending functions which she was also expected to attend. She could not shut herself away, her friends would wonder what was wrong with her. And why should she? It behoved her to bring all her self-control to bear and behave with indifference. She would be indifferent.
Chapter Three (#u7181e97d-228e-52ff-b2d7-337b3e380e72)
Frances was called upon to exercise her indifference sooner than she expected. The Duke of Loscoe was invited to the ball which she had helped to organise in aid of the orphanage. She and a committee of ladies had been planning it for some time and it was to be as grand an affair as they could manage to which all the ton had been invited. He had already made a generous donation to the cause of the orphans and it would have been unthinkable to exclude him.
The choice of venue had been the subject of great debate; should it be held in Almack’s Assembly Rooms, at an hotel, or in a private house? The Assembly Rooms were considered stultifying and there was hardly a hotel with large enough rooms, and besides, their owners would not wish to turn away their ordinary customers to make room for them. If it was to be a private house, then it must have a ballroom big enough to accommodate all the guests they hoped would pay for the privilege of attending.
‘It had better be Corringham House,’ Frances had said.
‘But, Lady Corringham, are you sure?’ Mrs Butterworth had asked. ‘There might be people wishing to come who might not be quite top of the trees. You never know how they might conduct themselves.’
‘If they are prepared to pay, then I am sure we can handle any problems of behaviour. After all, beggars cannot be choosers.’
‘My lady!’ Lady Graham, another member of the committee, cried in horror. ‘We are not beggars. Never let it be said that we are begging.’
Frances had smiled. ‘No, but we are going to ask an exorbitant amount for a ticket, are we not? They deserve Corringham House for that.’
It was some time since Frances had entertained on such a lavish scale; usually she gave small intimate suppers at which conversation, listening to music and playing a few hands of whist were the main ways of passing time. There had not been a ball at the house since Augusta’s come-out five years before and the ballroom had not been used since. She thought she would enjoy the challenge.
And so, on a warm Saturday evening in May, when London was just beginning to fill up for the Season, Corringham House was ablaze with light. Extra servants had been busy all day, polishing the ballroom floor; others were scurrying about carrying chairs, tables, plates and glasses to wherever they were needed. The dining room had been laid out with one long table covered with a pristine damask cloth, ready for the food to be set upon it, and dozens of smaller tables were arranged round the room for the guests to eat supper in small intimate groups. In the over-heated kitchen an army of specially contracted caterers were frantically preparing food, getting in each other’s way and cursing volubly. By early evening, banks of fresh flowers were in place and the musicians had arrived.
Frances made one last tour of the rooms, including one on the first floor for those who did not care to dance and preferred cards, and two others set aside for gentlemen and ladies to leave their hats and cloaks and refresh themselves. There was an attendant in each. Satisfied that all was in readiness, she went up to her bedroom on the second floor, where Rose was waiting to help her dress. She felt hot and sticky and glad to soak in the bath which had been put on the floor of her dressing room and filled with warm, perfumed water.
Until then she had been too busy to reflect on the possible success or otherwise of the enterprise. What would her aristocratic friends think of being asked to pay for the privilege of being her guests? And would they come, knowing that others, just as rich but less socially acceptable, might also pay and they would be obliged to mix with them? It was too late to worry about that now. She stood up and stepped out of the bath. Rose wrapped a towel round her and began rubbing her dry.
When the first carriage rolled up the drive and deposited its occupants on the doorstep, she was ready to greet them. She had chosen to wear an open gown in amber crepe over a silk slip in pale lemon. It had a scooped neckline and puffed sleeves. The amber crepe and the sleeves were sewn with tiny seed pearls and the bodice was caught under the bosom with tiny yellow flowers, the eye of each one studded with a pearl. Her hair was arranged à la Grecque and studded with more pearls. Apart from her rings, she wore no other jewellery.
After the ladies of the committee, who had all arrived promptly, the first guests to arrive were Augusta and her husband, Sir Richard Harnham. Frances, always pleased to see her stepdaughter, kissed her fondly. ‘I am so glad you are here. I have been thinking it will be a very poor do and no one will come.’
‘Fustian!’ Richard said, smiling at her and raising her hand to his lips. ‘Nothing you do is a poor do. It will be a great squeeze, you see if I am not right.’
‘I do hope so.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Even if no one comes, they have already paid for their tickets. We have banked the money and plans have already been made to spend it.’
‘Oh, Mama, please stop worrying,’ Augusta said. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
Considering there was only twelve years between them, Frances found it amusing that Augusta, now that she was grown up and married and had children of her own, still insisted on calling her Mama, but it did not displease her; she was very fond of Augusta.
Her stepson, James, was the next to arrive, dressed in a black evening coat, skintight pantaloons and shirt points high enough to scratch his cheeks. His muslin cravat had been tied to an intricacy that would have done credit to Beau Brummell. He had a young lady on his arm whom Frances had never seen before, but whom she immediately knew to be a very expensive chère amie indeed. She was dressed in a cream satin high-waisted gown embroidered all over with gold and silver thread. Her hair had obviously been dressed by someone skilled in the art and she wore a diamond necklace, diamond ear drops and several gold bracelets.
‘May I present Miss Annabelle Franks, ma’am,’ James said, drawing her forward.
‘My lady,’ she said, dropping into a curtsy. ‘I am very pleased to meet you.’
‘You are welcome, Miss Franks.’ Then, to her stepson, ‘James, Augusta is arrived, do go and speak to her.’
She watched them go with some trepidation. James had succeeded to his father’s title at the age of seventeen and now, at twenty-four, was something of a scapegrace. Frances had had many a run-in with him over the coils he landed himself in, but for all that she loved him dearly. When not living at the Corringham estate in Essex, he stayed in bachelor chambers in Albany, rather than at Corringham House. She suspected it was because he did not want her to know everything he was up to.
He and the young lady had hardly passed into the ballroom when Sir Percival arrived. He looked like a peacock in his green velvet knee breeches, silk stockings and mauve satin coat. There was a froth of lace at his throat and more spilling over his wrists. He took her hand and bent to kiss it, smiling at her. ‘Fanny, you look beautiful tonight.’
She laughed. ‘Well, thank you, Percy. And I must say, you look magnificent.’
He preened himself in his old-fashioned clothes, unaware of the slight irony in her tone. ‘I shall expect at least one dance.’
‘You may have it, if I have time to dance at all. I might be too occupied.’
‘Gammon! You must make time. I did not pay a ransom for a ticket to be deprived of the pleasure of dancing with you, which was the only reason I came.’
‘Not to help the orphans?’ she teased.
‘I could have made a donation without coming.’
‘I hope not too many of our guests share your sentiments or we shall have an empty ballroom.’
‘No, for half London is agog to see the inside of a house they know only by repute, and observe the haut monde at play. They will come.’
And they did. Almost everyone who had purchased a ticket arrived in their finery and some even came without tickets, prepared to pay at the door. Richard had forecast a squeeze and he was certainly right. By nine o’clock the ballroom was crowded and noisy with music, talk and laughter, even if the different social echelons did remain in little groups, each observing the other. Frances decided that no one else should be admitted and left her post to join the throng and encourage everyone to mingle. She was immediately besieged by well-wishers and it was some time before she was free to dance herself; Percy came to claim her.
‘I told you so, did I not?’ he said as they took the first steps of a cotillion. ‘You cannot say this is not a huge success and the Season hardly begun.’
‘Yes, it was a good decision to have it early, before everyone was engaged in their own round of social events. There are to be several balls in the next three months and no doubt everyone will be exhausted.’
‘Then will you please stop worrying and enjoy this dance, you are as stiff as a ramrod.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled and allowed the music to take over and it wasn’t until the end of the dance, when Percy raised her from a deep curtsy, that she saw the Duke of Loscoe, standing in the open doorway, surveying the crowd. Her earnest hope that he would be otherwise engaged on the night had gone unanswered.
He was immaculately clad in black. His superfine coat looked as though he had been poured into it, so closely did it fit his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His trousers, strapped beneath his dancing shoes, emphasised his muscular thighs and long legs and proved that, for a man who had lived in the country for years, he was very much abreast of fashion. A rose-coloured waistcoat, embroidered in gold thread, and a fantastically tied cravat of the finest silk completed a look which had all the young ladies sighing, notwithstanding he was known to be forty years old.
‘Complete to a shade,’ Percy remarked drily.
Frances excused herself and went, as a good hostess, to greet the Duke and make him welcome. ‘Your Grace, I am sorry I left my post and was not waiting to greet you. I thought everyone who was coming had arrived.’
He smiled down at her. ‘Is that a rebuke for my tardiness, my lady? If so, I beg forgiveness. My business kept me longer than I intended.’
‘Goodness no, you are not late, but punctual as ever. It is I who am at fault for assuming everyone was here and beginning the proceedings too early.’ That, she thought, would tell him that she had not been looking out for him and had not even noticed his non-arrival.
‘Then you must make amends by dancing with me.’
There was no help for it and it was better to have it over and done with before her courage left her. She laid her fingers upon the hand he held out to her and allowed him to lead her into the dance just beginning.
Time stood still—more than that, it seemed to go backwards as they did the steps of a stately minuet, just as they had done in that Season seventeen years before. She felt a young girl again, but though the years had passed, inside she had not changed. The same things still excited and thrilled her, the same things made her sad; it was only on the outside she was older and she hoped wiser, able to meet both joy and calamity with serenity.
‘Over all the years, this is what I remember most about you,’ he murmured. ‘The graceful way you move when you dance.’
‘Really, my lord?’ she said, deciding to accept the compliment as a tease and answer in like manner. ‘Is that all?’
‘No, it is far from all, but I doubt you want to hear what other things I remember.’
She should bring the conversation to an end, she knew that, but the seventeen-year-old inside her loved compliments and it was the seventeen-year-old inside her who was holding sway at that moment. She looked up at him and laughed. ‘Are they so dreadful, these other things, that I should be ashamed of them?’
‘Not dreadful at all, but delightful. The way you laugh, which is more like a husky chuckle. And the way your hair curls in your neck so lovingly and the way your eyes light up when you are animated. And your mouth. I do not think I can begin to describe that…’
She stumbled, but his firm hand held her upright and she was able to bring her steps and her swiftly beating heart under control. ‘Loscoe, I do believe you are trying to flirt with me.’
‘Of course,’ he said solemnly, though there was a twinkle in his eyes. ‘And you are not indifferent, are you?’
She wished he had not used that word. The years rolled on and the seventeen-year-old faded to be replaced by the mature woman, the cool Society hostess. ‘Every woman likes compliments, but she would be a ninny to take them seriously, especially when they are delivered by someone so obviously skilled in the art.’
‘You think I am skilled? My goodness, that must mean your swains are singularly inept for I have been buried in the country for years and am sadly out of practice.’
‘Then I should hate to be one of this Season’s innocents, if you are going to practise on them. Heartbreak does not come easy when you are seventeen.’
