nodded.
‘Would you please return, er…Rover—’
‘Satan,’ Georgie corrected her.
Her eyes brimmed with amusement, but she continued with commendable control. ‘Yes, of course, Satan. Would you please take, er, Satan, to the kennels and wash the mud off him for me? You see, I am dressed for dinner, and ladies must not go to the kennels in their best gown.’
Her words had the unfortunate effect of drawing all attention to her ‘best gown’. There were a few sniggers, which she ignored with a raised chin. Georgie, however, stared at her, stricken.
‘What is it, love?’ she said.
Guiltily, he extended a grubby finger and pointed at the mud which now streaked her dress, liberally deposited by himself and the squirming puppy in his arms. She glanced down and laughed, a warm peal of unconcern.
‘Don’t worry about it, my dear, it will brush off when the mud is dry.’ She ruffled his hair affectionately and said in a low voice, ‘Now for heaven’s sake take that wretched pup and get it and yourself cleaned up before any other accidents happen.’
Relieved, the small boy ran off, his puppy clutched to his chest.
‘You’ll not get off so easily—’ began Laetitia, incensed.
‘Do you think it is quite safe for you to be out in the night air in a damp and muddy dress, Cousin?’ interrupted Tallie solicitously. ‘I would not want you to take a chill, and you know you are extremely susceptible…’
With a stamp and a flounce of jonquil silk Laetitia left the terrace, calling petulantly for her maid to be sent to her at once. The guests drifted in after her, and Brooks began to circulate with a silver tray.
Tallie bent down and gathered up Georgie’s scattered flowers. She straightened a few bent stems, gathered the shawl more tightly around her shoulders and stepped towards the French doors, then noticed Lord d’Arenville, who had remained on the terrace.
His expression was unreadable, his grey heavy-lidded eyes observing her dispassionately. The hard gaze made her shiver. Horrid man, she thought. Waiting to see if there is any more entertainment to be had. She raised her chin in cool disdain, and marched past him without saying a word.
Chapter Two
‘Well, Magnus, how do you like my candidates? Any take your fancy?’
Tallie froze. Partway into writing the events of the day into her diary, she’d run out of ink. She’d slipped down the servants’ stair to the library, secure in the belief that the guests were all in the ballroom, dancing, or playing cards in the nearby anteroom. Concentrating on the tricky task of refilling her inkwell, she hadn’t heard her cousin and Lord d’Arenville enter the library. She glanced around, but they were hidden from her view by the heavy velvet curtains pulled partly across the alcove where she was seated.
She stood up to announce her presence, but paused, recalling the shabby dress she wore. If she emerged, she would have to leave by the public route, enduring further sniggers and taunts. She’d had enough of that at dinner. Laetitia, still furious about the way Tallie had confronted her over Georgie and the puppy, had encouraged her guests to bait Tallie even more spitefully than before, and Tallie could endure no more of it.
Lord d’Arenville spoke. ‘You know perfectly well, Tish, that my fancy does not run to society virgins. I am seeking a wife, not pursuing a fancy.’
Tallie swallowed, embarrassed. This was a terribly private conversation. No one would thank her for having heard that. Perhaps she should try to slip out through the French doors onto the terrace. She edged quietly towards them. Stealthily she slid the bolt back and turned the handle, but it didn’t budge—the catch was stuck.
‘Well, dearest coz, which one has the teeth, the hips and the placid temperament you require for the mother of your heirs? They all have impeccable bloodlines, be assured of that.’
Tallie gasped at Laetitia’s effrontery and waited for Lord d’Arenville to give her a smart set-down for speaking of his intended bride with such disrespect. It was far too late to declare her presence now, and besides, she was fascinated. She edged back behind the curtains and wrestled half-heartedly with the door catch.
‘As far as those requirements are concerned, most of your candidates would do, although Miss Kingsley is too narrow-hipped to be suitable.’
Tallie’s jaw dropped. Requirements? Candidates? Those young women out there had been assembled as candidates? Miss Kingsley eliminated because of her hips? Laetitia hadn’t been joking when she’d referred to teeth, hips, placidity and bloodlines!
Tallie was disgusted. What sort of man would choose a wife so coldly and dispassionately? No wonder he was called The Icicle. Mrs Wilmot was right—he was as handsome as a Greek statue but he obviously had a heart of stone to match. Tallie passionately hoped he would select Miss Fyffe-Temple as his bride.
Miss Fyffe-Temple was one of the prettiest of the young lady guests and the sweetest-spoken—in company. In truth she was a nasty-tempered, spiteful little harpy, who took her temper out on the servants, making impossible demands in a shrill voice, and pinching and hitting the younger maids in the most vicious fashion. The below-stairs members of the household had quickly labelled her Miss Foul-Temper, and in Tallie’s opinion that made her a perfect wife for the great Lord d’Arenville!
‘Actually, I have come to see, on reflection, that my requirements were rather inadequate,’ said Lord d’Arenville.
Perhaps she was too hasty in judging him, Tallie thought. She did tend to make snap judgements, and was often forced to own the fault when she was later proved wrong.
‘Strong hocks, perhaps, Magnus?’ Laetitia had clearly imbibed rather more champagne than was ladylike. ‘Do you want to check their withers? Get them to jump over a few logs? Put them at a fence or two? Or ask if they are fond of oats? I believe Miss Carnegie has Scottish blood—she will certainly be fond of oats. The Scots, I believe, live on little else.’
Tallie shoved her fist against her mouth to stop herself from laughing out loud. Heavens! To think she would be in such sympathy with Cousin Laetitia.
‘Very funny, Tish,’ said Lord d’Arenville dryly. ‘I have no interest in the culinary preferences of anyone north of the border, nor do I wish to concern myself with any additional physical characteristics of the young ladies you selected for me.’
Tallie’s eyes widened. Laetitia had selected the young ladies? Did he simply expect to choose one? Without the bother of courtship? What an insufferable man! To be so puffed up in his own conceit that he need not consider the feelings of any young lady, assuming she would be flattered enough by his offer!
Well, if a spineless ninny was what he wanted, she hoped he would choose The Honourable Miss Aldercott. Already she showed what Tallie considered to be a very sinister preference for gauzy drapery and sonnets about Death and Lost Love. The Honourable Miss Aldercott had fainted five times so far, had had the vapours twice and made recourse to her vinaigrette a dozen times a day. With any luck, thought Tallie viciously, Lord d’Arenville would think The Honourable Miss Aldercott charmingly fragile—then find himself leg-shackled to a clinging, lachrymose watering-pot for the rest of his life!
‘So,
