The Outrageous Debutante

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When she danced with the highly eligible and extremely rich Earl of Moreton, her mother’s chosen favourite in her plan to find a wealthy, titled husband for her daughter, Nicholas could do nothing but turn his back and invite another lady to partner him. He would not give her the pleasure of seeing him watch her circle the ballroom, however graceful and elegant she might be. He would not. And when his aunt once more invited him to take dear Thea into supper, or partner her in a country dance, he would bow and comply with firm composure as if it were a matter of no possible consequence to take that long-fingered hand in his—or else he would discover an instant excuse for his attendance elsewhere. But he would not single the lady out. He would not give the lady or Lady Beatrice the opportunity to gloat!

But if that were so, why was he still in town? Nicholas refused to consider the implication of such perverse behaviour.

Meanwhile, Thea refused to notice or to be disappointed when his lordship led another pretty débutante into a country dance set. Or failed to put in an appearance at Almack’s when she had chosen to wear a particularly flattering gown of emerald silk overlaid with silver-grey lace. Instead, she took every opportunity to be deliberately provocative—a task that she found surprisingly easy. Quite as effortless as Lord Nicholas in taking her to task for her somewhat slighting remark on the overbearing tactics of the Duke of Wellington in the government of the day.

‘Is that your own opinion, madam? Or that of Sir Hector?’ Unable to ignore her in so small a gathering, Nicholas handed her a glass of champagne at Lady Beatrice’s small soirée, his expression one of distinct disapproval.

‘My own, of course.’ Thea sipped the golden bubbles with a little smile.

‘I did not realise that your interests stretched to politics, Miss Wooton-Devereux.’

‘And should they not?’

‘It is not always to be expected in a débutante.’

‘It is important to be well informed, I believe.’

Lord Nicholas merely observed her without reply, one brow lifted a fraction of an inch.

Well! She could not allow so negative and patronising a response go unanswered!

‘Can it be that you are criticising my upbringing and education, my lord?’ Thea’s brows rose in delicate arcs. She watched him over the rim of her glass.

‘I would not be so bold, ma’am.’

‘My upbringing has been impeccable,’ the lady informed him, ‘according to the advanced ideas of the philosopher Rousseau. And as advocated by Maria Edgeworth, no less, in her Practical Education.’

‘I can well believe it.’

‘It is essential,’ continued the lady, ‘that every child and thus every adult be treated as an individual to develop his or her innate talents and abilities.’

‘Most estimable, to be sure.’

‘Thus I would consider it necessary that every intelligent woman be aware of the policies of our government and the political figures who influence them. Which makes me free to be critical if I find the Duke’s approach not to my taste.’

‘As I would agree.’ Nicholas smiled with all the friendliness of a kestrel eyeing a tasty mouse. ‘But even Rousseau considered the opinions of the female sex to be far inferior to those of the male.’ He raised his glass in a little toast and drank from it. ‘I am certain that, educated as you are, you see the force of my argument.’

‘No! I do not, my lord!’ Thea felt a warmth of colour touch her cheek at his underhand tactics.

‘Now, why did I think that would be your answer?’

Which left Theodora without a parting shot.

And gave Lord Nicholas a degree of satisfaction.

But within the third week of their distinctly uneasy acquaintance, there was a particular development in the nature of their relationship, a strange little event that gave both lady and gentleman much to consider. As Nicholas drove his curricle through the city, having visited his bank, he spied a familiar female figure. There, standing on the pavement, on the corner of Chancery Lane and Fleet Street, was a lady whom he could not possibly mistake. She held her reticule, gloves and parasol in one hand, and a guide book, compiled for those travellers who might wish to enjoy the sights of London, open in the other. She was clearly oblivious to the small crowd of urchins and undesirables who had gathered, attracted by her obvious wealth and her unaccompanied state.

He drew in his horses beside her, a heavy frown apparent.

She looked up, a delightful picture in a gauze and satin straw bonnet, but her words did not hold the same charm.

‘Do not say anything, my lord!’

So he obligingly did not, but made no attempt to hide his disapproval of her unchaperoned situation in the City as he held his matched chestnuts under firm control. What was she thinking! The fact that her presence here had caused him a ripple of concern for her safety was rapidly discarded.

‘I am lost,’ Thea snapped. Of all people, why did it have to be Lord Nicholas Faringdon to drive past, to look down his arrogant—if beautiful—nose at her as if she were a beetle in his path? ‘I should not be here—and certainly not unchaperoned. I should have a maid with me. I should not be drawing attention to myself. Anything else, my lord?’

She had read him to perfection. He suppressed any sign of wry amusement, so his reply was cold and curt.

‘I cannot think of anything at the moment. You appear to have covered every aspect of this unfortunate situation.’

He dismounted, handing the reins to the groom, his expression not pleasant at the inconvenience. ‘I think I should return you to your family, ma’am.’

‘Why should you? I would much rather go to St Paul’s.’

Without a word he held out his hand and, when she complied—she could hardly do other in this busy street—helped her up into the curricle.

‘And why are