The notorious nabob, p.4
The Notorious Nabob, page 4
‘Must we?’ He sounded genuinely disappointed. ‘That would be a pity. I really feel we should discuss it further.’
The resonance of his voice seduced her and she almost succumbed, although they had not been introduced and she was not so green as to be heedless of the fact that to be found speaking to him at all in such circumstances would put her quite beyond the pale, the more so as the exodus to the ballroom had left them almost alone. And then a plump and rather elderly exquisite came sauntering past, and paused to look more closely at her companion. ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed and, with a smile that was almost a leer, made a clumsy attempt at ribaldry. ‘Well now, what have we here, St Clair? Not back on the town above five minutes, and already at pains to show us you ain’t lost y’r touch with the ladies, what?’
St Clair! The name seemed to echo and re-echo in Olivia’s head. Shock, followed by a sense of outrage, filled her to the exclusion of all other emotions as the man sauntered on, unaware of the magnitude of his faux pas. But her fury was as nothing compared with St Clair’s. As she rounded on him accusingly, the words dried in her throat; his eyes, so gently teasing a moment earlier, now looked after the departing figure with an expression which eclipsed her own anger to such a degree that she shivered and involuntarily followed the restrained ferocity of his gaze, for it seemed impossible that anyone could endure such a look ‒ and live!
To Olivia it seemed the moment went on forever before, with exquisite formality, Mr St Clair said in a voice devoid of expression, ‘Forgive me for exposing you to that and allow me to make amends by returning you to your friends.’
His voice broke the spell and she whirled away from him, her own anger returning in full measure. ‘No! Don’t touch me!’
He shrugged, his mouth twisting in a humourless smile, while his narrowed eyes still glittered in that frightening way. ‘As you will, fair divinity.’
‘And don’t call me by that horrible name!’
‘You do not care for it? How odd. Young women who throw themselves at me are not usually so averse to flattery. But since I do not know what else I may call you …?’
‘Nor do I mean to tell you!’ The sudden panic in her voice did little to assuage his temper.
‘I see. In the light of your all-too apparent revulsion, I must deduce that my reputation has gone before me with a vengeance. A pity, but you need have no fear ‒ should I be on hand the next time you stumble, I shall strive to smother my more chivalrous instincts and allow you to drop where you will.’
The correctness of his bow contained a supreme irony all of its own. Olivia watched him go, contemptuous pride bristling in every line of his back. And she could have wept. His behaviour had been unpardonable, and yet he had somehow managed to put her in the wrong. No, to be fair, she had put herself in the wrong. If, or rather when she met Mr Damian St Clair, she had meant to treat him with cool politeness ‒ to show him and the world at large that she cared nothing that he was now master of Kimberley. Instead of which, just for a moment, she had actually come close to … she closed her mind to the shocking nature of her thoughts, and attempted instead to defend her behaviour. After all, how could she possibly have guessed his identity, when in her mind she still visualised him as a youthful scapegrace Irishman with laughing eyes, and not at all this man who appeared so … dangerously different!
‘Lady Olivia?’ A tentative hand on her arm made her tense for fear that he had returned. The hand was hastily removed as she turned an unnecessarily fierce look upon the pleasant, rather shy young man who stood regarding her with some anxiety. ‘Forgive me … I am not mistaken? The sets are about to form and I believe the cotillion is promised to me?’
Oh, heavens! ‘Of course. You are Pom’s friend ‒’ Olivia smiled. ‘Mr Peveral, is it not? I’m so sorry. I was overcome … the crowd, the heat …’
‘Quite so.’ He looked crestfallen. ‘It is very warm. If you are feeling faint, we could sit in one of the anterooms instead?’
‘Certainly not,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing anything so poor-spirited. Besides which, I am now quite recovered.’
Mr Pommeroy encountered them as they were about to enter the ballroom. He was carrying a glass of cordial in a slightly bewildered fashion, as though he didn’t quite know how he had come by it. ‘Livvy, I have looked for you in vain ‒’ There was gentle reproach in his voice as his glance travelled from the glass to each of them in turn and then back again. ‘And to no purpose, it would seem.’
Olivia chuckled, her spirits for the moment fully restored. ‘Oh, my poor Pom! I had quite forgotten. Never mind, you can drink it instead.’
‘That’s the ticket. You’ll enjoy it,’ said Mr Peveral, beaming at his friend whose look became even more pained. ‘Forgive us now, dear old fellow, but we must go if we are not to be left out.’
The cotillion proved every bit as enjoyable as the country dance. Mr Peveral acquitted himself well and, once over his shyness, proved to be an agreeable partner. Olivia was a natural dancer, and had learned all the steps along with her sister in the days prior to Charlotte’s marriage, in readiness, so Mama had said, for her own come-out. She had acquitted herself wonderfully well, far better than Charlotte, though until now her opportunities to prove it had been few. There had been a few sedate assemblies in Bath, once she was out of black gloves, but the company was almost invariably thin and lacking in young people, and she gained the distinct impression that to be seen actually enjoying oneself would be considered bad ton. But here in Lady Bryony’s ballroom, with its atmosphere of lightness and gaiety, she responded to the lilting music as a thirsty flower responds to rain.
‘That niece of yours displays well, Constance,’ observed Lady Crockforth. ‘A true Egan. Takes me back, just watching her.’
‘Quite beautiful!’ murmured Miss Imelda, seated beside her on the dais where proud mamas and dowagers mingled.
Mrs Gilbey had been quite cool with Gertrude Crockforth when she first came to sit beside her, in order to signify her displeasure at the chaos she had caused by her summary treatment of Honoria. But her ladyship, impervious as ever, seemed not to notice any lack of warmth in Mrs Gilbey’s manner, and it was not in the latter’s nature to hold a grudge for long. Now, all else forgotten, her eyes followed the dipping, swaying figure with misty-eyed partiality. ‘She is a delight, is she not? If only life were not so unfair!’
‘Hm. Have you anyone in mind for her?’
Her companion sighed. ‘Mr Gilbey has suggested several possibles ‒ all of them ineligible, to my mind. But I am trying not to think of it at present. The poor child has endured such a wretched life of late that I want her to enjoy her freedom for as long as she can.’
‘Good God!’ Lady Crockforth exclaimed suddenly, putting up her lorgnette. ‘If that don’t beat everything! Well, I’ll say this for him ‒ he ain’t lost an ounce of his audacity with the years!’
Mrs Gilbey, mystified, urged her to explain.
‘Well, you won’t like it above half, Constance, but you must surely see him … in the doorway there, just moving in front of the mirror. I always said Arabella Bryony’s thoughtlessness would be her undoing one day, though I’d vouchsafe your niece is like to suffer more from this piece of work!’
Mrs Gilbey turned pale. ‘You don’t … you surely cannot mean …’ At first she did not recognise the gentleman in black, but when she did, her placid nature for once deserted her. ‘Oh, my poor Olivia! Where is she, Gertrude? Can you see her? Mr Gilbey must be fetched from the card-room and we must leave at once! Oh, why is he never there when he is needed?’
Lady Crockforth exhorted her to be calm. ‘Carrying on in that hubble-bubble way won’t help the girl! Whatever you do must be accomplished with discretion.’
Damian St Clair, on his way to the card-room, had paused for a moment at the entrance to the ballroom. The violent feelings unleashed by the distasteful conclusion to his earlier enlivening encounter still soured his thoughts, colouring his opinion of the whole scene. His mouth twisted into something approaching a sneer. Such a very English scene, with all its pomp and glitter and triviality. Odd now to remember how desperately he had once longed to be a part of it. Indeed, it had been his parting vow that he would not set foot on English soil again until he could be revenged on them all for their mealy-mouthed snobbery, and make them accept him on his own terms. And when, last year, on one of his infrequent visits to Ireland, he had learned from his agent, Freeman, that the Meriton Estates were on the market, it had seemed that Nemesis was presenting him with a peculiarly apt opportunity to redeem that vow.
Now, looking around him, he felt cheated, for he was experiencing none of the exhilaration which ought surely to arise from the vindication of all those past wrongs. There was only a sensation of anti-climax ‒ of passion wasted. What need, after all, had he to prove himself to these people? He had achieved more, witnessed more, accumulated more riches in sixteen years than they would know in a lifetime. In that instant, he was on the brink of a decision ‒ to seize the earliest opportunity to return to India, the land which had captured his heart. He had enemies there, too, of course, dangerously determined enemies, but he also had powerful friends.
And then his eye was caught by the girl in the amber gown who had carried her head like a queen. She stood out from her over-dressed, bejewelled companions by her very simplicity, her graceful, wand-like figure moving as though it had no bones ‒ an illusion not as fanciful as it seemed, for although he had held her only briefly, he was able to recall every sensation in vivid detail; the way her heart fluttered like an imprisoned bird beneath his touch; the oddest notion that if he were not very careful she might break under his hands. But there was an invincible spirit beneath her apparent fragility, and a humour and intelligence which belied all that righteous indignation ‒ he was sure of it, and, but for that interfering fool whose name escaped him, he would have worn down her resistance. The memory of her angry reaction to his name puzzled him almost as much as her rejection of his overtures piqued him, which of itself constituted a challenge, for he was unused to being repulsed by any woman with such damning finality. His senses began to stir; by God, he had a mind to complete what he had begun. His blood began to race at the prospect. Perhaps, after all, the next few weeks might not be wholly tedious. He would find Arabella and persuade her to introduce him, a tiresome but necessary deference to protocol if the challenge was to be met and overcome.
But Arabella proved surprisingly reluctant to oblige him. She was by now regretting the mischievous impulse which had prompted her to invite Damian to her ball. Not that she was not overjoyed to see him, and to know that he had been accepted by most of her guests with perfect propriety, if not enthusiasm. But it had been unthinking folly on her part to expose the charming Meriton girl to unwelcome speculation, as she tried belatedly to explain to Damian.
‘My dear, don’t, I beseech you, ask this of me! Can you not see how the poor child will suffer with everyone looking on?’
St Clair’s profile was not encouraging as his eyes again sought out the slim swaying figure. Her identity had momentarily shaken him, and explained her instant aversion to his name. But her powers of recovery were obviously equally swift, for she was now smiling up at her partner as if she hadn’t a care in the world. So much for suffering! But her sort were all the same ‒ full of overweening family pride. Well, he determined, that would simply give an added piquancy to the chase. ‘We have to meet sooner or later,’ he said harshly. ‘So why not get it over and done with? A daughter of Meriton’s should be equal to anything.’
Arabella sighed, but knew him well enough to recognise the futility of further argument. The cotillion was almost at an end and she prepared to thread her way between the dancers in order to intercept Lady Olivia before she was returned to her aunt.
The music died away, and the couples began to disperse. A gap opened up and through it St Clair’s eyes met Olivia’s, surprising in them again that look of sheer panic. So ‒ she wasn’t quite as confident as she liked to appear. He felt again that small thrill of anticipation.
And then, as Arabella began to move towards Lady Olivia, the strangest thing happened; the dark eyes widened dramatically and the panic changed to mute supplication.
He had thought himself proof against any such look, yet he found himself saying abruptly, ‘No matter, Bella. I have changed my mind.’
Chapter Four
The flowers arrived on the following day, at a time when Mrs Gilbey’s drawing-room was more than usually busy with callers. Some were genuine friends and some, like Lady Jersey, harboured a somewhat malicious eagerness to discover how the return of Damian St Clair had been received in Mount Street. As things had fallen out, Lady Jersey had not been privileged to witness Mrs Gilbey’s reaction on the previous evening when his presence at the ball had been made known to her ‒ for which circumstance that good lady had given profound thanks. It was, she freely admitted, quite the worst moment in her largely uneventful life, and one she would as lief forget. Even thinking about it now brought on a severe attack of palpitations.
Gertrude had been right, of course. In the end, she had pleaded a severe headache ‒ a circumstance so rare as to make Mr Gilbey stare ‒ and they had managed to take their leave without incident, and without, thank God, encountering Damian St Clair.
But as Mrs Gilbey looked around her drawing-room, she could not but be aware that the matter would not go away. The presence of Olivia had so far constrained anyone from making outright reference to Lady Bryony’s unexpected guest, but the whole atmosphere positively bristled with lively speculation being aired sotto voce, and with people like Sally Jersey, who was not dubbed ‘Silence’ for nothing and who positively thrived on gossip, ready to make the most of the situation, it seemed inevitable that Olivia must sooner or later become the object of the most singular attention, if not outright pity.
It was at this point in Mrs Gilbey’s morose reflections that the butler entered, followed by Edward, the new young footman, who was staggering under the weight of an enormous basket of pink and cream roses.
‘For Lady Olivia, ma’am,’ the butler murmured.
There were exclamations of interest, and much pleasurable conjecture as Olivia rose uncertainly from her chair, turned a trifle pink and said, ‘For me, Ibberson? Are you sure there is not some mistake?’
‘Oh, no, m’lady,’ the butler replied, pleased to be able to reassure this young guest of whom he thoroughly approved, there being, as he had told Cook on more than one occasion, nothing in the least top-lofty in her manner, “Lady Olivia Egan”, the note says, plain as day.’ He directed Edward to set the basket down over by the window and indicated the missive nestling among a cluster of pink roses.
‘My dear, how delightful,’ exclaimed her aunt, preening a little that this small coup by her niece on her very first appearance in public should be witnessed by her visitors, several of whom could be guaranteed to spread the word. ‘Who they can be from? I wonder.’
Olivia was wondering much the same thing as she crossed the room, very conscious of all eyes on her, bewilderment vying with little bubbles of excitement inside her. No one had ever sent her flowers ‒ and so many! She touched the velvety petals with something approaching awe and bent her head to inhale their perfume.
‘Come on, old thing,’ said the Honourable Edwin, who had followed her. ‘Let’s be knowing who your beau is.’
‘Hush, Pom, not so loud!’ she pleaded, reaching with a curious reluctance into the bouquet to lift out the note and break open the wafer.
Edwin obligingly lowered his voice. ‘I’ll wager it’s Harry Peveral. He was properly cast in the suds after you left last evening. Thought then it wouldn’t be long before he was dangling after you. Bashful fellow, as you’ll have gathered, or he’d be here this morning. Must be well and truly smitten to be lashing out on baskets of flowers …’
But Olivia wasn’t listening. She was staring down at the paper on which was scrawled, with admirable brevity, ‘To propitiate a Fair Divinity’. It was signed, ‘Your Importunate Gentleman’. Oh, how could he? Her fingers were trembling slightly as she hastily folded the paper, aware suddenly that, although conversation did not cease, all eyes were on her.
‘Well?’ said Pom. ‘Am I right?’
She pushed the note into her reticule, despising herself for the blush that suffused her face and spread, could they but know it, right down to her toes. ‘I … it doesn’t say.’
The faint sigh of sound that echoed round the room found voice in Miss Imelda Durance’s ‘An anonymous admirer … How romantic!’
‘Well, if that don’t beat all!’ Mr Pommeroy exclaimed. ‘Just wait till I see Harry!’
‘Oh, no!’ Olivia besought him, panic trembling in her voice. ‘Pray don’t say anything to him! If you are wrong I should be quite mortified!’
Lady Crockforth, assessing the situation, saved the day by collecting up her reticule and gloves and saying briskly, ‘Come, Imelda. It is time we were leaving. I promised Mrs Arbuthnot most particularly that we would call on her.’
‘Yes, of course, Gertrude.’ Miss Imelda’s glance still lingered mistily on the flowers as she was led away.
Lady Jersey also rose to leave. She graciously acknowledged Olivia’s curtsy, bestowed upon her an enigmatic smile and said ambiguously, ‘Quite charming.’ She then turned to Mrs Gilbey. ‘Your vouchers for Almack’s, Constance ‒ Lady Sefton has already mentioned them to me. You may expect them in a day or so.’
‘So kind,’ murmured Mrs Gilbey. She was longing to quiz her niece about the flowers, but for the next hour or so people were continuously coming and going, and no opportunity presented itself. When the door finally closed behind the last visitor, she sank into a chair. ‘I declare I am worn to a thread! I hardly know whether to feel gratified by our apparent popularity or not. Or maybe I am just growing cynical in my old age!’
