“But how annoying of you to make us wait until tomorrow morning, Florence,” Mrs. Tate was saying. “How are we to sleep tonight? This is almost like being a child at Christmastime again.”
“Ah, but, Frances,” Mr. Shrimpton said, winking, “Florence is kindly giving us the chance to have one last good night’s sleep.”
There was that general laughter again, but Claire found herself as unable to join in as she had before. There could be no mistaking Mr. Shrimpton’s meaning. But surely he must be merely joking. Oh, surely. Lady Florence Carver had a reputation for fastness. Claire knew that. But surely being fast did not mean being quite so unprincipled. Surely it meant just this— talking in rather a vulgar and suggestive manner.
Claire wondered as everyone stirred when the door opened to admit two servants with the tea tray whether it would be possible to return home the following morning. It would mean sending for Roderick’s carriage, which was not supposed to come for her until the fifteenth. It would not arrive until the afternoon even if she sent early.
But she would not go, she knew. She would not be able to bear having Roderick and Myrtle—and doubtless the Reverend Clarkwell too—tell her that they had told her so. Besides, she was curious. More curious now than she had been before she came. Curious about this totally different world that she seemed to have landed in at the grand age of twenty-eight. And a little excited too. Yes, she had to admit it, however reluctantly.
She had never been anyone’s valentine. Certainly not for three whole days.
The Duke of Langford had had the advantage of the other guests, if advantage it were. Lady Florence had divulged a part of her plan to him on his arrival. He had known that on the morrow she and her guests were to be paired. It would be interesting, he had thought at the time. A companion and a bed partner for a few days without any effort on his part either to entice or to hold at bay. February was a dull month of the year—not quite winter, not quite spring, Christmas festivities well in the past, the Season still in the future. Valentine’s Day had been a brilliant invention of someone who had known something about boredom.
He had spent the latter part of the afternoon and dinner surveying the possibilities—not that the choice would be his. It was to be by lottery. He was not actually averse to any of the ladies except Miss Claire Ward, of course. She was the country mouse Florence had led him to expect. Florence herself would be a voluptuous armful and had much experience with the art of love, if gossip had the right of it. Mildred, Lady Pollard, had an earthy sort of humor and a certain beauty of her own. Lucy Sterns was on the loose after a stint as Lord Hendrickson’s mistress. Olga Garnett was without a doubt the most beautiful of the ladies with her blond tresses and creamy complexion. Frances Tate—well, he hoped he would not pick up her valentine. He had always avoided bedding other men’s wives, however desirable they might be.
The duke found himself mildly interested in the possibilities of the following days without in any way being excited by them. The trouble with any of the four unattached ladies, he could almost predict, was that they would assume that a short liaison in the country would blossom into a longer liaison in town. It would mean his having to be absent from London just at a time when events were leading up to the Season.
Perhaps, he thought idly during dinner, there would after all be more to look forward to if he were landed with Hetty’s substitute. It might be amusing—it would certainly be a new experience—to try seducing a country mouse. And for the first time he really looked at Miss Claire Ward.
Slim, straight-backed—her spine did not once touch the back of her chair—disciplined: she was the picture of an aging spinster. Which she was except that she must be seven or eight years younger than his own thirty-four years and except that she would be pretty if she once relaxed and smiled and if she wore her hair in a less severe style.
She scarcely spoke except when spoken to. He did not once hear her voice. And yet she appeared calm and unflustered. His look became especially keen when twice he thought he detected a gleam of amusement in her eyes as someone made particularly spiteful remarks about “friends.” Miss Ward might be a prude, he thought—indeed, he did not doubt that she was—but he suspected that she might be an intelligent one.
He watched her again in the drawing room after dinner, at first sitting apart playing the pianoforte, which she had been asked to do, according to Florence, though no one was listening to her. She looked unabashed by the fact. She actually looked as if she was enjoying herself—and she played extremely well— until she looked up and caught his eye and looked down in confusion.
A virgin if ever he had seen one, he thought. And he watched her a little later contain her shock and dismay as Florence explained her plan for their Valentine’s entertainment and everyone added comments, several of them risqué. It was all enough to give a virgin spinster a fit of the vapors severe enough to last a month, he thought. And yet Miss Ward sat straight-backed and silent and calm—and scarlet-cheeked. Even without the relaxation and the smile and the more becoming style of hair she looked pretty.
The Duke of Langford swung his quizzing glass pendulum-fashion from its ribbon and declined tea. He had an idea, one that might bring more amusement than any of the five experienced flirts and respectable courtesans would bring.
He walked upstairs later with Lady Florence. It was not difficult to arrange since both of them seemed intent on maneuvering it. “Er,” he said, “your lottery is to be a random thing tomorrow, Florence? And yet you are to arrange it that Mullins gets Miss Ward?”
She flashed him a brilliant smile. “It is fitting, don’t you think, Gerard?” she asked. “He is dreadfully dull. I should hate to feel that he might draw my valentine. And she, of course, is impossible. I would not have dreamed of inviting her if the alternative had not been having uneven numbers.”
“Then it is wise to pair them together,” he said. “But how, pray, is it to be done if there is to be no cheating?”
Her smile deepened. “Perhaps just a little manipulation, Gerard,” she said. “I shall see to it that Miss Ward’s valentine is at the bottom left of the table— as far from mine as it can possibly be, in fact. And I shall warn each of the gentlemen except Percy that that is where it will be.”
“I see,” he said. “And I take it that Mullins is to be the last to choose?”
“But of course,” she said, widening her eyes at him. “And you are to be first, a tribute to your superior rank.”
“Ah,” he said.
She smiled. They had passed his room and had come to a stop outside hers. “Three days and three nights,” she said. “Of course, for one couple it could be three days and four nights.”
“Ah,” he said again, “but that would be unfair to the other participants in this party, Florence. Don’t you agree?” He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.
She pulled a face. “What does fairness have to say to anything?” she asked him.
“Everything.” He bowed over her hand before releasing it. “To a man of honor, that is.”
She smiled as he turned away. He heard her bedchamber door open and close again before he reached his own room.
The valentines were red silk hearts trimmed with a double layer of white lace. They were exquisite, all the ladies agreed. There was a heightened air of excitement in the morning room as each in turn wrote her name carefully on one heart, leaving room below for a gentleman’s name. The gentlemen were still in the breakfast room.
Claire wished more than ever that she had sent for the carriage. A night of restless tossing and turning and bizarre dreams had not convinced her that innocent romance was the object of Lady Florence’s party. And think as she would of the six gentlemen, any one of whom might be her valentine, she could not imagine one with whom she might be comfortable—or one who would be pleased to draw her name.
Lady Florence gathered up the six hearts when they had all finished and the ink had dried. “Now, over to the fire all of you,” she said, laughing, “and no peeping. I shall arrange the hearts on the table so that none of you will know which is your own. That way there can be no cheating, no secret signals to a favored gentleman.”
