Miss Carlyle's Curricle: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix) (12 page)

Madame LaSalle’s! Even Diana knew that the woman was one of the best modistes in London, and made her clothes with precision and style. She watched her mother’s eyes widen and heard her draw in a long, melancholy breath.

“Ohhh . . .” Indecision flickered over Mrs. Carlyle’s face, then she shook her head. “No, we did not try them on—”

Lord Brisbane’s face took on an aggrieved expression, and Mrs. Carlyle began to look guilty in response. “You did not try them on.” He sighed mournfully. “I see.” Her mother looked more guilty than ever.

Diana gazed at him sharply. A glance in her direction showed a distinct twinkle in his eyes. She lifted her chin. “I am afraid it is not proper to accept such gifts as these from an unmarried gentleman, my lord.”

He smiled pleasantly at her. “‘Gavin,’ please.” She gritted her teeth. “Gavin.”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully, then turned to her mother. “Is this true? Even if the gentleman is a relative, though distant?”

“Well—” her mother began to say.

“A distant relative who is grateful he has a hostess—indeed, two hostesses—and wishes them to be well rewarded for their work.” He looked at Mrs. Carlyle earnestly. “Indeed, I do not know how I would manage without your supervision in this household. It is you who approves the dinner menu, and makes sure the housekeeper does all she should, is it not?”

“Yes, it is,” Mrs. Carlyle replied. “But it is in return for giving us a home—”

The earl raised his chin and looked down his nose at her, the picture of offended hauteur. “Are you saying that I am not conscious of my duties to the Carlyle family? That I would throw defenseless females—
ladies
who are related to
me
—out into the cold unless they become my household drudges?”

Mrs. Carlyle looked alarmed. “No, no, I would never say such a thing!”

“Then you must see that I am very grateful for what you have done for me, and am only expressing my gratitude.” He smiled cheerfully at her. “Certainly you can see I cannot have you dressed in anything but the best?”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Mrs. Carlyle said, looking at once anxious and bewildered.

“Besides, it would never do for his consequence,” Diana snapped. Oh, how cleverly he managed to twist her mother around his finger! But she would not give in, no, she would not.

“Diana!” her mother said in a scandalized voice. “How could you?”

The earl sighed. “I see it now. She does not even wish to try it on—no doubt she believes my taste is execrable, or perhaps she thinks me overbearing.”

Mrs. Carlyle shook her head. “No, my lord. She
will
try it on. Then we shall see.” She turned to Diana. “Come, my dear. You cannot be so rude as to refuse to try on the dress, can you?” A pleading look entered her mother’s eyes, and Diana felt helpless before it. She knew it would give her mother great pleasure to wear such a fine dress, and to see her daughter try on hers. Indeed, it was probably many, many years since her mother had worn such a gown, if it was anything like the one the earl had given Diana. It was a London dress, one only ladies of very high
ton
would wear, the height of fashion. A stab of guilt went through her, and she nodded reluctantly. “Very well, Mama, I shall try it on.”

Her mother sighed in relief. “Come then, hurry. We have not much time.” She almost ran up the stairs, and summoned a passing chambermaid to help her, while she requested Annie to help Diana dress.

Annie beamed with enthusiasm when she found she was to put the black-and-gold dress on Diana, and hastily shook it out and unbuttoned the frilly one that her mistress wore. Diana grimaced when the maid said, “You’ll have to wear other stays, miss, not these. They’d show above the bodice, you see.” She shrugged, and the maid pulled out another, less confining set of stays. If she was lucky, the color and line of the dress would deemphasize the unfortunate shape of her body.

Fifteen minutes later, Diana looked into the mirror and her heart plummeted to her stomach. “Oh, no,” she whispered.

Her maid gazed at her, clearly puzzled. “What is wrong, Miss Diana?”

“I—I—cannot wear this!” She tried to swallow down a panicked nervousness and failed.

It was not Diana Carlyle she was staring at in the mirror, but some other woman—queenly, majestic. Her maid had redressed her hair in a severe knot at the back of her head, with long curling strands streaming down below her shoulders to complement the style of the dress. She had thought the gown would be fairly plain, even austere, and it was, compared to the frilly dress she had worn before. But the waistline was a little lower than the other—she remembered there seemed to be an emerging fashion for a lower waistline than before—and hugged her very closely. The sleeves were little nothings of puffed black silk gauze bordered with gold piping; her arms, if it were not for her gloves, would almost be bare. But the gold net overskirt gave it an exotic Byzantine look, and the bodice—

Diana closed her eyes and groaned. The bodice was also of many-layered black silk gauze and on anyone else it would have been modest. But the gold band that lined the top of it barely restrained the expanse of flesh that almost overflowed the edge. She could not even bind her bosom as she often did, for it would make the bodice too loose and reveal more than it should.

A knock sounded at the door, and alarm flashed through her. “Don’t—!” But her mother entered before she could say more.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, Diana!” she breathed. “Oh, my dear, dear girl! How beautiful you look—so fashionable!” She waved the maid away. “Annie, do go down and tell his lordship that we will be down soon.” The maid curtsied and left.

Diana closed her eyes in embarrassment, and put her hands over her chest. “Mama, do you have a fichu? A gold one, perhaps?”

Mrs. Carlyle looked puzzled. “Whatever for? You look perfectly well—beautiful, as I said.”

“Mama, you always say that. But surely you realize I cannot go out in—in this!”

Her mother looked her up and down, looking more puzzled than ever. “The dress is perfect for you—I see now that frills and large bows are completely wrong for you, and I only wish I had known it earlier. I have never seen you look better, truly.”

“Thank you, Mama, but I am
not
going out in this dress,” Diana said through gritted teeth. “It is indecent.”

Mrs. Carlyle looked her over again. “Nonsense. It is black, perfect for mourning. The bodice is no different than mine, no higher or lower. Indeed, I believe you were hiding yourself behind all those frills and bows of Miss Marling’s.”

Diana held her tongue, forbearing to point out that Miss Marling’s designs were all that they had in the village to date, and she herself had never insisted on the bows—Miss Marling had. She gazed, a little resentfully she admitted, at her mother’s dress: a lovely confection of airy black and lavender ruffles with pearls glinting amongst them with fugitive light. True, her bodice was just as low as Diana’s, but her mother’s delicate form did not overflow it as did hers. Instead, Mama looked like a fairy princess emerging out of twilight mist.

Diana sighed. Her mother would not be convinced, she knew. But she would not leave this room wearing this Byzantine queen’s gown. She looked her mother in the eye.

“Mama, I am going to wear the other dress.”

Mrs. Carlyle looked startled, then a martial light grew in her eyes. “No, my dear, you are not. You look lovely, and you
will
go to Lady Jardien’s musicale in this dress.”

“Mama, please—”

“No!” Mrs. Carlyle eyed her sternly. “No, Diana. I do not know what has come over you. Truly I do not. All these outbursts, and swinging from extreme missishness to hoydenish behavior.” She sighed, and her face grew sad. “I suppose it is for lack of masculine guidance in your life. If only your father had not died, or if Charles—”

Anger flared. “No it is not, Mama! We can do very well without masculine
guidance.
Did it really do us any good when Father left us to starve? And when Uncle Charles died—we are only hangers-on, after all—”

Her mother jerked as if struck, then paled, and immediately Diana’s anger disappeared, replaced by deep remorse. “Oh, Mama, I am sorry! So sorry. I didn’t mean—please forgive me.” She turned away, covering her face with her hands in shame. “I have been so—I don’t know! I had felt so safe when Uncle Charles—when he was with us, and I never had to think of anything, just riding and driving carriages, reading, music, and doing as I wished. But now—I cannot feel comfortable being so obliged to Lord Brisbane.” She felt her mother’s arm come around her in a hug and looked up to see her smile.

“Oh, my dear girl. I understand how difficult it can be to feel so—I felt that way when your uncle first came for us. That is why I continue to keep house as I did when your uncle was alive. Lord Brisbane—Gavin—is a kind, generous man, and we should be thankful. And do you not still oversee the stables? I do not think Gavin has said you should not, and in fact has left it all to you to manage, especially now that McKinney is missing. I believe Gavin must rate your judgment and abilities quite high in these matters, do you not think?”

Diana gazed at her mother and realized she was quite right. Lord Brisbane had said nothing to countermand any of her orders to the grooms and neither had he asked her to discontinue her uncle’s projects in the stables. Diana had gone on as she had before her uncle had died, supervising the building of an addition to the stables, and the breeding of cattle. She had thrown herself into the work, wanting, somehow, to keep her uncle alive in this way, not even thinking of how unusual it might be for her to supervise it.

“I . . . I suppose you are right,” Diana said slowly. She gave a reluctant smile. “Either that, or he knows how stubborn I can be and is afraid of getting in my way.”

Her mother laughed. “Perhaps so, and if so, think how wise a man he must be to know it.” She touched Diana’s cheek fondly. “Surely it could not hurt to please such a man in this one thing?”

Diana thought of how unusual Lord Brisbane was, and nodded. He was infuriating sometimes, frustrating, and annoyingly closemouthed about himself, but nothing she had done so far shocked him, or so he said. He had only agreed with her, laughed, or kissed—Diana stopped the thought, and grew conscious of her dress again.

She drew in a breath and let it out. “You are right, Mama. There is no need for me to be missish.” Indeed, she would pretend she was dressed as usual, perhaps in her riding dress. She never felt anxious or exposed in her riding habit, but in control of herself and of everything around her. Clothes were just that—clothes. No more, no less. There was no reason why she should feel any different in this gown than in anything else.

And yet, when she descended the stairs once again, she could not help seeing Lord Brisbane’s habitual sleepy look disappear to be replaced by widened eyes. He bowed over her hand when she approached him, and she heard a distinct sigh leave him, then saw an odd regret appear in his eyes as he rose and gazed at her.

For all her determination not to be missish, she felt a blush enter her cheeks, and she made herself look away. “Shall we go?” she asked. There was silence for a moment, and she fiddled with a fold in her skirt as a footman brought her pelisse and put it upon her shoulders. She wondered if the gentlemen guests would stare at her as Gavin did, and she almost turned back up the stairs.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” came Lord Brisbane’s voice. Diana looked up at him at last—he was still looking at her—and she turned to her mother. “Mama, I believe you should go before me.”

Her mother looked suddenly indecisive. “Oh—oh, dear. I have forgotten my reticule.” She gazed at Lord Brisbane. “Do go ahead with Diana into the coach—I shall be with you presently, only a moment.” She turned and hurried up the stairs again.

Lord Brisbane took Diana’s hand and placed it on his arm. “I do believe your mother wishes to leave us alone,” he said as they walked away from the stairs down the great hall. “Now, I wonder why?”

Diana suppressed her nervousness and gave him a sour look. “She has an odd idea that my uncle’s will is perfect in every way.”

“A wise woman, your mother,” he replied calmly. “I have thought so from the start.”

“A
fond
mother, to be sure,” Diana replied firmly. She remembered her words to her mother in her room, and remorse touched her again. “More fond than I deserve, surely.”

The footmen opened the double doors and they walked down the steps to the waiting coach. Lord Brisbane held her hand as she stepped into it, then entered himself, sitting opposite her.

The coach was the largest in the carriage house, but the sunset’s light hardly penetrated the interior, and the carriage lamps just at the windows only highlighted brief surfaces—a cheek, a brow, the glint of whatever shiny surface might be within. It was a close and intimate space, but Diana looked at the earl, his face partly in shadow, and he seemed more of a stranger than ever. He was, in a way, reserved, she thought, always deflecting conversation away from discussions of his life. How odd that was in a man who seemed at times lazy and at other times outright chatty.

The light shifted from Lord Brisbane’s cheek to his chin—he was looking at her askance. “Your mother thinks differently. And . . . I think you have been in the habit of taking care of her, have you not?”

She gave him a sharp glance; he was right, she realized. She had tried to take care of her mother ever since she was very young. “We take care of each other, my lord.” That was true, too. Her mother would do anything for Diana; she had always felt strong and secure in this knowledge. It was her rock, her anchor. “She is a strong-hearted woman. And I—” She gave a short laugh. “I have always been physically strong. Hence my London nickname, ‘the Milkmaid.’”