Devil-May-Dare. Mary Nichols
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expect he took a leaf out of your book,’ Mrs Wenthorpe said in mild rebuke. ‘But we can soon put a town polish on you and then you will have any number of offers. Tomorrow we must shop for clothes…’ She stopped because Lydia had barely been able to conceal a smile at the thought of her outrageously dressed aunt Aggie selecting clothes for her. ‘I do not pretend to be all the crack myself and I am too old to change my ways, but I know someone who will see that you are dressed properly. I shall take you to my great friend, Lavinia Davies. Tonight we will sup quietly and go to bed early, for we have a busy day ahead of us.’ She turned to Tom. ‘What had you planned, young man?’
‘Oh, I shall amuse myself, never fear,’ he said. ‘A visit to Weston’s for a new suit of clothes, a few hands of cards at White’s, a ride perhaps. And don’t you think we had better buy a new town carriage? Even supposing our travelling chaise can be repaired, it is as old as the ark. Not having ridden in it since before I went to Cambridge, I had not realised how old-fashioned and unsound it was. It is hardly suitable for town use; Lydia cannot go to balls and routs in it, nor to the park, and expect to be noticed by the ton — unless it be for being a frump.’
‘I am not a frump!’
‘I did not say you were, but I am sure that is what the Marquis thought when he saw you looking as though you had been tumbled in the hay. And as for our equipage…’
‘Damn the Marquis!’ his sister said with feeling. Was that why he had looked at her so hard and long?
‘Lydia!’ Mrs Wenthorpe was shocked into reaching for the glass of claret at her elbow. ‘That is not the language of a lady.’
‘I am sorry, Aunt, but if I have to weigh up every man I meet with nothing but marriage in mind, then I would as lief not marry at all.’
‘But you must, child! That is what you are here for and why I am here, to make sure you come out in a manner fitting your station and wealth and to make sure you are not gulled by unsuitable offers.’ She smiled and laid a hand over Lydia’s. ‘You will enjoy it, my dear, and I am sure you will find someone to suit before the Season is over.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘Then I will have failed your dear papa, and so will you.’
Lydia fell silent on the subject. It would do no good to argue and she would have to pretend to be enjoying herself, even flirt a little, but that did not mean she was committed. Unless, by some miracle, she fell in love, she would put off making a decision; that was — and she smiled to herself — if anyone offered for her, which was not at all a certainty. She was too tall and not especially beautiful and she was certainly outspoken, none of which would endear her to would-be husbands who, for the most part, only needed a breeding machine. It was not that she was against marriage and having children, but she had, in her growing up, had plenty of time to observe the disastrous marriages of her acquaintances and compare them with the loving relationship of her own parents, and nothing less than that would do.
THERE could not have been a greater contrast between Mrs Wenthorpe and the modishly attired Mrs Davies, but neither seemed to pay any heed to that, and after a cosy exchange of the latest on-dit they took Lydia to visit a dressmaker where Mrs Davies bespoke dresses for morning wear, for walking and for carriage rides, dresses for assemblies, for breakfasts, for the opera, for balls, and a dark blue velvet riding habit with a jacket frogged in the Polish style, to be worn over a white silk shirt with ruffles at throat and wrist. From there they went on to buy a tall beaver hat with a curly brim and a peacock feather to go with the riding habit, bonnets, caps and shawls, underlinen, mantles and muffs, shoes, dancing slippers and half-boots of crimson jean.
Lydia sincerely hoped the expense her father was being put to would be worth his while and was beginning to feel guilty that she had no intention of allowing herself to fall into the marriage net simply because he though it was time she was wed. If he wanted grandsons, let Tom produce them. The idea of Tom as a father was so amusing, she was still laughing when he joined them for luncheon at three o’clock, having taken a leaf from her book and decked himself out in the latest fashion.
‘Why do you laugh?’ he asked, affronted. ‘These pantaloons are the latest thing and I spent a devilish long time tying this neckcloth.’
‘It isn’t that,’ she assured him. ‘You look bang-up. I was wondering if you might enter the marriage stakes instead of me. After all, you are the one who has to produce Wenthorpe heirs, not I.’
‘But you are the one Papa has fixed his mind on and you ought not to disappoint him. The whole thing must be costing him a prodigious amount.’
‘And I wish that it did not,’ she said. ‘I do not like being groomed like some thoroughbred to be paraded in the selling ring.’
‘Oh, my dear, it is not at all like that,’ protested Aunt Aggie. ‘You will enjoy it and I am persuaded you will be the belle of the Season and have any number of offers to choose from. It is the young gentlemen who are being paraded, not you.’ She rose from the table and smiled at them both. ‘Now, as I have not spent such a fatiguing morning in years, I shall go and lie down. Tom, you will look after your sister.’
‘But Aunt, I am going to choose a new carriage.’
‘I’ll come too,’ Lydia said, rising quickly. ‘It won’t take above a minute to fetch a bonnet and mantle.’
Since her aunt did not object to this, a footman was sent to bring a hackney to the door and brother and sister set off for Mount Street, where the coach-builders, Robinson and Cook, had their premises.
Tom was torn between ordering a barouche which would have been suitable for Lydia and her aunt, and a high-perch phaeton, a showy vehicle which had enormous wheels and high seating which was known to be unstable in inexpert hands. He wanted to show off his driving skill and Lydia, who considered herself a good whip, was also tempted, but she knew her aunt would disapprove on the grounds that young ladies who drove high-perch phaetons were considered fast. While they were thus debating, the Marquis of Longham arrived on the same errand.
He was wearing splendid riding breeches of soft buckskin and well-cut riding boots which emphasised his long, muscular legs. His corded coat with its high collar covered a yellow brocade waistcoat and a neckcloth of moderate dimensions; the whole effect was discreetly modish. Greeting them cheerfully, he bowed over Lydia’s hand and then, with those hazel eyes twinkling with mischief, looked about him at the vehicles on display, some of which were only half complete, and enquired if it had not been possible to repair their carriage after all.
‘Not at all, my lord,’ Lydia said, affecting a haughtiness which was so unlike her that Tom turned to her in surprise. ‘A travelling chaise is hardly the thing for town; even you must admit to that. We have come to bespeak a light carriage.’
‘Surely not this one?’ his lordship said, pointing at the high-perch phaeton Tom had been admiring.
‘What is wrong with it?’ Lydia demanded, annoyed that he should question their judgement. ‘It looks a very handsome carriage to me.’
‘Oh, no doubt of it,’ he said calmly. ‘But surely you were not intending to buy it for yourself, Miss Wenthorpe?’ He looked her up and down as if measuring her up for the vehicle in question, though, in truth, he was thinking how attractive she looked and how the colour of her costume set off the deep colour of her eyes.
‘Why not?’ She was so stung by his attitude, she forgot her attempt at hauteur. ‘I’ll have you know I’m considered to have a sound pair of hands on the ribbons.’
‘That I do not doubt,’ he said, appraising her with one eyebrow lifted higher than the other, which made her think he was laughing at her. ‘But have you considered your aunt’s feelings? She will have to accompany you when you go out and I hardly think someone of her years would find it to her liking.’ He did not add that he thought the worthy matron would find