Page 3 of Falling for the Earl (Improper Ladies #2)

Westminster, London, April 1814

L ucy had been in London for a week, but it seemed longer with her aunt fussing around her. Nothing she did seemed to please Aunt Mary, who talked endlessly about how she’d brought out her two girls to be great successes after Lucy’s deceased Uncle Peter had given them handsome dowries.

“Because of your father’s straightened circumstances, your come out will prove more difficult than my daughters’. Anabel and Jane are now married to men of substance.” Aunt Mary tsked , holding up one of Lucy’s gowns for inspection in the bedchamber Lucy now occupied. “It is fortunate, perhaps, that he has remained in Bath.”

Lucy firmed her lips, determined not to give in to the urge to defend him again. What good could it do? It would fall on deaf ears. Aunt Mary was her mother’s sister. Their family was higher up the social scale than Papa’s branch of the Kershaws, as her aunt constantly reminded her.

“I should not like you to make an unfortunate marriage, as your mother did.” Aunt Mary’s thin shoulders looked tight, and she sounded bitter as she hung up the gown. “Their marriage was the death of her.”

“Mama died of the influenza,” Lucy reminded her, turning away to hide her outraged face.

“Your maternal grandfather was a baron’s second son. If Caroline had married into a family who could take better care of her…” Aunt Mary began.

“Mama loved my father,” Lucy said, her chest tight.

“Ah, love. What a curse it can be.” Her aunt glanced at her. “I hope you have more sense than to throw away your future on an unsuitable man, my dear.”

Lucy had had enough. She took the gown from her aunt’s hands. “I have a frightful headache, Aunt Mary. I must lie down for a while.”

“It is very muggy today, and that long trip here in a yellow bounder…” She shuddered. “It must have been horrendous. Your father, of course, having no carriage of his own. I’ll send up some feverfew. Rest while I answer these invitations we’ve received. Then we must tackle your wardrobe. Fortunately, we have Anabel’s and Jane’s old gowns to update. Fashions change subtly with each Season. Scallops are now popular, and so is blonde lace. Roses, I think, for the ballgown. A dainty row around the hem.” Her speculative gaze roamed over Lucy. “You are thinner than Anabel, and much shorter than Jane, but I don’t think that will be a problem. I have a good dressmaker, and I gather you are adept with a needle and thread?”

“Yes, Aunt.”

“I have some fashion magazines somewhere.” She rushed to the door, then turned with her hand on the latch, appearing quite enthusiastic at the task awaiting them. “We have a busy week ahead.”

Lucy lay her throbbing head on the pillow. It was good of Aunt Mary to go to so much trouble for her. She really must try to be appreciative and help wherever she could. Thankfully, she had always made her gowns and was quite good at sewing. And she wanted to find a man to love. Someone she could trust and made her feel safe. She hated to admit that life with her father was often uncertain and realized she had been constantly exhausted with worry about the future.

Cutting and sewing seams and adding embellishments to four old gowns occupied her for the following sennight. The white ballgown had just arrived and was the most beautiful gown she had ever seen, trimmed with silk roses, lace, and pink satin. She thrilled just to look at it.

At the end of a long, busy day, Lucy put aside dressing a bonnet and wrote to her father, trying to sound cheerful and hide her concerns. She prayed her come out would be a success and please both Aunt Mary and her father.

Her cousin Jane visited. Jane viewed the pale-blue sarsnet walking gown Lucy wore before the mirror while their maid, Maisie, sat at Lucy’s feet and pinned up the hem. Lucy expected disapproval, but Jane, uncommonly tall with dark-brown hair and gray eyes, smiled.

“I’m called a Long Meg when my back is turned,” she confessed cheerfully, removing her stylish bonnet. “That shade of blue was never my color. Made me appear pasty-faced,” she whispered when her mother had left the room. “But there’s no telling Mama.”

“The apricot-colored traveling gown with the lovely Vandyke collar you are wearing is perfect on you,” Lucy said, thinking her cousin looked quite the thing.

“Yes, that’s what marriage does for one,” Jane confessed. “Thank heavens, at last, I can dress the way I wish. Don’t let Mama browbeat you into wearing something you hate. Anabel’s gowns had layers of frills and ribbons, which made her look like an iced pudding!” She laughed. “You don’t need such embellishment, Lucy. You are very pretty.”

“You are nice, Jane,” Lucy said. “It’s lovely to meet you again.”

“I am sorry we’ve seen you so rarely,” Jane said. “My husband and I shall entertain this Season, so we shall see more of each other. You can even the numbers at dinner with one of Edward’s bachelor friends. Perhaps he will take your fancy.”

A hand on Jane’s shoulder, Lucy stretched up to kiss Jane’s cheek. But she dreaded being on display like a dowerless, poor relation dredged up from the country, to be offered up for some reluctant gentleman’s consideration. She drew in a sharp breath. That was what she was, and she must accept it.

*

London was agog with the news that Napoleon had abdicated the throne and been incarcerated on the island of Elba. At the signing of the Treaty of Paris, the Prince Regent had invited his allies, William of Orange, King Frederick William III of Prussia, Prince Metternich of Austria, Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, and Tsar Alexander I of Russia and his sister, to London.

Hugh wandered into the smoky heat of the Forster’s celebratory ball, decorated and festooned in red, white, and blue balloons and streamers, with many uniformed men, some of whom he knew, among the guests.

His friend, Jack Ross, Viscount Hereford, soon joined him. “You’ve missed all the excitement,” Ross said, a smile in his eyes as he raised his champagne glass. He gestured toward the far corner where several gentlemen stood, blocking Hugh’s view of the lady seated there. “A mix of fortune hunters and those prodded by hopeful parents.”

“Do we have a new heiress on the scene?”

Ross nodded. “Well, word has it that this young, personable lady’s father is heir to a fortune.”

“Her name?”

Ross jerked his head in that direction. “Miss Kershaw’s father is apparently the Marquess of Berwick’s heir.”

Hugh’s eyebrows rose. “Miss Lucy Kershaw?”

Ross raised his heavy, pitch-black eyebrows, a startling contrast to his pale-blue eyes. “You look surprised. Has she escaped your notice? Well, I suppose a betrothed fellow hasn’t a great deal of interest in other women.” His lips quirked in a smile. “But I must say, she has adroitly avoided the gossip pages and arrived unannounced.”

“Have you met Miss Kershaw?” Hugh asked, interrupting him.

“Lady Forester introduced us. Why?”

Hugh gripped his arm. “Please introduce me to her.”

Ross walked with Hugh as he crossed the ballroom floor with a purposeful stride. “You seem in a rush,” he said. “Well, dashed if you’re not as intrigued as the rest of us, Dorchester.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t keep her to yourself,” Hugh said wryly.

“You do me an injustice,” Ross said with a laugh. “Debutantes do not interest me, even heiresses.”

Hugh supposed they didn’t. A large part of Ross’s life was a mystery, but one thing Hugh knew was his preference was for willing widows and even married ladies, not sheltered innocents.

Several fellows stepped aside for them. Miss Kershaw, looking delightful in white silk and pink silk roses with rosebuds tucked into her glorious blonde locks, turned her head and saw him. Her eyes grew enormous, and twin spots of crimson painted her cheeks.

When a member of the orchestra announced a waltz, Hugh nudged Ross, who cleared his throat. “I’d like to introduce the Earl of Dorchester to you, Mrs. Grayswood.” They both bowed to the sharp-eyed-eyed, older lady who sat beside Miss Kershaw and seemed to be enjoying herself rather more than her charge.

Mrs. Grayswood gasped and rose to her feet, pulling Miss Kershaw up by the arm. They curtsied. “Viscount Hereford. Lord Dorchester. May I introduce you to my niece, Miss Kershaw? Lucy hails from the country and has only recently come to London.”

“Would you honor me with this dance, Miss Kershaw?” Hugh asked her, aware of the chorus of objections from the gentlemen behind him.

With a glance at her aunt, who nodded vigorously, Miss Kershaw murmured her assent and, resting her gloved hand on his arm, allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.

Hugh tried to make sense of his emotions. He usually had a good handle on them, but they deserted him tonight. Bitter disappointment in Miss Kershaw was uppermost, followed by annoyance that she and her aunt should attempt to dupe the ton in this manner. But even stronger was the need to hear her explanation, with the lingering hope he wrongly accused her. Perhaps it was her aunt, a social climber if ever he saw one, who’d persuaded Miss Kershaw to be part of this ruse. No, there was no way of getting around it. It was Miss Kershaw herself who’d started the rumor in Bath, though he feared she would deny it.

The music began, and she came stiffly into his arms. Miss Kershaw was small, he discovered with surprise. She was so fiercely determined, he’d thought her a taller woman. He took her dainty gloved hand in his and tried not to admire the arrangement of her blonde curls dressed in silk roses and soft, white feathers. How could someone who looked so innocent be capable of such fraudulent behavior? And how could she hope to get away with it? Someone would surely write to the marquess and advise him about it. Moreover, why was he dancing with her when he should have given her a wide berth? Let other foolish fellows fall into her trap.

She lifted her chin, and her anxious eyes looked into his. “You must be thinking badly of me,” she said in a low voice.

He hadn’t expected honesty. “You are not an heiress?” he stated with less vigor than he’d previously intended.

For a moment, he thought she would pull away from him. But she merely shook her head, stirring a delightful blonde curl. “I have tried to tell everyone it isn’t true. But no one will listen to me.”

“Then how did they come to hear of it here in London?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “It might be Mrs. Vellacott. Is she here tonight?”

“Perhaps,” he said noncommittally, while suspecting the aunt had had a hand in it.

“You don’t believe me. I didn’t expect you would,” she said pragmatically. “Aunt Mary said as the gossip sheets had gotten hold of it, we should just ignore it, as it is likely to do more good than harm.” She took a deep breath, giving him a delightful glimpse of her delectable, alabaster-skinned bosom. “But it will do harm, won’t it? I want to go back to Papa in Bath. But I am not allowed to. I must stay here until I find a husband who has Aunt Mary’s approval.” She blinked. “And what man would want me when I explain? I can’t marry anyone with a lie hanging over my head.”

She must have been telling the truth. There was no way he could believe otherwise, while looking into her fawn-like brown eyes. Breathing in her sweet perfume, his hands settled closer, as if protecting her as he led her through the steps. He found himself making excuses for her. How many married with buried untruths? Both men and women, and yet some marriages seemed to prosper.

But he must keep a cool head. Miss Lucy Kershaw could lead any hardy male around by the nose if she so chose. Himself included. It was her lie and only that which had caused this scandal to erupt, he reminded himself, while attempting to harden his heart.

“And why should you believe me?” she continued bitterly. “You heard me tell that awful fib.” She lifted her chin. “I must face the consequences of my actions.”

“What will you do?” he asked, worried for her, despite himself.

“I shall run away. Sell my pearls and take the stage back to Bath.” Tears flooded her eyes. “But Papa will be dreadfully disappointed. And so will Aunt Mary, who has done so much to bring me out, and my cousin Jane, who has been such a good friend.”

“Would you like me to help you?” He wondered what her aunt would make of his interference. What the ton would make of it didn’t bear thinking about.

She glanced up at him hopefully. “Could you? I would appreciate it. I don’t care if I suffer the cut direct from the whole of the ton . It would be better than living this…this lie.”

“I could put it about that the gossips are wrong,” he said as he moved her to the beat of the music. “But you guessed correctly. Society would not take kindly to the false story and will believe it came from your family. Your aunt or your father, perhaps.”

Her eyes widened. “Then please don’t do it, my lord. I shall manage somehow.”

The music ended, and he led her slowly from the dance floor. He acknowledged friends as he guided her through the crowd of chatting people.

“Don’t go flying off back to Bath,” he said as they approached her aunt. “Running away is seldom the answer to any problem.”

“Thank you for the dance, Lord Dorchester.” She dipped into a low curtsey, then rising, hurried over to where her aunt watched them intently from her chair.

Dear Lord, what was he thinking? He never involved himself in other people’s dilemmas. Not among the wealthy ton in any event, as they thrived on any news of a person’s misfortune. Now many of the guests watched him, trying to guess what the devil was he up to. An engaged man, he obviously could not marry Miss Kershaw, and to take her side in this would stir up an even worse scandal. Not to mention his dancing with her, which would give her story more credibility and bring even more suitors to her aunt’s door. Perhaps one of them might, on learning the truth, love her for herself alone. It wouldn’t be so very hard. There would be many men, surely, who would be keen to take Miss Kershaw to wife because of her beauty and appeal alone.

News of his actions tonight could reach Miss Ashton, and he supposed he should expect a letter demanding an explanation. Right at this moment, Miss Ashton seemed very far away.

It wasn’t too late for Miss Kershaw. Once the gossip died down, there would be a happy ending when some gentleman came up to snuff.

Hugh wondered why that solution didn’t please him. He never considered himself rash and rarely acted on impulse, so this was entirely out of character. A moment of madness, he decided, as he abandoned the ballroom for White’s, where, but for some in the gaming room, sanity prevailed.