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Not that she meant to become a coquette. Even if capable of so far lowering her standards, Catherine was incapable of playing the part. She’d only look ridiculous. She wished she could find some safe island between prudery and impropriety—but the Beau Monde offered no solid moral ground. Hypocrisy seemed to be the fashionable equivalent of propriety, discretion indistinguishable from morality, and the rules seemed to constantly shift on whim.
Still, that was the way of the world. If Lord Rand could navigate these treacherous waters with such skill, there was no reason an erudite young lady could not.
Chapter Eleven
As long as he’d already plunged into the turbulent waters of the Beau Monde, Lord Rand decided he might as well swim the distance. Dutifully he called the following day upon the young ladies with whom he’d danced. Among these was Lady Diana, whose mama beamed as the viscount entered her ornate drawing room.
The young lady was fortunate, Max thought, to have been built to such generous proportions; otherwise she’d have been lost among the bric-a-brac. The room was large enough, but so thickly furnished with ancestral wealth that it seemed a museum whose collection had outgrown it. The walls suffocated under the weight of heavy tapestries and massive paintings, the latter encased in thickly carved gilded frames. Everywhere was gilt and ornate carving— chairs and tables so ponderous that any one would require a dozen strong men to lift it.
Lady Diana managed to hold her own among this gilded magnificence. She accepted with quiet graciousness his tribute of compliments and all the other nonsense he uttered about the pleasure of her company the previous evening. As he found himself speaking mainly with her mama, the disloyal thought occurred that perhaps gracious acceptance was the sum of Lady Diana’s conversational talents.
Her mother must have had the same thought. Out of the corner of his eye Lord Rand noted the minatory glance Lady Glencove shot her daughter.
“My Lord, I am so glad you found a moment to stop with us,” Lady Diana obediently began. “I had been endeavouring without success to locate upon Papa’s maps the town you described so beautifully last night. Is it part of the United States proper?”
Lord Rand ought to have been flattered that the young lady had exerted herself to examine maps. It did not occur to him to be flattered. Between his starched neckcloth and the oppressive room he was certain he would be asphyxiated, and his mind was fixed on getting out to the street where he might loosen his cravat and breathe.
Not until he’d left the temple of the goddess and arrived at his sister’s residence did the viscount realise he’d forgotten to invite Lady Diana to drive with him. Oh, time enough for that. He’d stop in again one day soon.
When he entered the saloon, he found Jack Langdon entertaining the ladies. At Max’s entrance, Jack glanced at the clock and exclaimed, “Good grief, you sweet creatures have let me run on well past my time. Miss Pelliston, you must not ask such thorny questions about Herodotus when a fellow’s allowed only a few minutes’ visit,” he gently chided, looking thoroughly embarrassed.
“I suppose you’d have answered well enough if I hadn’t kept interrupting,” said Miss Pelliston.
“If you hadn’t, Jack wouldn’t have let you get a word in edgeways,” Lord Rand put in. “We once spent four hours debating Herodotus’s explanation for the difference between the Persian and Egyptian skulls.”
Miss Pelliston’s obvious astonishment at this hint of his erudition would have put Max completely out of temper if her blank look had not immediately given way to one of dawning respect. He barely heard, therefore, Jack’s overlong leave taking, and scarcely noticed his exit. Max was too busy scrambling through the recesses of his mind for the section labelled Ancient Authors to even notice himself dropping into the chair nearest the young lady instead of that next his sister.
“What is your opinion, Miss Pelliston?” he asked. “You have an abiding interest in hard heads, I recall. D’you think the Egyptians did have thicker skulls than the Persians, and that it was on account of shaving their scalps?”
“Really, Max, must we discuss such morbid topics?” said his sister with a ladylike shudder. “Skulls and scalps, indeed.”
Catherine intervened. “Actually, I was curious about just that matter. Perhaps it is morbid of me—but that is not Lord Rand’s fault.”
“Oh, everything’s my fault,” he answered carelessly. “You aren’t morbid at all, Miss Pelliston. Your interest is scientific. You seek wisdom.”
“Then she seeks at the wrong fount,” said her ladyship.
The viscount threw his sister a quelling glance which was utterly wasted.
“Louisa refuses to hear our speculations about the effects of exposure to the elements upon the human skull. We’ll have to talk about the elements themselves, I’m afraid.”
Miss Pelliston looked disappointed, but bravely took up the subject. “Very well. A lovely day, is it not? Rather warm for this time of year.” She frowned. “That was not very scintillating, was it?”
“Of course not. How in blazes can talk of the weather be scintillating? Oh, you do it well enough, Louisa, but then you’ve scads of practice. My sister,” he explained to Miss Pelliston, “has had years to develop the art of making the dullest topics sound horribly scandalous. I suppose you’ll learn all that in time, but I’d rather you studied it with some other fellow. Shall I take you driving, so that we can talk morbidly to our hearts’ content without offending her delicate sensibilities?”
A pair of startled hazel eyes met his gaze. “Driving?” she echoed faintly.
“Max, you’re impossible. Catherine can’t just dash out of the house at your whim.”
“Why? Have you got an appointment with another chap?”
“Oh, no, My Lord.”
“She’s expecting callers, you inconsiderate beast.”
“I see.” Of course she’d have more callers. Bound to, when she’d danced until the wee hours. He had no reason to wish the whole lot of capering jackanapes at the Devil.
“Then what about tomorrow?” he asked.
Tomorrow the two ladies were promised to the Dowager Countess of Andover.
“Then the next day,” he suggested.
That would not do, either. They must meet with Mrs. Drummond-Burrell in order to satisfy that august personage as to Miss Pelliston’s eligibility for vouchers to Almack’s. After that, they had an appointment with Madame Germaine.
“Then the day after,” Lord Rand persisted.
“Yes, I suppose that’s all right, if, Catherine, you have no objections? Max is an excellent whip, so you need have no fear for your safety.”
A rather stunned Miss Pelliston had no objections she could voice. A time was settled upon, and shortly thereafter the viscount took his leave.
“That was very obliging of him,” said Catherine when he was gone. Frowning, she studied the lace at her wrists.
“Max is never obliging if he can help it, dear. I rather think he enjoys your conversation.”
Miss Pelliston expressed disagreement and began to fuss with the lace.
“Well, at least you do not make him impatient,” said the countess. “Not once during supper last night did I see that caged animal expression he normally wears in fine company.”
Lady Andover’s glance dropped from her protegee’s face to the hand tugging nervously at the delicate fabric. “Obliging or not,” she continued, “you must contrive not to look so thunderstruck when a gentleman seeks your company, my dear. It makes them conceited. At any rate, being seen with Max will do you considerable good—though of course I would not say so before him. People may call him Viscount Vagabond, but he’s a great catch for all that. Your driving with him will arouse the competitive instincts of the other gentlemen.”
Catherine had no opportunity to rebut, because at that moment the Duke of Argoyne was announced.
“Invited her for a drive?” Lord Andover repeated. “All on his own? You never had to drop a hint?”
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p; The countess shook her head as she draped her dressing gown over a chair.
“Amazing,” said her husband. “Should I demand his intentions, then? In loco parentis, I mean. As you told her, Max is an excellent catch... though I was certain he’d set his mind on that great gawk of a girl of Glencove’s. She’s the right altitude for him, certainly, even if she hasn’t a thought in her head that wasn’t put there by her mama first.”
“Regardless her size, Lady Diana is a fair catch herself.”
“Oh, I daresay. She has certainly developed well enough, and the Glencoves are prolific, are they not? Five sons and two daughters.”
“You needn’t be vulgar, Edgar. I know precisely why Lady Diana is one of Papa’s half dozen eligibles.” Lady Andover climbed into bed and snuggled next to her husband. “I also know that she’s a sweet girl. She will make an agreeable wife and a kind mama and would never give Max a moment’s difficulty or disquiet.
“Now why didn’t I think of that when I was looking for a wife?” his lordship asked.
The countess kindly proceeded to unravel this knotty problem for him.
At the moment Lord Rand was demanding his own intentions. How the deuce did he expect to make progress with the fair Juno when he was gallivanting about town with Miss Pelliston? She had been engaged today, and he should have let the matter drop. He’d only asked her on a whim because he’d rather talk of the Egyptians than the Americans. He’d been at the time sick to death of the Americans. Lady Diana’s mama evidently knew his hobbyhorse and had ordered the girl to humour him. He hated being humoured. It made him feel like a recalcitrant little boy.
