A Regency Match (3 page)

The greetings between the couple and their mother, so long separated, were voluble and as warm as could be expected from the acerbic Lady Alicia, who didn't wait ten minutes before remarking to Isabel that she'd put on too much weight. Sir Walter, who'd picked up a plate immediately on being invited to sit down at the table and was now digging in to his coddled eggs and ham with gusto, guffawed loudly. “
Told
you Mama would have something to say about your weight,” he chortled.

Poor Isabel colored, stirred her tea and mumbled something vague about the amount of oil used in Indian cookery.

“I don't know why you're laughing, Walter,” his mother said as bluntly as her son would have. “You could drop a stone on two yourself.”

Now both visitors were silenced, and an awkward pause ensued. Although the lowered eyes and strained atmosphere bothered Lady Alicia not a whit, Sophy jumped into the breach and asked for Bertie's whereabouts. “Why didn't he come with you?” she asked her aunt and uncle.

“He's gone to look up a fellow he met in India,” Walter said.

“His name is Lawrence Dillingham,” Isabel amplified. “You remember the Berkshire Dillinghams, don't you, Mama? Their boy resides in London now. He and Bertie became great friends before the Dillinghams returned to England, and Bertie is most eager to renew acquaintance.” Aunt Isabel's explanation was made in a rush of words, the purpose of which was to fog over the awkward effect of her mother-in-law's earlier slur.

“By the way,” Walter put in, happily returning to his coddled eggs, “we were told about the to-do at the Gilberts' ball last night. It must have made quite a scene.” He chuckled as he reached for a second biscuit.

“What Walter means, Mama,” Isabel interjected in her usual mollifying way, “is that we heard a bit of mild gossip. Nothing very critical, you understand. Just slightly amusing.”

“I know what Walter means, Isabel. You needn't explain my son to me. It was a completely reprehensible incident, Walter, and should not be the subject of levity,” his mother told him quellingly.

Isabel nodded in agreement. “That's just what I told him myself, Mama. Lord Wynwood must have been horribly embarrassed.”

“If the fellow tells his mother the tale,” Walter suggested, “we shall have a cool reception in Sussex next month.”

“Then perhaps we shouldn't go,” Isabel offered worriedly.

“I don't like houseparties anyway,” Walter put in promptly. “We can go to Wiltshire instead and spend a comfortable time at Edgerton.”

“Nonsense! We're already promised to Lady Wynwood,” his mother said firmly. “Besides, Edgerton is no longer a comfortable place to visit, now that your brother has taken an Evangelical shrew for a wife.”

“An
Evangelical
?” Isabel exclaimed, shocked. “You cannot mean it. I had heard that Lady Edgerton's nature is not conformable, but no one mentioned her religiosity.”

“I can't believe my brother would marry a religious,” Walter exclaimed. “He has never shown the slightest interest in the church.”

Lady Alicia picked up her teacup with a shrug. “Ask Sophia, if you think I exaggerate.”

“She is certainly an Evangelical,” Sophy said in vehement agreement, “and much worse than a shrew. I warn you, my dear Aunt and Uncle, that a visit to Edgerton these days will not be at all pleasant. And in any case, I fail to see why the plans to go to Sussex should be changed.”

“Well,
really
, Sophia—” Isabel began.

“If you are going to refer again to that ridiculous incident at the Gilberts' ball, I shall have an attack of the vapors! It was nothing but a small misunderstanding. A little mistake! If Lord Wynwood were not so puffed up with his own consequence, the entire matter would not have caused comment. There is no cause whatever for us to hide from the world—or from Lady Wynwood either. I say we should visit Lady Wynwood just as we'd planned. If she brings the matter up, I shall not hesitate to tell her that nothing at all occurred to cause her son to raise such a dust.”

“Hear, hear!” Sir Walter cheered appreciatively. “The girl has pluck, I'll say that for her, Mama.”

Lady Alicia snorted. “Since Lord Wynwood is hardly likely to repeat to his mother anything concerning a matter that he no doubt considers beneath his attention, it is highly improbable that Sophia's pluck will be put to the test. And as for
you
, Miss Prattlebox, may I remind you that Lord Wynwood did
not
raise a dust. He said not a word throughout the whole humiliating incident. Whatever dust was raised was entirely your own doing.” And with that, Lady Alicia put down her teacup and rose from the table, thus indicating that the breakfast, the subject and the visit were at an end.

Later that afternoon, Bertie presented himself at his grandmother's house in Russell Square, his friend Dillingham in tow. Lawrence Dillingham was a tall, gawky youth who had not yet become adept in the techniques of flirtation and courtship. He took one look at his friend Bertie's attractive cousin and was instantly smitten. “Close your mouth,” Bertie whispered to him when the boy gaped adoringly at Sophia from across the room as soon as they'd been introduced. “You look like a moony fish.”

Sophy laughed. “Don't tease your friend,” she admonished her cousin. “Mr. Dillingham doesn't in the least resemble a fish.”

Dillingham blushed. “More like a beanpole, I'm afraid,” he said with a shy smile, shaking her hand awkwardly.

Bertie watched with growing disgust as the stricken Dillingham ogled Sophy adoringly. When they took their leave, he stopped on the street and fixed an accusing eye on his friend. “I thought you said you ain't in the petticoat line,” he said contemptuously. “How do you account for the way you gaped at my cousin?”

Dillingham blinked. “Oh … er … did I gape?”

“Like a blasted conniwobble.”

Poor Dillingham kicked at a pebble embarrassedly. “It's just … that she's such a deucedly pretty little thing … all eyes and dimples and little dark curls … Are you angry with me?”

“Disgusted, more like,” Bertie said bluntly.

Dillingham chewed at his underlip worriedly. “Are you …? You're not … taken with her yourself?”

“Who,
I
?' Bertie gave a disdainful snort. “You must be a bigger beetlehead than I supposed. I told you that I ain't disposed to dangle after females just yet. I don't want to get leg-shackled for
years
. Besides, the girl's my cousin. Known her since she was a brat. She ain't the type I'd have in mind to court, even if I
had
a taste for that sort of thing.”

“Then why did you take me to meet her?” Dillingham asked.

“Because she's such a jolly good sport. I thought we could all be
friends
. How was I to know you'd turn up sweet?”

Dillingham walked alongside his friend in thoughtful silence. “I don't see why you're upset,” he remarked after a while. “Why can't we all
still
be friends?”

“We can't if you're going to act like a damned mooncalf every time we see her. She wouldn't like it any more than I would. You ain't the sort that a female like Sophy would care to encourage in a flirtation.”

“No, I suppose I'm not,” Dillingham acknowledged with a deep sigh.

“Well, you needn't fall into the dismals. We
can
all be friends if you'll only promise to be sensible.”

Dillingham nodded manfully. “Very well, I promise,” he said bravely.

It was noticed (by those who watched) that Sophia behaved with some restraint for the next few days. But the incident at the Gilberts' ball was not sufficiently disreputable to set tongues wagging for very long, and by the end of the week it was all but forgotten. Sophy's confidence and good spirits quickly reasserted themselves, and her old behavior returned. Lady Alicia heard from several acquaintances that her granddaughter had been seen riding in the park with Bertie and his friend Dillingham with uninhibited speed and noise; that she'd danced with Sir Tristram Caitlin three times in succession at a ball given by Lady March; and that she was heard during a play at Covent Garden to laugh out loud at a line which no lady should have admitted that she understood. By the end of the second week, her grandmother was more disgusted with the girl than ever.

Lawrence Dillingham, had he been aware of it, would not have agreed with Lady Alicia's assessment of Sophy's character. The young man had been deeply struck by Sophy's charms and would have called to task anyone who maligned her in his presence. Painfully smitten, he took every opportunity to join Bertie when he went to call on her. The three were often seen together, riding in the park, strolling through the Pantheon Bazaar or visiting the shops on St. James Street.

They made a jolly, lively threesome. To Sophy's surprise, Bertie, although a year her senior, now seemed younger and far less sophisticated than she. His friend was content merely to follow along and laugh at the pleasantries of the other two. Sophy enjoyed their company, for they seemed like two younger brothers; the relaxed intimacy which they developed was different from her friendships with the knowing young ladies and the practiced, artful gentlemen with whom she usually associated. Two or three times a week, Sophy indulged herself by permitting her lighthearted cousin and his shy young friend to squire her about.

One morning, three weeks after the incident at the Gilbert's ball, Sophy induced her young escorts to accompany her to Hookham's library in Old Bond Street. The bookstore was large and very popular with the
ton
, stocking all the new and most talked-about novels and books of poetry. Here was
The Absentee
, by Maria Edgeworth, who had made such a stir with a novel she had written some years before called
Castle Rackrent;
there was
The Giaour
, a lurid verse-romance by Lord Byron, whose poem
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
had made his name a household word just a year before.

Hundreds of books and periodicals were displayed on the tables which were arranged in two neat rows down the length of the store. The bookstore was bustling as well-dressed ladies and elegant gentlemen sauntered through the aisles, pausing to examine a leather-bound volume through a quizzing-glass or to leaf through a current issue of the
London Magazine
with gloved fingers. Sophy and her escorts were soon separated by the throng, but, momentarily distracted by her fascination with the opening verses of Byron's poem which she'd begun to peruse, she was not aware that she'd been left alone. She looked up from her copy of
The Giaour
to find herself staring into the eyes of the stranger of the Gilberts' ball, Lord Wynwood himself.

His lordship's expression was puzzled, and Sophy immediately guessed (when their eyes met, and he quickly looked away) that he'd forgotten who she was. It was obvious that he couldn't place her almost-familiar face. She quickly realized why. She didn't look much like the girl at the ball—her rather shocking cherry-colored ball gown had now been replaced by a dove-gray walking dress, and her noteworthy auburn hair was now covered by a
bergère
hat tied in place with a modest lilac ribbon. No wonder he couldn't place her.

Unable to resist an impulse to set the arrogant, forgetful Lord Wynwood at a loss, she made a deep bow and said sweetly, “Good day, Lord Wynwood.” She was gleefully aware that, although she'd learned
his
identity, he'd never learned hers. He would therefore be at an awkward disadvantage. The imperturbable, cold Earl of Wynwood was in an embarrassing position, and she would have the pleasure of watching him squirm.

There was, however, no trace of awkwardness in the Earl's manner or his expression. “Good afternoon, ma'am,” he replied smoothly, with an answering bow.

Sophy had no intention of letting him off so easily. She decided to continue the conversation and force him to acknowledge his ignorance. But she noticed that a young woman who'd been standing near his lordship had looked up from her book with a questioning glance. She was evidently in his company, for she put down her book and took Lord Wynwood's arm. The lady was a tall, elegant creature with dusky-gold hair, a swan-like neck and alabaster skin. Although she looked vaguely familiar, Sophy didn't bother to identify her. She was occupied with an amused sense of triumph: the Earl would
have
to introduce them. She would have him
now
!

“May I present Miss Bethune?” Lord Wynwood murmured, his brow wrinkling as he desperately tried to remember who this girl was. “Iris, this is … is …”

Miss Bethune put out her hand. “Miss Edgerton, is it not? I believe we met last year at Lady March's birthday fete. How delightful to meet you again. I didn't know you were acquainted with Miss Edgerton, Marcus.”

“Well, I—” Lord Wynwood gestured helplessly, still unable to jar his memory.

“I say, Sophy,” Bertie called from across the aisle, “take a look at
this
.” He waved a book at her as his riding boots clumped across the floor. “It's called
A Wicked Lady
, and it's absolutely
shock
—Oh!” He stopped short, stared at Lord Wynwood and his face flooded with color.

“Good heavens,” Lord Wynwood muttered, his eyes lighting in recognition, “it's
Bertie
!”

“Bertie?” Iris Bethune asked, turning to the Earl with her eyebrows raised.

Lord Wynwood smiled, both relieved that he remembered and amused at Miss Edgerton's obvious embarrassment. “Forgive me, my dear,” he explained to Miss Bethune, “but I suddenly recalled where Miss Edgerton and I had met. It was at the Gilberts' ball. On that occasion, Miss Edgerton took me for Bertie here.”

“Took you for—?” Miss Bethune stared at Bertie nonplussed. “I don't understand …”