Maggie MacKeever (8 page)

“A fate,” observed the viscount, “that your aunt apparently wishes me to share with Prinny. Do you still wish to marry me, poppet?”

“A fine thing if I didn’t!” retorted Miss Lennox. “The announcement of our betrothal has already been published. A nice figure I’d look, wouldn’t I, if I cried off again?” It was hardly a speech designed to allay a lover’s anxiety. In defense of Miss Lennox, however, it must be said that she was aware neither that she had a lover, nor that the gentleman was prone to anxiety. “If you wish to break off our engagement. Shannon,
you
will have to jilt
me!”

It grew rapidly clear to Viscount Roxbury that his fiancée was not in the best of spirits, and that her thoughts were centered elsewhere. He remedied the situation by grasping her shoulders and shaking her till her untidy hair came tumbling down. “Good God, Shannon!” said Jynx, not in terror but bewilderment; the viscount was disposing in a most ruthless manner of the remainder of her hairpins. “What ails you?”

Lord Roxbury was by no means a fool, and thus did not attempt to explain the nature of his latest—and, he suspected, fatal—malady. “
I
don’t wish to cry off,” he announced rather grimly. “If you will recall, we were talking about you.”

“But, Shannon!” Jynx’s hazel eyes were raised to his face, and in them was not ennui but great curiosity. “Why ever should you think I’ve changed my mind? And why have you taken down my hair?”

“Because I like it
so.”
Lord Roxbury’s fingers were tangled in the chestnut curls. “And you have not answered me.”

Her betrothed, decided Miss Lennox, was in a decidedly queer mood. Her wisest course of action appeared to be to humor him. “Shannon,” she soothed, “any female in her right mind would wish to marry you! You have the distinguished manners belonging to your rank, a general affability which places everyone at ease and gives a particular charm to your society; you have been endowed by nature with a superior mind, which has been highly cultivated and improved by education, and you can converse on any subject.”

“Thank you!” responded Shannon, rather sarcastically. It was amazing how Jynx could simultaneously make a compliment and deliver a set-down. “You have forgotten, in this list of virtues, to mention my social position and my personal appearance—neither of which, I believe, is negligible!”

So startled was Jynx by this unusual display of temper that she drew back to stare, an act which caused the bright moonlight to fall in a most illuminating manner on the low-cut bodice of her sea-green evening gown. Lord Roxbury groaned. “Shannon, what the devil is the matter with you? Of course I’m aware of your exalted social standing and your looks— what female isn’t?
I hope you do not mean for me to present you with a catalogue of your assets daily after we are wed!”

It was not his own assets with which the viscount, at that moment, was concerned. He drew Jynx down against his shoulder and struggled to regain his self-control. “I would not ask you to so fatigue yourself, poppet. Forgive me, please.”

“Don’t I always?” Miss Lennox found the viscount’s chest quite receptive. It occurred to her that she’d been less than generous. “Truly, you
are
handsome, Shannon—as you must very well know! A good number of the young ladies of my acquaintance are breaking their hearts over you.”

“But
your
heart is inviolate, isn’t it, Jynx?” A foolish question; he had always known it was. “Tell me, where were you this afternoon? I waited quite an hour.”

“Oh, heaven!” moaned Jynx. “I had engaged myself to you. Shannon, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to be gone so long, but I became—er—involved, and I forgot you. Have I sunk myself below reproach?”

“Not at all.” Viscount Roxbury gazed upon the disparate elements of the face that was turned up to him, and wished that he might see the generous mouth dimple again. And then he thought, with a bit of surprise, that it would be the happiest man in existence who wakened those sleepy eyes. “It’s certainly not the first time, poppet, that you’ve kept me kicking my heels.”

Nor would it be the last, reflected Miss Lennox, who did not deem it prudent to inform her fiancé that she’d been pitchforked smack into the middle of a most exhausting imbroglio. A fine thing, when a lady who disliked above all things to bestir herself was forced to energetically take up the cudgels on another’s behalf. And she anticipated precious little help from those she sought to defend. Silently Jynx heaped curses upon the head of the scatterbrained Lady Bliss and her equally imprudent retinue.

Lord Roxbury derived some consolation for his exacerbated emotions from the fact that Jynx had not withdrawn from his embrace. He did not attribute this to his personal charm, but to Jynx’s patent abstraction. “Where did you go?” he inquired, rather harshly.

A plague, thought Jynx, upon Adorée Bliss and company! Not only had she been drawn into a wretched situation, but now she found herself under the disagreeable necessity of spinning Shannon a tall tale. “I’m to be married, if you will recall,” she muttered, and hid her guilty face against his neck. “It is an event which involves the selection of bride clothes.”

Lord Roxbury was utterly astounded that Miss Lennox should move of her own volition closer in his embrace; all the same, he was not so astounded that he did not recognize a clanker when he heard one, a perspicacity he had highly developed during his long acquaintance with Miss Lennox, who would prevaricate mightily in an effort to avoid tiresome unpleasantness. “With Percy in tow?” he said in bemused tones. “Doing it too brown, Jynx! And don’t bother to tell me Percy wasn’t with you, because the pair of you were seen.”

“But Percy was invaluable, Shannon!” protested Miss Lennox, thinking rapidly, and wondering frantically just where she and Percy had been observed. “We met quite by accident, and he was most enthused. And you must admit that he has a nice eye for color.”

“Color? Certainly! Green waistcoats with yellow stripes! I suppose I may expect you to appear in Hanover Square dressed as a clown—if, indeed, you do appear; and with your Aunt Eulalia making every effort in the opposite direction, I’m not certain of that.” Nor was Shannon certain, in light of the companionable way in which Jynx had snuggled up against him, that he would not ruin his own chances by some audacious measure. “I don’t suppose, poppet, that you’d care to bypass all the bother and elope to Gretna Green?”

It was a proposal more attractive than the viscount realized; a young lady embarked upon an elopement could hardly be expected to undertake various expedients and shifts on behalf of other people; but it unfortunately put Jynx in mind of another damsel who had professed a desire to flee. “We can’t do that and you know it,” she replied. “It would cause no end of fuss.” But further diversion was called for, lest Shannon pursue the topic of her shopping expedition; Shannon was aware of her dislike of such pursuits, and equally aware of Percy’s deficiencies in matters of sartorial elegance. “You met Percy at Eton, did you not?”

Viscount Roxbury was indeed distracted, not by Jynx’s words but by the fact that, seeking a more comfortable position, she’d thrown her arm across his chest. With difficulty he removed his mind from the tantalizing prospect of getting himself an heir. “Yes,” he replied, absently. “Percy was in his first year there when I was in my last. Why?”

Jynx shrugged, an act that—in light of both her ample proportions and her close proximity—very nearly dealt the death blow to Shannon’s restraint. “I cannot but think,” she remarked obliquely, “that many of these school friendships turn in later years to a positive liability! Percy’s all to pieces again. He says he hasn’t a feather to fly with. You know the family, Shannon. Why is poor Percy treated so shabbily?”

“He’s not.” Lord Roxbury dared run an idle finger along the line of her cheek and jaw. “His mother dotes on him, which is half of Percy’s trouble; the other is his cousin Dominic, who compensates by insisting on strict discipline. It’s ridiculous, but I cannot blame them. Percy is about as capable of looking after himself as a newborn chick.”

Jynx wasn’t particularly happy to have her own opinion confirmed. “Shannon?” she inquired. “What happens when one can’t pay one’s debts? If one is truly done up and there’s no help for it?”

“Then one flees to the Continent.” Lord Roxbury found it extremely difficult to concentrate on the conversation. “Or else one finds oneself in the devil of a fix. Why?”

If only she had access to money of her own, she might have bailed Percy—and herself—out of the deep water in which they foundered. But Jynx did not, and she could not imagine that even so indulgent a father as Sir Malcolm would without question hand over the sum of several hundred pounds. “I suppose it must be fate,” she murmured, and tried to rise. “I must go, Shannon. Eulalia will be looking for me.”

“Let her! She can hardly accuse me of compromising you, since we’re already betrothed.” Shannon allowed Jynx to sit up, then placed his hands on her shoulders. “I want to know, poppet, precisely what your aunt’s told you about marriage.”

“Marriage? Very little, save that it’s a highly undesirable state.” Jynx studied the viscount’s handsome face, and considered the warmth of his hands on her bare skin, and wondered from whence Eulalia’s wisdom sprang. “Not only marriage, for that matter. Eulalia is fond of pointing out the folly of Caro Lamb, who’s made such a cake of herself over Lord Byron. Have you heard the latest
on-dit?
Caro asked Byron for a lock of his hair as a memento, and he sent her one of Lady Oxford’s instead. I can’t imagine what Byron sees in a woman more than fifteen years older than he— although he’s certainly not the first to find her alluring, as witnessed by that brood of lovely children known as Harleian Miscellany! Then again, I cannot see what any lady sees in
him.
Caro would have done better to stick to her resolutions of last year, when she burned Byron’s letters and his miniature on a bonfire at Brocker Hall!”

“Byron is a coxcomb!” interrupted Lord Roxbury who, despite this noble effort, was not swayed from his course. “Back to the subject, if you please.”

“The subject? Oh, marriage! Well, Eulalia says that gentlemen do not care to be subjected to unbecoming displays of feeling, and that ladies who conduct themselves in a forward manner give rise to disgust.”

“Rot!” Lord Roxbury’s hands moved to encircle her throat. “Forget everything that woman’s told you, Jynx. It’s clear she don’t know a hawk from a handsaw.”

“Do you mean to tell me, Shannon, that a well-brought-up young woman
shouldn’t
conduct herself with maidenly reticence?” Miss Lennox looked amazed. “But you yourself said that a woman too much in love was troublesome.”

“Surely not!” protested Lord Roxbury. And if he had ever made such a cork-brained remark, fate saw him amply repaid. “What does Sir Malcolm say to this nonsense?”

“Sir Malcolm said that he didn’t know anything about what well-brought-up young women should and should not do, and that if I wished the truth of the matter I should apply to you.” It had not been the most prudent of advice, suggesting that Lord Roxbury’s experience with young ladies was legion, and that Sir Malcolm’s experience was with females of quite another variety, and Jynx smiled at the memory. Viscount Roxbury was thus aroused from his fascination with the pulse that beat at the base of her throat to an awareness that this was the first time during all of their conversation that her dimples had appeared.

“What’s troubling you, Jynx?” he asked. “Why are you so blue-deviled? Tell me and I will fix it, whatever it may be.”

Miss Lennox’s smile vanished. “It distresses me beyond measure to refuse you. Shannon, but I
can’t
tell you. You wouldn’t like it above half. But I promise you’ll forgive me after the
fait accompli!”
The viscount released her. On his brow was a frown. “Now,” she observed, “you look very much like Aunt Eulalia.”

“Don’t tell me that! You should not like to marry a man who looks to you like your Aunt Eulalia.” Jynx watched with interest as Lord Roxbury delved into his pocket, extracted a small box, and placed on her finger a stunning diamond ring. “What are you doing?” she inquired faintly as he again twined his fingers in her hair.

“I am going to show you both what a gentleman expects of his affianced bride, and the difference between myself and your Aunt Eulalia!” announced Shannon, whose patience was at an end. He drew his affianced bride closer and kissed her most thoroughly, during which process he so far forgot his sworn restraint as to dishevel her considerably. “Well, poppet?” he inquired, in thickened tones, when belated prudence demanded that she be allowed to breathe. “Will you now berate me and demand my apology?”

Miss Lennox stared at her fiancé in a most distracted manner and sought feebly to readjust the bodice of her gown. The viscount scowled and performed the service for her. “One grows weary,” he added, “of forever behaving with decorum and affability. However, if you wish me to moderate my manner, I suppose I must try.” It came to his notice that Jynx’s shoulders were shaking in a most odd fashion, and that she was biting her lower lip. “Good God, Jynx, I’m sorry! There’s no need to
cry
about it! I promise that I certainly haven’t developed a disgust of you and—and that you aren’t ruined!”

But Miss Lennox was not weeping; Miss Lennox was in the midst of a fit of hysterical merriment. “Oh, Shannon, you idiot!” she wailed, and then subsided into gasping incoherence. So encouraged was Lord Roxbury by this unexpected response that he embraced her once again.

Nonetheless, Miss Lennox was not to receive further enlightenment on the question of what well-brought-up young ladies should and should not do. Eulalia, aware of her niece’s habit of taking solitary strolls in the garden after dinner, though not aware of what had initiated that habit, felt herself neglected for too long. Therefore, she entered the garden in pursuit; thus, she witnessed the lethargic Jynx engaged in a most energetic love scene.

“Well!” ejaculated Eulalia, in the most disapproving tones. “A fine thing, I must say!”

Lord Roxbury opened one eye, observed the lady who loomed over him like an avenging nemesis, and reluctantly pushed his fiancée away.
“I
thought so,” he remarked impenitently. Then, before Eulalia could say another word—and that Eulalia had a great many more words to say was obvious—he dropped a kiss on Miss Lennox’s brow, stepped up onto the marble bench, and in the manner of his arrival took his leave.