The Wagered Widow Page 8

  “May I join you, ma’am?”

  The gentle voice was that of Letitia Boudreaux, lovely in her blue muslin trimmed with white lace.

  “Pray do,” said Rebecca warmly. “I have been hoping for a cose with you.”

  A blush of pleasure warmed Miss Boudreaux’s cheeks. She occupied the chair Mrs. Boothe had vacated, murmuring shyly, “Do you know, I feel as though we were old friends.”

  “And I expect we would be, had I not been in mourning, for we would certainly have met at some function or another. Perhaps you are acquainted with my brother?”

  “Do you mean Mr. Snowden Boothe?” Miss Boudreaux pleated a fold of her gown with nervous fingers. “I have danced with him a time or two. It was brave of him to stand up with me, under the circumstances.”

  Rebecca’s gaze sharpened. The blue eyes were lowered, but the blush in the cheeks had deepened. She thought, “Oh, no!” but said kindly, “Why, I am sure Snowden was honoured.”

  “He said so, of course, for his manners are beyond reproach. But—” Miss Boudreaux gave a wry smile. “I am so wretchedly tall, you see. He could only have been embarrassed.”

  Despite the deprecating words, she was very obviously in hopes of an encouraging reply, and Rebecca positively ached with sympathy. The poor girl harboured a tendre for Snow! And there was no hope at all, for not only was he enjoying a mild flirtation with a petite damsel, but Rebecca suspected that he had a pronounced interest in a certain Green-Eyed Cat who was at present exerting every wile at her command to keep The Lewd Rake at her side. What a pity it was, to be sure, for there was not another girl in all London Rebecca would sooner have had for a sister-in-law, or who might have made her rackety brother a more suitable wife.

  “I am sure he was not at all embarrassed,” she lied staunchly. “If you did but know how I envy you your height, for tall ladies always look so superb in their garments. Have you never noticed that all the styles in the fashion magazines are worn by extreme tall creatures—so very elegant.”

  “Yes. And one wonders if any woman living could have such incredibly long”—Letitia glanced around cautiously and lowered her voice—“long legs! I vow even so tall a gentleman as my cousin de Villars would not dare stand up with one of them!”

  They laughed merrily together, and by the time Miss Boudreaux went over to chat with Martha Street, their friendship was firmly cemented.

  Rebecca was not accustomed to taking a large luncheon and, although it seemed wasteful to nap, she was beginning to feel drowsy. She yawned, put back her head and prepared to close her eyes, just for a few minutes. She had reckoned without the wide brim of her straw, and found it necessary to remove the obstructing article.

  “Would you wish that I place your bonnet on the table for you, fair conspirator?” asked de Villars, suddenly materializing at her side.

  She jerked her hat away, even as he reached for it. “I most decidedly would not! And furthermore, Mr. de Villars, I never have, nor ever shall, conspire with you in aught, and would be grateful did you not address me in such fashion.”

  The gleam left his grey eyes. He looked levelly at her for a moment, then, as though invisible guards had been lowered, said wistfully, “That is unkind in you, pretty one. Did I not pave the way for your—er, summer amusement?”

  However she might begrudge the admission, it was truth. She had been rude, behaviour as foreign to her as was this new side of Trevelyan de Villars. Confused because she felt so at sea, she stammered, “If you consider it amusing to guide a young lady to her come-out—yes. And I do thank you for your, er, help.”

  His gaze held on her, but in some subtle way his expression had changed. He said, “Patience? I take it that Ward has described her to you?”

  “Not in so many words.” He had sounded faintly incredulous. The poor girl must be extreme ill-favoured! Uneasy, Rebecca pointed out that it was her aunt who might perhaps guide Miss Ashton. “I,” she reminded, “shall be here purely—”

  “Oh, very purely, I do not doubt.”

  Rebecca blushed scarlet and lowered her lashes, scored by guilt and yearning to scratch the odious creature.

  De Villars grinned. “I assume that Boothe is capable of arranging his own summer holiday and will not require my assistance.”

  Stiffening, Rebecca rested a frowning gaze upon him.

  “However,” he went on musingly, “unless I mistake the fellow, he will wish to express his—ah, appreciation for my efforts in your behalf. If you’ve writ him…” Rebecca not rising to the bait, he nodded and said in a thoughtful way, “It would be better, of course, had you not mentioned my part in your … scheme.”

  Feeling like a conniving Jezebel, Rebecca unclamped her locked jaws and uttered a saintly, “I do not lie to my brother, sir.”

  “No.” His head bowed. “Of course you do not. One can tell at a glance that you are all that is pure and good. And … there’s the snag, d’you see? Any brother worth his salt, and Boothe is worth that at least, would seek to shield so innocent a girl from such an—ignoble rascal as … I.” Lifting his head, he revealed again that oddly boyish humility, so that Rebecca, who had bristled because of his sly jibe at Snowden, was inexplicably touched.

  “I had not heard you described in just that way, Mr. de Villars. Your reputation, so far as I am aware, has largely to do with the ladies.” She glanced at the dozing Monahan, and could not forbear to add, “Of a certain class.”

  He turned swiftly away and when next he spoke his voice was somewhat muffled, as though choked by emotion. “You are too kind. Ah, had I only been so fortunate as to meet a girl of your character long ago. Alas, it was otherwise. And I, a stupid young fool, betrayed by my love, and—” He broke off with an impatient gesture. “Forgive me. You cannot wish to hear all that ancient history.”

  “From what little I had heard, sir,” she said, watching his averted profile intently, “the shoe was rather on the other foot.”

  He turned back to her, a whimsical half-smile on his lips. “You do speak your mind, Little Parrish!”

  Again flustered, she gasped, “Oh, good gracious! I have no right—I mean—”

  “No, no. Never guard your tongue with me, I implore. So few people say what is truly in their hearts. Is what makes you so refreshing. As for your remark, ’twas well justified, perhaps—” He shrugged. “But, enough. I will not bore on about my lamentable past—it was all very long ago.”

  Intrigued despite herself, she said, “You cannot be that old, surely!”

  Down went his head once more. He said meekly, “I was but nineteen at the time.”

  “Oh, my! And—and the lady?”

  “Older.”

  This was a most improper conversation that must not be pursued. Rebecca lowered her voice and probed, “Much older?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “But—but … she must have been nigh twice your age!”

  “But very lovely, ma’am. One of your ethereal beauties. I worshipped her.”

  “And—she betrayed you?”

  A reluctant nod of that abased head. Waiting, fascinated by the story her romantic heart could relate to so well, Rebecca asked, “But—you did run away with her?”

  He nodded again, but said nothing for a moment. Then in a remote, sad voice, he murmured, “She left me. After three glorious days. And nights.”

  “How dreadful,” she breathed, overlooking the innuendo. “But—could you not have prevented her?”

  “You must be thinking me a very great fool. And rightly so. But—I was in no condition to prevent anything, ma’am.”

  “No con— A duel?” she gasped. “The lady’s father or brother, perhaps?”

  “Nothing so proper, I grieve to confess. We were overtaken by her—lover.”

  Rebecca’s eyes were very round indeed. “She had—more than—than you?”

  “Alas, had I but known that ghastly truth, I could have spared myself a mortifying and painful defeat.”

  “Good … God
!” Breathless, she could all but see that misty field in the dawning, and the valiant youth fighting vainly, staggering back at last to lie with his blood soaking and soaking into the dewy grass.… Clasping her hands, she cried, “Never say they just went off and left you lying there? Whatever happened to you?”

  “I recovered, of course. Eventually.” He said heavily, “But—the word had got out, you see. My reputation was forever fouled. Dishonour … disgrace … inevitable and unrelenting.”

  A lump came into her throat. Almost she could have wept for that cruelly betrayed youth. “And—the lady?” she asked in a much more kindly tone. “What became of her?”

  “She chose to stay with her lover.” He looked at her, his eyes grave. “The last time I visited her, she had twelve children.”

  Rebecca’s jaw sagged. “Tw—twelve…? And—and you visited her?”

  “It’s dashed difficult to avoid them, Fair One. You see, as it turned out, the lady’s secret lover was—my grandpapa.”

  The gleam was in the grey eyes with a vengeance. The quirk beside the thin lips could no longer be contained and spread into a wide grin.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Rebecca furiously. “Odious! Horrid—deceiving—creature!”

  With a shout of laughter, de Villars stood. “That will teach you, m’dear, to be a little more gracious when someone does you a very large favour!” He started back to The Monahan, who had awoken and was watching them with mild curiosity.

  “Wretch!” Rebecca hissed, jabbing her hatpin furiously in amongst the fruit around the crown of her hat. “Monstrous—rake!”

  De Villars retraced his steps and placed one hand on the side of her chair to lean above her. “You are extreme lovely when you are kind, Little Parrish. But even more delicious, I think, when you are angered.”

  Not deigning him an answer, Rebecca turned towards the river, put back her head, and closed her eyes.

  Chuckling, de Villars went away.

  Rebecca lay there, fuming. Gradually, however, the warmth, the delicious meal, the soft song of the river, combined to dull her indignation. She thought, “Twelve children, indeed!” His mirthful voice echoed in her ears, “The lady’s secret lover was my grandpapa!” The nuances of such a situation began to titillate her. She smiled in spite of herself, and in a little while, drifted into slumber.…

  She was walking down the main staircase at Ward Marching, and she walked slowly, for she wore a magnificent gown of white and could not see clearly for the lacy veil before her eyes. At the foot of the stairs, Sir Peter, heart-stoppingly handsome in his bridal raiment, waited with one hand on the baluster rail, smiling worshipfully up at her. Glowing with happiness, she moved towards him. Birds began to flutter about her; one at first, then three, and suddenly a veritable flock of doves, swooping and calling all about her, coming so close, in fact, that their feathers tickled her nose.…

  Rebecca opened her eyes with a start. A gentleman’s waistcoat hovered just above her, and recognizing the superb cut of it, she demanded indignantly, “Whatever are you about, Mr. de Villars?”

  He glanced down. “Not following my natural instincts when so close to a beautiful and recumbent female,” he said, stepping back a pace. “I was, in fact, engaged in so plebeian an endeavour as to try to rescue your bonnet.”

  She glanced quickly to the right. Her outflung arm trailed below the bottom rail, and her hat, loosely held by one ribbon, was about to float away.

  It had been such an expensive hat! With a wail of dismay, she tightened her grip on the long ribbons and sat up. Impossibly, the hat pulled back.

  “What—on earth?” She frowned, tugging at it in turn.

  Peering over the side, de Villars gave a whoop. “You’ve got a bite!”

  The hat was quite definitely resisting Rebecca’s efforts. “A—a bite?” she echoed in disbelief. “Do you mean—oh! Is some nasty wet little fish trying to eat my hat?”

  “Not so little, by God! Hang on, ma’am! And—pull!”

  She gave an incensed exclamation and entered the battle. De Villars, hilarious, shouted to the other guests, and everyone hurried to watch. Excitement knew no bounds. Bets were placed, and Rebecca was inundated with instructions, cautions, and compliments. At one point her reluctant captive tugged so hard that she feared she would be pulled through the rails, but a strong arm slipped about her waist. She could well imagine whose strong arm it was, and, glaring over her shoulder, was pleasantly surprised to find Ward smiling into her eyes. “Allow me, dear ma’am,” he said in his gentle way, reaching for the impromptu line.

  Captivated she might be, but this was Rebecca’s fish. “No!” she cried determinedly. “I want to try and catch him, if you please, Sir Peter.”

  He looked dubious, but allowed her the struggle while he guarded against her being pulled overboard.

  “Why on earth does not the silly fish let go?” trilled The Monahan mirthfully.

  “He has probably become hooked on Mrs. Parrish’s hatpin,” said de Villars. “I noticed it looked rather lethal when she stuck it in amongst her fruit assortment.”

  Hanging over the rail, Major Broadbent exclaimed, “Jove, but he’s a fine specimen! Reel him—I mean, haul him in, if you can, Rebecca.”

  “Yes, do haul him in, but gently does it,” cautioned de Villars.

  Someone advised, “If you’re slow, ma’am, your ribbon will come loose and he’ll get away.”

  “If you pull too hard,” warned another, “he’s like to pull off the fruit!”

  “What kind of fish is it?”

  “Why on earth does she fish with her bonnet?”

  Such remarks, interspersed with whoops of laughter, assailed Rebecca’s ears as the tussle went on, but she followed de Villars’ advice. The delighted crowd pressed in around her as the strange contest went on. Rebecca was dishevelled and hot when at last she gave the “jolly strong heave” de Villars recommended. The fish apparently running out of fight at the same instant, Rebecca’s heave was much stronger than required. The bedraggled bonnet, a large trout attached, shot through the rail. Still firmly grasped by Ward, Rebecca tumbled backward. Sir Peter staggered, bearing Rebecca with him, willy-nilly, and bonnet and fish slapped into the trim middle of the fascinated Mrs. Monahan.

  “Oh! I am drenched!” wailed The Beauty.

  Convulsed, de Villars hooted, “Jupiter! What a magnificent victory!”

  “Let me see him! Oh, do let me see him!” cried Rebecca eagerly, emerging from Sir Peter’s embrace.

  Broadbent had retrieved the bonnet and trout. Holding them high, he shouted, “Three cheers for The Little Parrish and the finest catch of the day!”

  Rebecca clapped her hands and danced with jubilation as the cheers rang out. To her surprise, The Monahan joined the applause. Whatever else, the lady was a good sport.

  Mrs. Boothe had reached a quite different conclusion. Slipping through the throng, she shuddered at the sight of the fish, took Rebecca’s arm, and whispered, “My love, whatever are you thinking of? You look a wreck! Do come and let me try and tidy you.”

  Aghast, Rebecca slanted a glance at their host. He stood some distance apart, watching Miss Street attempt to dry The Monahan’s gown. Disregarding her aunt’s pleas that she first restore herself, Rebecca hurried to them. “I am indeed sorry, ma’am,” she said repentantly, surveying the sodden peach satin.

  “Well, do not be,” said Mrs. Monahan. “A fine marplot I should be to chastise you when you provided us with such a fine entertainment. I vow ’tis a tale I shall be able to tell forever.”

  Rebecca blushed scarlet and her heart sank. What the Beauty meant was that The Little Parrish had behaved like a clown and made a complete spectacle of herself. From the corner of her eye she saw Sir Peter watching her with a grave expression. She again conveyed her apologies, then went with her aunt to the small cabin that had been converted to a cloakroom for the ladies. Fortunately, it was unoccupied. Fighting tears of mortification, Rebecca was swept into a consoling emb
race. “Oh, Aunt!” she whimpered. “I was doing so well! Why did I have to spoil it? Whatever must Sir Peter have thought? To see me heave that enormous mackerel, or whatever it was, right into The Monahan’s stomacher! And then to stagger and—and jump about like any hobbledehoy! He looked … absolutely appalled!”

  “No, no, my love. A little surprised, perhaps. But you were ever a spirited child. I’ll own it might have been just a touch wiser had you allowed one of the gentlemen to—ah, catch the fish.”

  Dabbing at tearful eyes, Rebecca turned to the mirror. “Yes, for only look at me! Red-faced, and my hair all anyhow! And—oh, Aunt! See here, my new gown is ripped and such a nasty stain!” She wailed miserably, “Small chance of catching the fish I really want, now!”

  “Do not give up hope, dear girl. We shall arrange your hair as prettily as ever. The gown will dry in no time, and the tear is very tiny. Perhaps you can embroider a flower here and there, to hide it.” Working busily at the tangled locks, Mrs. Boothe murmured, “Mr. de Villars was most amused, at least.”

  “Oh, to be sure! And egged me on, the wretch! Much he cares if I make a spectacle of myself, for he seeks only to—” She broke off, and sighed. “No, that is not really so. I stopped him when he was trying to retrieve my hat. But we did not know the fish was trying to eat it, then. And he laughed so, and—so did I. And it was funny, you’ll admit, but—oh, dear, oh, dear! What a birdwit I am!”

  “Well, Sir Peter will love it if you are,” said her aunt with a twinkle. She won a rather watery laugh for her efforts and went on staunchly, “Cheer up, love. Your Plan may yet work.”

  Her Plan! Rebecca’s heart gave a hopeful little lurch. Sir Peter could not go back on his word at this juncture, and when they were peacefully alone at Ward Marching, she could really concentrate on her campaign. It was very apparent that he was the conservative type and admired gentle, mannerly behaviour—as indeed he should. Well, she would be the quietest, most timid, and clinging lady he could desire. Of course, she had not yet broken the news of her impending duties to dear Aunt Albinia.… She slanted a glance at that lady. Meeting her eyes in the mirror, Mrs. Boothe stiffened. “Re-becca…?” she said nervously. “I know that look! What is in your head?”