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Authors: Georgette Heyer
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of seventeen too! It could not be more unpromising.
She waited on Lady Winwood and met Horatia. She left South Street later in quite another frame of mind. That black-browed child was no simpering miss from the schoolroom. Lord! thought her ladyship, what a dance she would lead him! It was better, far better than she had planned. Elizabeth’s docility would not have answered the purpose near so well as Horatia’s turbulence. Why, she told herself, he’ll have not a moment’s peace and no time at all for that odious Massey creature!
That Rule foresaw the unquiet future that so delighted his sister seemed improbable. He continued to visit in Hertford Street, and no hint of parting crossed his lips.
Lady Massey received him in her rose and silver boudoir two days after the announcement of his betrothal. She was dressed in a négligée of lace and satin, and reclined on a brocaded sopha. No servant announced him; he came into the room as one who had the right, and as he shut the door, remarked humorously: ‘Dear Caroline, you’ve a new porter. Did you tell him to shut the door in my face?’
She held her hand to him. ‘Did he do so, Marcus?’
‘No,’ said his lordship. ‘No. That ignominious fate has not yet been mine.’ He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Her fingers clasped his, and drew him down to her. ‘I thought we were being very formal,’ he said, smiling, and kissed her.
She retained her hold on his hand, but said half quizzically, half mournfully: ‘Perhaps we should be formal – now, my lord.’
‘So you did tell the porter to shut the door in my face?’ sighed his lordship.
‘I did not. But you are to be married, are you not, Marcus?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Rule. ‘Not just at this moment, you know.’
She smiled, but fleetingly. ‘You might have told me,’ she said.
He opened his snuff-box and dipped in his finger and thumb. ‘I might, of course,’ he said, possessing himself of her hand. ‘A new blend, my dear,’ he said, and dropped the pinch on to her white wrist, and sniffed.
She pulled her hand away. ‘Could you not have told me?’ she repeated.
He shut his snuff-box and glanced down at her, still good-humoured, but with something at the back of his eyes which gave her pause. A little anger shook her; she understood quite well: he would not discuss his marriage with her. She said, trying to make her voice light: ‘You will say it is not my business, I suppose.’
‘I am never rude, Caroline,’ objected his lordship mildly.
She felt herself foiled, but smiled. ‘No indeed. I’ve heard it said you’re the smoothest-spoken man in England.’ She studied her rings, moving her hand to catch the light. ‘But I didn’t know you thought of marriage.’ She flashed a look up at him. ‘You see,’ she said, mock-solemn, ‘I thought you loved me – only me!’
‘What in the world,’ inquired his lordship, ‘has that to do with my marriage? I am entirely at your feet, my dear. Quite the prettiest feet I ever remember to have seen.’
‘And you’ve seen many, I apprehend,’ she said with a certain dryness.
‘Dozens,’ said his lordship cheerfully.
She did not mean to say it, but the words slipped out before she could guard her tongue. ‘But for all that you are at my feet, Marcus, you have offered for another woman.’
The Earl had put up his glass to inspect a Dresden harlequin upon the mantelpiece. ‘If you bought that for a Kändler, my love, I am much afraid that you have been imposed upon,’ he remarked.
‘It was given me,’ she said impatiently.
‘How shocking!’ said his lordship. ‘I will send you a very pretty pair of dancing figures in its place.’
‘You are extremely obliging, Marcus, but we were speaking of your marriage,’ she said, nettled.
‘You were speaking of it,’ he corrected. ‘I was trying to – er – turn the subject.’
She got up from the sopha and took an impatient step towards him.
‘I suppose,’ she
She waited on Lady Winwood and met Horatia. She left South Street later in quite another frame of mind. That black-browed child was no simpering miss from the schoolroom. Lord! thought her ladyship, what a dance she would lead him! It was better, far better than she had planned. Elizabeth’s docility would not have answered the purpose near so well as Horatia’s turbulence. Why, she told herself, he’ll have not a moment’s peace and no time at all for that odious Massey creature!
That Rule foresaw the unquiet future that so delighted his sister seemed improbable. He continued to visit in Hertford Street, and no hint of parting crossed his lips.
Lady Massey received him in her rose and silver boudoir two days after the announcement of his betrothal. She was dressed in a négligée of lace and satin, and reclined on a brocaded sopha. No servant announced him; he came into the room as one who had the right, and as he shut the door, remarked humorously: ‘Dear Caroline, you’ve a new porter. Did you tell him to shut the door in my face?’
She held her hand to him. ‘Did he do so, Marcus?’
‘No,’ said his lordship. ‘No. That ignominious fate has not yet been mine.’ He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Her fingers clasped his, and drew him down to her. ‘I thought we were being very formal,’ he said, smiling, and kissed her.
She retained her hold on his hand, but said half quizzically, half mournfully: ‘Perhaps we should be formal – now, my lord.’
‘So you did tell the porter to shut the door in my face?’ sighed his lordship.
‘I did not. But you are to be married, are you not, Marcus?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Rule. ‘Not just at this moment, you know.’
She smiled, but fleetingly. ‘You might have told me,’ she said.
He opened his snuff-box and dipped in his finger and thumb. ‘I might, of course,’ he said, possessing himself of her hand. ‘A new blend, my dear,’ he said, and dropped the pinch on to her white wrist, and sniffed.
She pulled her hand away. ‘Could you not have told me?’ she repeated.
He shut his snuff-box and glanced down at her, still good-humoured, but with something at the back of his eyes which gave her pause. A little anger shook her; she understood quite well: he would not discuss his marriage with her. She said, trying to make her voice light: ‘You will say it is not my business, I suppose.’
‘I am never rude, Caroline,’ objected his lordship mildly.
She felt herself foiled, but smiled. ‘No indeed. I’ve heard it said you’re the smoothest-spoken man in England.’ She studied her rings, moving her hand to catch the light. ‘But I didn’t know you thought of marriage.’ She flashed a look up at him. ‘You see,’ she said, mock-solemn, ‘I thought you loved me – only me!’
‘What in the world,’ inquired his lordship, ‘has that to do with my marriage? I am entirely at your feet, my dear. Quite the prettiest feet I ever remember to have seen.’
‘And you’ve seen many, I apprehend,’ she said with a certain dryness.
‘Dozens,’ said his lordship cheerfully.
She did not mean to say it, but the words slipped out before she could guard her tongue. ‘But for all that you are at my feet, Marcus, you have offered for another woman.’
The Earl had put up his glass to inspect a Dresden harlequin upon the mantelpiece. ‘If you bought that for a Kändler, my love, I am much afraid that you have been imposed upon,’ he remarked.
‘It was given me,’ she said impatiently.
‘How shocking!’ said his lordship. ‘I will send you a very pretty pair of dancing figures in its place.’
‘You are extremely obliging, Marcus, but we were speaking of your marriage,’ she said, nettled.
‘You were speaking of it,’ he corrected. ‘I was trying to – er – turn the subject.’
She got up from the sopha and took an impatient step towards him.
‘I suppose,’ she
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