the curves of her figure in the fresh green silk to the kid slippers that showed below her hem. ‘That is a pity.’
Chapter Four
Colour rose over Miss Hurst’s bosom, up her throat to stain her cheeks. It was delicious, Ashe thought, like the flush of pomegranate juice over iced sherbet on a hot day. She was no wide-eyed innocent if she took the meaning of his glance and words so promptly. But then she was obviously no sheltered society miss.
How old was she? Twenty-five, twenty-six? Attractive, bright, stylish, but not married. Why not? he wondered. Something to do with her secret lives, no doubt.
‘I would very much appreciate it if you did not mention that we had met before this evening, my lord.’ She said it quite calmly, but Ashe suspected that it was a matter of far more importance than she was revealing and that she hated having to ask him.
‘Members of the ton are not expected to be shopkeepers, I assume?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Hmm. Pity my maternal grandfather was a nabob, then.’ He was unconcerned what people thought of his ancestry, but he was interested in how she reacted.
‘If he was indecently rich, and is now dead, there is absolutely nothing for the heir to a marquisate to worry about. Society is curiously accommodating in its prejudices.’ Her expression was bleak. ‘At least, so far as gentlemen are concerned. Ladies are another matter altogether.’
‘So I could ruin you with this piece of gossip?’
‘Yes, as you know perfectly well. Ladies are not shopkeepers, nor do they walk about anywhere, let alone the docks, unescorted. Did you spend much time as a boy pulling the wings off flies, Lord Clere?’
Ashe felt an unfamiliar stab of conscience. This was, quite obviously, deathly serious to Miss Hurst. But it was a mystery why a lady should be in business at all. Was she so short of pin money? ‘I am sorry, I had no intention of torturing you. You have my word that I will not speak of this to anyone.’
The music stopped and dancers began to come off the floor. Another set had ended and he realised he should not be lurking behind the palms with Phyllida Hurst any longer. Someone might notice and assume they had an assignation. He could dent her reputation. ‘Will you dance, Miss Hurst?’
He hoped to Heaven it was something he could dance. He was decidedly rusty and the waltz had not reached Calcutta by the time they left. He was going to have to join in Sara’s lessons.
‘I do not dance,’ Miss Hurst said. ‘Please, do not let me detain you.’
‘I was going in any case. It would be more discreet. But you mean you never dance?’
‘I do not enjoy it,’ she said.
Liar. All the time they had been together on the window seat her foot had been tapping along with the music without her realising. She wanted to dance and for some reason would not. Interesting. Ashe stood up. ‘Then I will wish you good evening, Miss Hurst. Perhaps we will meet window shopping in Jermyn Street one day.’
‘I fear not. It is not a street where I can afford to pay the prices asked. Good evening, Lord Clere.’
He bowed and took himself off, well clear of her hiding place. He watched the couples whirling in the waltz, concluding that professional tuition was most definitely called for before he ventured on to the floor. After an interval Miss Hurst emerged and strolled off in the opposite direction.
Ashe wondered if there were any more unmarried ladies around with that combination of looks, style, spirit and wit. He had expected all the eligible young women to be cut from the same pattern: pretty, simpering, dull. Perhaps hunting for a wife would be more interesting than he had imagined. Miss Hurst had her scandalous secrets, and she was a little older than most of the unmarried girls. But she was certainly still well within her childbearing years and a shop was easy enough to dispose of.
He found his parents, who were watching Sara talk to a group of just the kind of girls he was thinking of so disparagingly. ‘There you are.’ His mother put her hand on his arm to detain him. ‘Lady Malling, may I introduce my son, Viscount Clere. Ashe, this is the Dowager Countess of Malling.’
He shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. This was the lady who had been with Phyllida when they had arrived at the ball. As he thought it he saw her again, talking to the young man he had guessed was her brother.
‘Perhaps you can tell me who that is, ma’am. The tall man with the dark brown hair just to the left of the arrangement of lilies.’
‘Gregory Hurst, Earl of Fransham,’ the dowager said promptly. ‘A good-looking rogue.’
Had his study of the Peerage been so awry? ‘I am a trifle confused. I thought the lady with him was his sister, but she was introduced to me as Miss Hurst and if he is an earl…’
‘Ah.’ Lady Malling lowered her voice. ‘She is his full, elder, sister. However, I regret to say their parents neglected to marry until after her birth. Such a scandal at the time! It makes her, unfortunately, baseborn.’
‘But she is received?’
‘Oh, yes, in most places except court, of course. Or Almack’s. Charming girl. But she won’t make much of a marriage, if any. Even leaving aside the accident of birth, she has not a penny piece for a dowry—goodness knows how she manages to dress so well or where those cameos came from—and Fransham is wild to a fault and no catch as a son-in-law. Except for the title, of course. He may attach a rich cit’s daughter with that.’
Hell and damnation. Eccentricity was one thing, but illegitimacy and no dowry on top of dubious commercial activities were all the complete opposites of what he had set out as essential qualities for a wife. Suddenly doing his duty seemed considerably less appealing.
Even as he thought it Phyllida turned and caught his eye. Her mouth curled in a slight smile and she put her hand on her brother’s arm as though to draw attention to the Herriard party.
Still wrestling with that revelation, Ashe raised one brow, unsmiling, and inclined his head a fraction. The smile vanished as she glanced from him to Lady Malling, then her chin came up and she turned away. Even at that distance he could see the flags of angry colour on her cheeks.
You clumsy fool. That had been ungentlemanly, even if it had been unintentional. He had been surprised and disappointed and… No excuses. You were a bloody idiot, he told himself. Now what? He could hardly go over and apologise, he had already dug himself into a deep enough hole and what could he say? So sorry, I have just realised you are illegitimate and poor as a church mouse and absolutely no use to me as a wife, but I didn’t mean to snub you.
And then he stopped thinking about himself and looked at his mother, the offspring of an Indian princess and a John Company trader with an estranged English wife.
‘Illegitimacy is not a barrier to being received, then,’ she observed as though reading his mind.
One glance at Lady Malling told him she knew exactly what the marchioness’s parentage was. ‘Goodness, no,’ the older woman said. ‘It all depends on the parents and the deportment of the person concerned.
