But his damsel hadn’t fluttered or blushed or become coy as most damsels did. Her gaze had been curious, direct. And then she’d made that remark about smuggling things under her skirts. He suspected she hadn’t actually been trying to direct his thoughts to what lay beneath her gown; she’d seemed innocent of any innuendo. Anyway it was impossible to tell what lay beneath that enormous horror of a dress, which left everything to his imagination.
Queen Charlotte’s tone was cool as she held out her hand to be kissed. “Lord Darien. I hear yet another flower of a noble house has fallen to your…scythe. I would not think even you would cast off a duke’s daughter.”
Darien’s chest clenched. “The lady informed me that she has directed her hopes elsewhere. I did not think it wise to press my suit.”
The Queen looked through the door to the mill of people awaiting their moment before her. “It seems time you met a girl whose affections are not otherwise engaged. Perhaps someone here today will catch your eye.”
Darien suppressed a groan. It was as much as his father had done, ordering him to marry. Perry’s suggestion to find someoneinappropriate had merit, should he wish to spike his lordship’s wheels.
Darien knew precisely how the afternoon would unfold. The debutantes would troop in with train over arm, all looking the same. They would curtsy to the Queen as their names were announced, say nothing, and back out of the sovereign’s presence like crabs.
These gently reared, very young girls weren’t raised to be interesting. They were trainednotto have interests, to be blank slates for the man they would marry. They expected to address their husband as “milord” and have little interaction beyond polite exchanges across the dinner table and greetings as they crossed paths in the hall on their way to their respective entertainments.
Such a wife would expect pin money every quarter and five hundred pounds a year for gowns, in return for which she would permit him occasional access to her bedroom for activities conducted in silence, in the dark. She would produce an heir, keep her own coach, and be discreet about taking a lover.
As dismal as his prospects had felt of late, the vision of such a barren future made Darien want to run howling mad.
“I will take your advice under consideration, madam,” Darien answered the Queen, then moved to the window where he could gaze outside at the garden as the endless presentation line began. And throw himself over the sill, if need be.
He did not object to marriage in principle. The Bales men enjoyed rare fortune in their spouses. The marquess had been utterly devoted to his pretty Princess Pip. Horace, allowed by a secure fortune to marry where he wished, chose Nell Bellamy, the gentleman’s daughter next door, and never looked at another woman for the rest of his life. Even Rathbone seemed happy with the heiress he’d chosen, though the rest of the family thought her a viper.
It confounded everyone when, mere weeks after the death of her son, Nell picked up and left for the Continent with a portrait painter, leaving her home, her jointure, and her remaining child, Horatia. Darien could only suppose she’d gone a bit mad with grief. He felt much the same.
But the marquess was clearly uneasy about Ratty’s stewardship of Horace’s estate and daughter, and that old sense of unworthiness, ancient and familiar, itched under Darien’s skin. Horse had been the responsible brother, Lucifer the one who broke boundaries and made his own way. Daring, third and inconsequential, was at liberty to pursue his pleasures without responsibility.
Which was why everyone, including his father, so easily accepted his reputation as a notorious rakehell. Darien sensed the covert stares and bold whispers among the Queen’s attendants. But to tell the truth would betray the secrets of several young ladies and was unlikely to change his father’s opinion of him anyway. Even when Darien had designed a drainage system for his estate, turning acres of fens into arable land, the marquess took no notice.
His father might threaten to bequeath Darien the marquessate, but he would never view him as worthy of it. The brothers had been assigned their roles at birth, and their sire would never see them as anything else.
Thensheappeared in the doorway, and the storm cloud of Darien’s thoughts broke apart.
“Sir Jasper Wardley-Hines and Lady Clarinda Wardley-Hines,” the Queen’s herald announced. “Sir Charleton Wardley-Hines, 8th Baronet Wardley. Miss Henrietta Wardley-Hines, daughter of Sir Jasper and the late Apollonia Wardley-Hines. Their Majesties will remember that Sir Jasper was recently invested as Knight Bachelor, by the Grace of His Majesty, for services to the Crown.”
“Cits collecting honors now, are they?” muttered a voice beside Darien.
“When they own most of Lancashire and half Cheshire besides,” a second voice drawled. “Can you blame George if he wants to tap those coffers?”
Sir Jasper looked like a man of business, his eye sweeping the room and summing up every man there. His lady was nobility to her fingertips. The young baronet was the swaggering youth who had adopted the opera dancer Darien left behind when he went abroad.
Miss Henrietta Wardley-Hines. What a mouthful of a name. Her dress, a bilious shade of green, did not improve upon acquaintance, but she had successfully disguised the tear. Despite his ministrations, one of the two ostrich plumes that signaled her maidenhood drooped over her eye. She had none of the dimpled freshness or wispy grace of the others; this girl had steel in her backbone.
Any other girl who found herself before St. James in a ruined court gown would have screamed, wept, or run away. His damsel had marched through the gatehouse with him, chin high, and now she marched up to the Queen as though she were a soldier charged with a duty.
She stopped so quickly that her skirts swayed, and she clamped a hand on her panniers to steady them. As she curtsied, her headdress tilted and the ostrich plume brushed Her Majesty’s nose, while her train slid down her gloved arm. Darien nearly started forward to save her before the entire arrangement—gown, girl, wig, and train—toppled into a heap. She looked for all the world like a green pudding trembling in its casing, with two sad feathers sticking out on top.
Inside that wreckage, though, he perceived beauty, intelligence, and courage. In a humiliating situation, she’d taken refuge and sensibly pinned up her dress, though from whencethe pins had come, he couldn’t imagine. She’d studied Holbein’s ceiling with a clear appreciation for the craftsmanship. Those absurd statements about her aunt and stealing royal treasures showed a disposition toward humor.
And though the ghastly dress hid everything else of interest, above that grotesquely huge emerald choker, she possessed a lovely neck. Her shoulders were square instead of the soft, yielding slope that was fashionable, and her jaw was equally square, her strong features set with determination.
Finally he saw the white armband, and a blazing red bolt fell through Darien’s head, riveting him to the floor. His damsel had lost someone too.
“Sir Pelton Pomeroy,” intoned the herald, “Knight Commander of the Most Honorable Order of the Bath. Lady Althea Pomeroy, and their daughter, Miss Marsibel Pomeroy.”
Another group came forward, made their bows, and joined his damsel’s family. The hooped skirts of Henrietta’s green pudding dress quivered.
“I remember Apollonia,” the Queen said with a soft smile. She studied Lady Pomeroy and her small powdered wig topped with three impeccable ostrich feathers, her expression that of a woman who habitually drank vinegar. “Your sister, I believe? I wanted her for my lady-in-waiting, but she was betrothed so soon after her debut. You have been fortunate in your marriages, Sir Jasper.”
“Most fortunate,” Sir Jasper agreed. His languorous wife rested a hand on her middle with a small, satisfied smile.
