Miss Carlyle's Curricle: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix) (13 page)

His hand was warm through her glove when it took hers and brought it to his lips. “You do not look like a milkmaid now.”

No, she did not, but his words made her feel a little frightened. She lifted her chin. “No, I suppose I do not. In this gown, I look like a mosaic from an ancient ruin.”

He laughed and released her hand. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but surely you must admit it is far more grand than a milkmaid.”

“I do not think it is a good thing to be grand.” She remembered how she had towered over many of the men in London, and how she felt she had to crouch and slump to fit in some way. A memory from before her arrival at Brisbane House stirred: it had not been good for her to look older than her years, either. It could cause trouble and even hurt.

“But of course it is,” Lord Brisbane said, and his face moved so that it was completely in shadow. “When you are grand, you are free to do anything you wish, and people will accept it.” The small space of the carriage made his voice sound harsh, Diana thought.

A voice from outside the coach—her mother’s—made Diana sit back against the squabs; the earl’s voice had also been quiet, and she had leaned forward, intent on his words. Almost, almost she thought he might tell something of himself—there was that strangely still quality about him that she remembered seeing before when he mentioned some memory or experience.

Her mother appeared at the carriage door, and smiled as Lord Brisbane helped her inside. “Thank you my lor—that is, Gavin.” She gazed curiously at the two of them, and then looked surprised. “Is not Mr. Goldworthy attending?”

“He sends his apologies,” Lord Brisbane said, and Diana thought she could hear a smile in his voice. “He will be a trifle late—a bit of business he needs to attend to first.” She wondered what sort of business it was. She had seen him with the earl, talking with the estate’s tenants, and then walking through the nearby village. No doubt it had something to do with Mr. Goldworthy’s search for a suitable piece of property to buy.

“What a pity,” Mrs. Carlyle said. “Such a pleasant gentleman, so cheerful. Well, I shall be glad to see him when he does arrive. Does he like music much, Gavin?”

The earl seemed willing to talk of his friend, certainly more so than he was willing to talk about himself, Diana noted. Mr. Goldworthy was a merchant, and had learned the law as well. Not a solicitor, but a barrister, and he had traveled the world as a youth. He had recently conceived a wish to set down roots, and was in fact looking for some small property to purchase. Lord Brisbane had invited him here to look about for a prospective home, and he had accepted.

Diana smiled to herself as she listened, inserting a comment here and there between her mother’s questions and exclamations of interest. By the time they reached Lady Jardien’s house, she had gathered more bits of information regarding the earl than he probably realized he had revealed. He had gone to India and to the Americas, nd had even once skirted the mysterious islands of Japan on a Dutch ship. He had known illness and deprivation, and her heart went out to him—she well knew what that was like. He was ambitious, and worked hard wherever he had gone, even including manual labor.

He did not say any of this directly, but she could guess it from the references he made to various activities and the occasional stillness of his body when he spoke of such things.

No, Lord Brisbane, you do not say much
, she thought, when the coach stopped and he helped her down from it.
No, you say very little, but I can guess.
She gazed at him for a moment, but at his questioning look, merely smiled, said, “Thank you for the dress,” and stepped up to the door of Lady Jardien’s house.

Chapter 9

Lady Jardien’s drawing room glowed with many candles, and a warm fire burned in the fireplace not far from where the musicians played. Diana had always liked her hostess, for she was a shrewd and practical lady, although Diana knew that the lady did not, quite, approve of her. It had not mattered much before, but now, somehow, it did, perhaps because she felt so much like a fish out of water.

Diana stepped further into the room behind Lord Brisbane and her mother, as was proper, and looked about her at the flowers on the mantelpiece, at the way the draperies were tastefully pulled aside with gold bands. Lovely, and she wished she did not feel so unsettled so that she could enjoy the decorations.

Soon the earl and Mrs. Carlyle parted, and Diana came forward, and though she had been in Lady Jardien’s drawing room before, and had met all the people in it, she felt, suddenly, as if she were a stranger.

All eyes had looked toward the door when the earl’s name was announced, and all eyes were upon him, filled with curiosity. But then their gazes shifted, and widened, and the curiosity became rampant as Diana came out from behind him. She could see the attention grow, and she wanted to shrink behind him again.

It was too late, however; her mother had stepped ahead, and he had turned toward her and taken her hand, drawing her forward. Lord Brisbane gazed at her, and there was a challenge in his look;
coward
it said. A light irritation flashed through her and she lifted her chin in answer. She hated having people look at her, but at least she would pretend she did not care.

It was difficult: there was Johnny Ramsworth, who had teased her when she first came to Brisbane House, calling her a long Meg, and whom she had avoided ever since. He glanced at her, then glanced again, then was rooted to the spot as he stared. There was Mary Colesby, who had snubbed her at her coming-out party; her eyes widened upon catching sight of Diana, and a look of chagrin crossed her face. Diana winced. Mary Colesby’s chagrin was no better than her snubs; Mary would not be her friend either way. And then there was Mr. Desmond Jardien, Lady Jardien’s son, who fancied himself a rake and who had ignored Diana for as long as she could remember—until now. He looked up from talking to his fair companion, rested his eyes upon Diana, and a sudden light appeared in his eyes, and a slow smile formed on his lips.

An impatient sigh came from just the other side of her; Diana turned to see Lady Jardien gazing at her son disapprovingly. “The so-called Corsair. Idiot,” she heard her mutter. “I would give half my hydrangeas if Lord Byron’s works were never published.” The lady turned her frank gaze to Diana. “Ignore him, Miss Carlyle. He will grow out of his infatuation with himself—I hope.”

Immediately Diana felt a little better; Lady Jardien did not, it seemed, disapprove of her, but her son. She smiled. “And he is, after all, a few years younger than myself, I believe,” Diana said.

An amused expression entered Lady Jardien’s eyes. “Yes, he is, and I would be pleased if you would remind him of that fact.” She looked Diana up and down. “Not that I think an alliance would be amiss between the two of you, but I think the boy’s not ready for matrimony, not by a long road.”

“I—I thank you, my lady,” Diana said, surprised.

“Besides,” her ladyship continued, “I believe you have a better prospect than my Desmond.” She nodded at the earl, who had moved away to shake the hand of a neighbor. “And best wishes to you, too.”

“Really, there is nothing—that is, we are not—he is not—” Diana took a breath, trying to keep her embarrassment under control. “Lady Jardien, I do not know what you have heard, but we are not even close to being—we will not marry.”

Her ladyship stared at her for a moment, then shook her head. “Well, if he hasn’t proposed, then I am surprised, for he looks at you as if he wanted to—well, never mind that! And if he has proposed, and you have refused, then you’re more of a fool than I ever thought you were,” she said bluntly. “For heaven’s sake, girl, if he proposes, take him! No one could do much better here or even in London, I daresay.” She gazed at Diana keenly. “Well, I won’t say more to put you to a blush. But I’ll tell you this: it won’t do to keep living under his roof, even with your mother. The word has got out about the will, and if a marriage doesn’t happen soon, people will wonder. Best to find yourself and your mother a cottage nearby if you don’t mean to marry him.”

Discomfort made Diana shift uneasily on her feet, but she shook her head. “Nothing can happen until a suitable amount of mourning has passed,” she protested.

“True, but take care. If he keeps looking at you as he has so far, rumors will fly.”

Diana only nodded politely, managing to keep her tongue between her teeth so she would not retort that there was nothing she could do about the way Lord Brisbane looked at her. But Lady Jardien seemed satisfied, and after patting her kindly on her arm, moved away to speak to another guest.

Only a few moments passed before Lady Jardien called everyone to attention, and introduced the first musician. It was Mary Colesby with her harp, and Diana sat down next to her mother and hoped the performance Would not be long. There was a movement to the other side of her; it was Desmond, and she gave a mental groan. She did not want his attention, but his bow and glint of interest as he gazed at her told her that he was determined at least to speak to her.

“I hope she does not sing tonight,” he whispered as he sat down next to her. “Can’t stand her devilish caterwauling.”

“That is unkind,” Diana replied in as repelling tones as possible. “I am sure she practices daily.” She glanced at him, almost smiling at his mode of dress: a combination of propriety and rebellion. No doubt he wished to emulate one of Byron’s dashing heroes, but she saw the influence of his mother in the black coat, properly tied neckcloth, and knee breeches. However, his rebellion shouted forth in the form of his very red waistcoat, possibly put on at the last moment.

“I am sure she does practice, but it is of no use—she screeches at the high notes. There, you see?” He gazed at her for assent, but his gaze drifted lower to somewhere near the bodice of her dress.

Diana grimaced, and wished Miss Colesby would hurry so that she could have an excuse to rise and get away from Desmond. She kept her gaze straight ahead, as if the harp music enthralled all her senses. She noticed from the corner of hr eye that Mr. Jardien had leaned back in his chair and was still looking at her. She groaned mentally. Heavens, would the girl never stop?

It seemed like a lifetime before Miss Colesby’s piece finished, and Diana’s nerves were on edge by the time the last note died in the air. It was not just Desmond, but other gentlemen in the company. She was conscious of glances in her direction, where there had never been any before. She searched for Lord Brisbane, but he seemed always to be talking to one guest or another—the only man who did not seem to be looking at her! Not that she wished him to, of course. She clapped as Miss Colesby beamed and curtsied, then Diana hastily rose and walked away, ignoring Desmond’s “I say, Miss Carlyle—” and her mother’s questioning look. She hoped she was not being rude, but she felt as if a wall of eyes were upon her, and a suffocated feeling pressed upon her chest. Air . . . she needed air.

The drawing room opened out on one side to some stairs going down to a garden; the windowed doors were slightly open, for the room was very warm, and the night air was still and not as cold as usual. She did not look back, but stepped outside, and leaned against the railing of the stairs.

Taking in deep breaths, Diana closed her eyes. Her mind cleared, and she began to feel foolish, and then disgusted at herself. She was acting in a vaporish manner, very missish and stupid. And for what? All because people looked at her more than they had before. If she were normal, like other young ladies she knew, she would have enjoyed the attention instead of feeling as if the walls were closing in on her. It was why she preferred to stay on the estate, supervising the stables, riding, or reading a book, away from large groups of people and small spaces.

She was strong, however, and she could ride her horse faster than anyone—at least any lady she knew—and had no fear when driving any carriage or jumping her horse over any stile. Being in a room full of guests—she had been in such a situation before. This time should be no different.

But it was. She felt exposed—not the least because of the gown she wore. It was beautiful, it was fashionable, and perfectly proper, according to her mother. But it made her feel vulnerable, and she was not that. She was
not
that.

The dress made her feel unlike herself. How nonsensical! It was just some lengths of cloth sewn together. Danger, or insults, or challenges—those were legitimate reasons to feel one thing or another. Not some silly gown. She would go back into the drawing room again, and stare down anyone who dared look at her askance. She could do it—she was tall and could make herself imposing if she wished. The memory of Lord Brisbane’s words about being grand came back to her, and she smiled. Yes, she would be grand and commanding if she could. Taking one more breath, she opened her eyes.

And saw before her Mr. Desmond Jardien. Diana gave a small groan, and then remembered her resolution. “Yes, what is it?” she said firmly. He was the same height as she—she could look him straight in the eyes.

For a moment Desmond looked uncertain. Then he smiled, saying, “You looked upset—I wondered if you were ill.”

She made herself smile at him; he was being a good host, she supposed. “I had a headache, and the room was too warm, so I felt I needed some fresh air.”

He took her hand. “Perhaps you wish to rest?”

“No, no, I am better, thank you.” She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it still and brought it up to his lips.

“I am glad—I would not want you to be ill,” he said, and moved closer with a quick step.

She shifted herself to one side, and he hit the stair railing and winced, but still did not release her hand.

“I think I should go back inside,” she said, tugging at her hand.

“No, wait—” Desmond hesitated, and pulled her closer. “I couldn’t believe it was you, Diana, when you first entered the room. You look like a queen, a goddess.” He brought her hand to his lips again, and kissed it fervently, moving his lips onto her wrist and then her arm.

“Don’t be silly—do let go of me!” She tugged again, her glove came off, and she turned to go into the drawing room again, feeling frantic. But he grabbed her arm again, and then her waist. He pulled her against him, and his face was suddenly very close to hers.

Anger mixed with fear made her push against him, then she stamped her foot, once, twice, finally hitting his foot. His grasp upon her loosened, and she was able to move away. But he still had hold of her arm, and when she looked at him, she saw sheer thwarted fury in his eyes. Fear rose again, and an echoing wrath, and her hands turned to fists.

With one huge swing, Diana’s unprisoned arm came around, and her fist hit Mr. Desmond Jardien precisely on his nose.

“Arrgghh!” The young man doubled over, clutching his nose with both hands.

Diana turned and ran blindly, wanting just to get away, be anywhere but there by the stair railing and—oh, heavens, the son of her hostess. With a groan she ran faster—

Straight into something large and firm and which said, quite loudly. “Oof!” It seized her arms, and she struggled and tried to wrench away.

“Stop! Diana, stop.” The voice was commanding—and familiar. She ceased her struggles and looked up. It was Lord Brisbane, his brows furrowed. “What the devil are you doing?” He moved his hands down her arms, and his frown deepened when he saw one of them had no glove. “Your hand—it is bleeding.” He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at it.

“It . . . it is not my blood,” she said, and tried to still herself. But she could feel herself shaking, whether from anger or fear, she was not sure.

“Not your blood?”

She swallowed, but her shaking continued. “I—oh, Gavin, I am afraid I bloodied Desmond’s nose!” She glanced away from him, and noticed they were at the foot of the stairs leading out to the garden.

“Now why did you do that?” There was a hint of laughter in his voice, and she looked up at him.

“Don’t laugh at me!” she cried, and tried to move away, but she stumbled. His hand came under her elbow and steadied her.

“Diana, sweet, I am not laughing at you.” He took her by her arms again, then put one hand under her chin, making her look at him. “You are shaking.” His voice was soft, and made her trembling increase.

“I shall be well presently.”

“Are you ill?”

“No—it is this stupid gown!” The words flew from her lips before she could stop them, and she realized how foolish they sounded.

His brows rose. “You are shaking as if you were standing in freezing weather. Since it is not that cold, I can only assume you are ill.”

“No. Everyone was looking at me—the walls seemed to press on me, and I felt I could not breathe. And then
he
came out, and I thought he was concerned for my health, but he tried to kiss me, even though I told him he was being silly.” Her words came spilling out in bursts. “I did not like it, and I stamped on his foot, and then I hit him on his nose—and oh, he is Lady Jardien’s son, our hostess’s son! She was kind to me tonight, but I cannot see how she will be, now that I have bloodied her son’s nose!” Her shaking increased, and his arms came around her, moving her close to him. “I don’t belong here, Gavin. I need to be outside. I seem not to be able to do anything right.” Her words made no real sense, she knew, but it was all she could say. She pressed her cheek against his chest, closing her eyes and took another deep breath. His arms shifted away from her and she made a noise of protest; they came around her again and held her closer.