and a spinster who is fast approaching her dotage!”
The Dowager Countess of Seagrave was fluttering her hands in distress, but Lady Polly allowed herself a small smile, her elusive dimples peeping for a moment. She knew her godfather’s ill temper would not last long for he was incapable of bearing a grudge and was so fond of her that she could get away with most things. Turning down her fifth suitor of the Season and the nineteenth eligible proposal of her life was, however, testing his indulgence to the full. And he was her trustee, along with her elder brother, and as such could cut up rough about her allowance if he chose. In eighteen months she would be twenty-five and should be mistress of her own fortune, but if Sir Godfrey chose to make her a penniless spinster, it was within his legal powers to do so. Clearly some tact and charm was called for.
She dropped a small curtsy and smiled at her godfather beguilingly. “Dearest Sir Godfrey, you have been like a father to me since my own papa died, and I do thank you for all your guidance and advice! But I am persuaded that you could not really wish me to marry John Bellars! He is a pleasant enough man, if as dull as ditchwater, but it is old Lady Bellars who would be the rub! Why, she has him completely under her thumb and is the most mean-spirited woman—”
“Humph!” Sir Godfrey opined.
“And she is penny-pinching, too!” The Dowager Countess of Seagrave put in, hastily improving on her daughter’s theme. “I hear she keeps young John on a tight rein, for all that she has no real control over his fortune! And,” she added artfully, with a flash of her dark eyes, “was it not Augusta Bellars who tried to snare you in your salad days, Godfrey? She pursued you quite violently, as I recall! They were taking bets in the clubs that she would catch you!”
Sir Godfrey’s choleric gaze kindled again. “Gussie Grantley! Yes, b’God, I’d forgotten that! Tiresome woman, forever wheedling herself into my company, telling everyone there was an understanding between us! Well…” he sighed heavily, “…can’t be doing with that connection in the family, then. Why, she might view this as a second chance to catch me!”
“It is not to be contemplated!” The Dowager declared, smiling as much with genuine amusement as relief. The thought of the widowed Duchess of Bellars pursuing the elderly Sir Godfrey afforded her much secret amusement. In her experience, men often had a much-inflated view of their own attractions.
Sir Godfrey’s gaze had fallen on Polly again, demurely sitting with her chin in her hand smiling at him. Fond of her as he was, he was obliged to view her as another example of an unsatisfactory female.
“All the same, Poll, this won’t do, you know! Nineteen suitors, all worthy men, and not one of them up to your expectations!” Sir Godfrey cleared his throat, intent on delivering a homily. “I thought that you would take Julian Morrish when he offered this Season—damned…harrumph! Dashed silly not to! No better man in the whole of London! And Seagrave took Morrish’s rejection that badly, I know…”
The Dowager Lady Seagrave cleared her throat delicately. She had been quick to see her daughter’s discomfort, for the colour had come rushing into Polly’s ivory complexion, making her look suddenly more animated and much prettier. That was how she used to look, Lady Seagrave thought with a sudden pang of regret, remembering a time five years before, when her daughter had been a bright and vivacious debutante rather than a cool and withdrawn young lady with a reputation for pride. The young Lady Polly had been an appealing girl, drawing quite a following to her with her lustrous cloud of dark hair and expressive brown eyes. She had not lacked for offers, but none of them seemed to meet her exacting standards. No man in five years had been able to persuade her of the merit of his suit.
As for Julian Morrish, that had indeed been an unfortunate affair and one which had caused ill feeling within the family for several weeks until Lucille, the Dowager’s daughter-in-law, had interceded with her husband to forgive Polly. Nick Seagrave had been furious that his close friend, Julian Morrish, had been rejected by his sister. Everyone knew Morrish to be a fine man and one to whom no possible objection could be made on the grounds of rank, consequence, fortune or reputation. Polly’s behaviour had put a great strain on the friendship between Seagrave and Morrish, and an even greater strain on relationships within the family. Polly’s other brother, Peter, had strolled into the breakfast-room one morning and remarked that he would rather face the French again at Waterloo than be the butt of his brother and sister’s ill humour.
“I think, perhaps, that it would be wise for Polly to retire for a little now, Sir Godfrey,” the Dowager Countess said hastily, seeing that her daughter’s colour was still high. “We go to Lady Phillips’s ridotto tonight, and you know how Polly tires easily these days! Polly, my love—”
In response to her mother’s meaningful nod, Polly got up, pressed a kiss on Sir Godfrey’s whiskery face, and slipped out of the room. Her spirits had taken a tumble. The mention of Julian Morrish had been an unfortunate one.
Once out in the deserted entrance hall, Polly leaned against a marble pillar and rested one hot cheek against its coolness. She had known that Sir Godfrey would be angry at Bellars’s dismissal, especially as it followed on so swiftly from the fiasco of Julian Morrish. And she had been as upset as anyone at the necessity of rejecting Morrish, knowing it would cause difficulties for Nicholas Seagrave in particular. Yet, she could not have accepted Morrish, not whilst the spectre of Lord Henry Marchnight persisted in imposing itself between her and every eligible man she met. A tear slid from the corner of one of Polly’s closed eyes and she swallowed what seemed to be a huge lump in her throat.
Immediately after her estrangement from Lord Henry five years previously, Polly had been in very low spirits. She had berated herself fiercely for the lack of courage and the lack of faith that had led her to refuse to elope with Lord Henry. She had a curious feeling of loss, as though she had thrown away something priceless, something that would never be recaptured. The expression on Lord Henry’s face as he had left her that night, the stony withdrawal, the contempt for her weakness, had haunted her for a long time. It was only later, when she was older and understood her loss all the more, that she realised that his love for her had been far more mature than the girlish passion she had thought that she had felt for him. She had simply not been ready to accept the full responsibility of his love and all its implications, not ready to defy her family and run away with him.
The most acute elements of her misery wore off with time, particularly as Lord Henry was absent from Town much of the time and his path and Polly’s did not cross much for several years. Whenever she heard news of him it would invariably involve some highly coloured account of his amatory adventures, for he appeared to have become a thorough-going rake and wastrel. Polly’s heart ached when she heard the tales, as though some part of her could not relinquish Henry for good. And then, the previous summer, her dormant feelings had been stirred into life again.
Lord Henry had been in Suffolk that summer, at the same time that Polly was at Dillingham with her mother and brothers, and it was inevitable that they should be in each other’s company. Each tried to avoid the other as much as possible, their meetings made awkward by the history that lay between them. To Polly’s horror, she had discovered that her childish infatuation had somehow transformed itself over the years into a frighteningly strong attachment. She realised that Lord Henry had unconsciously influenced her refusal of every offer of marriage over the past five years, and that since she was unable to marry him now, she would marry no one.
The realisation made her even more self-conscious in his company and she cursed her inability to match Henry’s smooth detachment. Her original refusal to elope with him was now an awesome barrier between them, making the re-establishment of cordial or at the least civil relations between them well-nigh impossible. When Lord Henry had said, that fateful night, that he would never approach Polly again, he had meant just that. They were obliged to exchange a few words when they met in public, but he seldom sought her out. Then,
