And for no reason, Pamela found herself struck mute by his magnificence.
He stood there, displaying his profile. Each bone in his face thrust at the tanned skin, speaking boldly of his noble heritage. His chin was stubborn, his nose jutted forth, his forehead was high. His lips…ah, his lips were soft and full, sensual and inviting. His fine black woolen riding suit fit him beautifully, sketching the width of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, his narrow waist and his disconcertingly long legs. He was the most handsome man she’d ever met—and she noticed it! She, who despised men on principle and handsome rakes in particular, suddenly observed this man’s physical charms in the same way any adulterer leers at a pretty girl.
She scarcely knew how to respond, only that she should hide her thoughts under a fac¸ade of words. “Knowing how to ride will do her little good should you decide to dismiss her, my lord.”
Why now? Why him? Perhaps it was because, when he wasn’t looking at her, she no longer felt the pressure of being the older, genderless Miss Lockhart. But she must remember that Kerrich was a libertine. A liar. A manipulator.
This morning she had been so busy despising him and wanting to please him at the same time, she hadn’t reacted to his sheer, absolute glamour. Now she saw it, saw him, and in a total twist on her usual emotions, she was embarrassed to have him see the riding raiment she had thrown together. One of Lady Temperly’s black woolen mourning gowns. An old-fashioned olive-green jacket. And a riding hat forgotten by one of Kerrich’s ladies and never retrieved. As if it mattered what Pamela wore!
In an impatient movement, he slapped his riding crop along his boot. “As you justly pointed out this morning, my grandfather’s involvement leaves me no choice except to keep the child.”
Her unanticipated interest in Kerrich’s appearance horrified her. What was worse, her interest would horrify him. He would be afraid she would appear nightly in his bedchamber sans clothing. And she dared not declare she would not, for just an hour ago she would have sworn no man’s charms could move her. Her moral fiber was under assault; she must battle the onset of shallow longings!
Kerrich glanced toward her, and in a sudden shift his voice oozed honey and persuasion. “The child’s got a good seat, surely you could see that, and who didn’t have a tumble or two when they were learning to ride? She’ll learn all kinds of proper lessons from you, Miss Lockhart, of that I have no doubt, but let me teach her to enjoy herself. I think there’s been little enough pleasure in her short life.”
“Yes.” She was still in a daze, fumbling for her former rationality and worrying that he was showing not just a fleeting interest in Beth, but genuine sensitivity. “That’s true, but—”
“Good, then we’re agreed.” His regard focused beyond her. “Look, there’s Lady Smithwick and two of her daughters riding toward us. Let us introduce Beth to them.”
His proposal snapped some sense back into Pamela. “We can’t do that, it’s too soon!”
He didn’t take his gaze away from the three ladies riding with their groom, and his smile widened as they got closer, but his voice snapped with authority. “Miss Lockhart, while I know you consider me a fribble, what I am doing is important to both me and my family. I am fighting a battle against time and Beth’s spill has the makings of a gratifying accident.”
Pamela did consider him a fribble, she did believe he was fighting a battle against time and Beth’s spill did have the makings of a gratifying accident, for they could use it to spread the word about the child. Nevertheless, she felt she had to voice a protest. “But, my lord, those are Fairchilds.”
“Yes, blatherskites, and that’s the best thing that can be said about them.” He glanced at her. “Miss Lockhart, we have no way of getting out of meeting these ladies, and I recognize the hand of fate when I see it. Kindly bring Beth to me so she may be introduced, and let them carry the rumor of my philanthropy back to society!”
“Yes, sir.” As she walked toward the place where Beth stood watching, Pamela knew Kerrich was right on all counts. No dreadful damage could come of this encounter. It was only her pride that desired a perfectly behaved child and her compassion that perceived Beth’s incipient anxiety.
“Ho, there.” Kerrich bowed as the ladies rode closer. “A lucky appointment, indeed!”
Stepping between them and Beth, Pamela quickly finger-combed Beth’s shoulder-length hair and wished the child wore something besides a serving maid’s cast-off clothing. Yet to Beth, she projected complete confidence. “Lord Kerrich wishes that you meet Lady Smithwick, Miss Fairchild, and her sister. Let us quickly make you tidy and take you to meet the kind women.”
Beth’s eyes darted from side to side. “I don’t want to.”
“Nonsense,” Pamela said in a bracing tone. “You will charm them, and Lord Kerrich is there to help you. Besides”—she turned, put her hand on Beth’s shoulder and shepherded her slowly forward—“it’s good practice for you, and later when we return to our schoolroom, you may ask me any questions you have about the experience.”
Beth’s voice sank to a whisper. “What if I do something wrong?”
“We are in the park. No one expects more than just courtesy, which you have in abundance.”
Kerrich obviously had set the scene, for as they approached, the beautiful young ladies and the plump older one were smiling at the child with the vivacity of confirmed gossips who realize the greatest tidbit of the entire year may just have fallen into their laps. Pamela dropped back as they reached Kerrich’s side, and watched as Beth curtsied and smiled timidly and responded to their questions in a demure voice.
“She’s a pleasant little thing,” Lady Smithwick said in an approving tone. “It’s so good of you, Lord Kerrich, and so indicative of your good nature and high moral fiber—”
Pamela was proud that she refrained from snorting.
“—to take her into your home when you don’t even know if she is descended from bad stock.”
Kerrich wrapped his arm around Beth before she could step forward. A good thing, Pamela thought, since her small, skinny fists were clenched. Projecting her voice with the calm authority of the Miss Lockhart she had become, Pamela said, “But Lord Kerrich does know the child’s background. She is the daughter of an ancient but poverty-stricken family in the North. Her father was a trusted assistant, killed while performing a heroic deed in Lord Kerrich’s service.”
The ladies looked crestfallen.
In an overly loud whisper to her sister, the younger Miss Fairchild said, “So she’s not his bastard?”
Lady Smithwick snapped at the girl, “Certainly not! I never thought such a thing.” Which was an obvious lie. Turning back to the party on the ground, she trilled, “Lord Kerrich, God will undoubtedly bless you for your kindness.”
“Yes, but you’d better not bring her out again until the seamstress has finished her new garments.” The elder daughter covered her mouth as she giggled. “She is dressed like a serving maid!”
Kerrich still held Beth, although now he appeared to be hugging her rather than restraining her. “You are ever wise, Miss Fairchild. Of course, I take your advice.”
As they rode away, Kerrich smiled and bowed, Beth and Pamela curtsied.
For a long moment, Kerrich looked down at Beth, then angrily turned on Pamela. “Miss Lockhart, this is your fault. Why did you not tell me Beth needed clothing?”
Chapter 10
“I cannot believe you allowed me to take that child to the park in those clothes.” Feeling decidedly peeved, Kerrich sat in the delicate chair in the elegant, mirrored surroundings of Madame Beauchard’s fashion salon, waiting for Beth to come out in the latest gown of Madame’s choosing. “Why didn’t you tell me she was in rags?”
“You exaggerate, my lord. Those garments were provided by a young maid from your very household who had outgrown them.”
Her extravagant patience grated away at his normally dispassionate disposition. “A maid’s clothing? I took her into
public wearing a maid’s clothing? Miss Lockhart, this is a disgrace I will long remember.”
With a snap that few dared to practice on him, Miss Lockhart said, “You have eyes to see, my lord. If Beth’s clothing displeased you, you had only to speak.”
That woman.
Some people said dreams had meaning. He didn’t believe it, of course. Dreams were nonsense, sometimes pleasant, sometimes horrifying, but never anything more than the meandering of an idle mind. But last night’s dream! Those fleshy tints. Those high breasts. Those shapely legs.
That face. Miss Lockhart’s face!
Out of the corner of his eyes he could see her. She sat beside him, only her knitting needles in motion. However, she radiated her own irritation, although how she dared he did not understand. “As if I would bother to notice the child’s garments,” he retorted. “That is what the governess does!”
Miss Lockhart gave a shrewish huff. “What a governess does, my lord, is guide a child through the intricacies of learning and conduct, not ride a miserable old nag on an ill-advised expedition!”
“Miserable old nag?” he repeated. Interesting that she saved her greatest scorn for her steed. Did Miss Lockhart fancy herself a rider? “You sound as if you would wish to be mounted on a finer horse.”
The knitting needles clicked faster. “That is not the point. The point is that I had not yet considered Beth’s wardrobe for I did not yet know where you would keep her or in what capacity.” When he would have spoken, she overrode him with a strong, “Also, it never occurred to me you would wish to purchase an extensive wardrobe for a child you plan to discard when she had succeeded in getting you what you want.”
Shocked, he asked, “Do you think me a catchpenny, then? This is as if you were saying I wouldn’t purchase a uniform for a footman I hire only for a party.”
The knitting needles faltered. “A…footman.”
“Or some such.” Perhaps comparing a foundling to a footman seemed a bit cavalier to Miss Lockhart, but her doubts in his beneficence wore thin. “I assure you I am famous for the fairness and honor with which I treat my staff. Have you had anything to complain about?”
“No, my lord.”
“Your rooms are as you requested? Your half-days off are scheduled as promised? You have a nursery maid assigned to you to perform the inconsequential tasks of child care?”
“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”
“Well, then.” Satisfied he had made his point, he adjusted his cane across his lap, crossed his ankle over his knee, and allowed his monocle to dangle from his fingers. “I promised the foundling would be given training in some trade, and so she shall be.”
“No one could expect more of you.”
Was she mocking him?
He should look at her to see, but all day long, by dint of staring toward her or over her shoulder, Kerrich had avoided looking directly at Miss Lockhart. Which was foolish, and could not continue, but he had to admit to a certain cowardice.
This was his grandfather’s fault, of course. Grandpapa had congratulated Kerrich on his wisdom in courting Miss Lockhart. Grandpapa had implied Miss Lockhart was an attractive woman. And now, because of a silly dream caused by his grandfather’s suggestions, Kerrich squirmed in the presence of Miss Lockhart. He had lusted after this crone who was not only unattractive, but older.
Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the full-length gilt-framed mirrors hung every few feet along the wall, reflecting their seated images at him from every direction. So he risked a glance at those hands, busily engaged in knitting.
He hadn’t seen them without gloves before, and he noted how smooth they were, unmarked by spots, with skin so transparent he could observe the blue tracery of veins and so delicate it moved like fine, pale silk.
How very odd. In his observations, he had noted the first place age showed was in a woman’s hands.
Madame Beauchard recalled him from his contemplations. “My lord, here is our little miss.” She ushered Beth out of the dressing area in the newest selection, a simple yellow morning gown.
Leaning forward, he examined the child’s apparel with the same intense interest he showed when selecting his own garments. “The style, yes. It is appropriate for lessons.” With his fingertip, he touched Miss Lockhart’s upper arm and noted a firmness of flesh he had not expected. “Don’t you agree?”
“Most appropriate, my lord.” Miss Lockhart inched away from him.
“But the color!” he continued. “Madame Beauchard, what were you thinking?”
“As always, my lord, you are right,” said the modiste in her fake French accent. “Yellow is not the young lady’s color.” Then, slyly, she added, “Just as it is not yours, my lord.”
Lifting his monocle, he fitted it to his eye and stared at Madame Beauchard. Did she dare to insinuate…?
With the ease of a consummate liar, Miss Lockhart once again told her tale. “That is correct, Madame Beauchard. Beth looks like her father, an assistant at Lord Kerrich’s bank who died while performing a heroic deed in Lord Kerrich’s service.”
“Her father?” Madame Beauchard looked at Beth, and Kerrich could see her reluctantly discarding her more fascinating speculation.
“Yes,” Beth said. “Papa died saving Lord Kerrich’s life.”
“Beth!” Miss Lockhart failed to hide her amazement when she heard this new addition to the yarn.
“Didn’t he?” Beth squeaked.
Kerrich rescued the child, and his character. “I am eternally grateful to your father.”
Miss Lockhart recovered from her surprise and answered with composure, “Yes, Beth, but you sounded as if you were bragging, and I’m sure it was more than Madame desired to know.”
“Never fear, my lord,” Madame Beauchard said. “Everyone would tell you I am the most discreet of the fashionable couturiers.”
Kerrich’s incredulity overwhelmed him. “You?”
Madame Beauchard contrived to look hurt.
“Madame, I would take it badly if you were to question the child.” He looked meaningfully at Beth. “She gets upset when reminded of the circumstances of her father’s death.”
Beth took the hint, and sniffed and knuckled her eyes.
Looking alarmed, Madame snatched her hand off Beth’s shoulder. “Of course not, my lord. I have no wish to make the petite fille cry.” Gingerly, she patted Beth. “Come along, cherie, let us dress you again for Lord Kerrich’s inspection.”
They disappeared behind the curtains.
Miss Lockhart put her hideous knitting into her bag and thrust her knitting needles back into the knot at the base of her head. “I should go back there.”
“No.”
“But, my lord, if Madame Beauchard does question Beth…”
“She won’t. She hates children except when they bring her income and she knows if Beth becomes agitated our session will be cut short. I predict Beth is even now being stuffed with sweets and praised for her beauty.” And besides, while many were the occasions he had sat here waiting for Madame to bring forth his mistress and her clothing for his approval, he had never found such a delicious way to pass the time before. If not for that damned dream, tormenting Miss Lockhart would be quite the finest diversion he’d ever discovered.
Miss Lockhart relaxed back into her chair, but those hands, those soft, pale, slender hands, plucked at her atrocious black woolen skirt as if they could not be still.
Funny, that. She had given him the impression of imperturbable composure and strict control. What had she to be nervous about?
Perhaps he made her uncomfortable, although he wondered why. Perhaps he should prod her further, and discover why. “The tale of Beth’s father gets more improbable with every telling. It should have been thoroughly thrashed out before we stepped foot out of the house. You should have thought of that.”
Her hands stopped their wanderings across her skirt, grabbed a fistful of material, and squeezed. “My lord, I did advise against taking
Beth out today.”
“But you also advised we get to know each other and develop a rapport. I believe we have accomplished that. Wouldn’t you say, Miss Lockhart?”
Her knuckles stood out white on her hands. “Yes, my lord.”
“So I was right in suggesting that we ride. Good.” Idly, he swung his monocle from its silver chain and contemplated how best to discomfit her. “Do you ride well, Miss Lockhart? Or is that private information which should not be shared with a dissolute gentleman such as myself?”
“I have not said I consider you dissolute.”
“You have not told me whether you can ride, either.” As the moment of silence stretched out, he amused himself by wagering whether she wished more to ride a fine steed or to put him in his place.
Finally Miss Lockhart admitted, “I can ride.”
“Then I will mount you appropriately.” Realizing what he had said, he wavered between laughter and horror.
She stiffened, and in the most stifling of tones said, “You are the epitome of graciousness, my lord.”
Laughter won. A soft chuckle which lent him the fortitude he needed to look at her.
That face. In his dream, it had been grotesque, painted, cruel. Today it just looked…unnatural. In this feminine environment with its clear light, its gilt mirrors, its crystal chandeliers, Miss Lockhart appeared gawky and rumpled, badly fitted in an old-fashioned jacket and dress.
“I will buy you a gown.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he had said, but at once he understood what was driving him. This female didn’t understand the role of woman in civilization. Ladies were supposed to be soft and beguiling. They were supposed to talk a man around, flirt and tease, win their way with wiles. Maybe, if he could just get her out of those purple and brown and black monstrosities that she wore and into some agreeable color, she would no longer assault him with words—or, at least, he wouldn’t mind so much when she did.