Claiming The Chaperon's Heart. Anne Herries
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dare say you’ve already taken care of all that,’ Will said and grinned at her. ‘Besides, Melia looks very pretty in what she’s wearing.’
Since Melia was wearing a simple yellow gown of muslin over a thin petticoat with a charming bonnet of straw trimmed with matching ribbons, there was truth in his words, but only the silk shawl that Jane had lent her had given the ensemble a touch of town bronze. Since he saw his beloved through rose-tinted spectacles, he could not be expected to realise that—though, had his sister ever appeared in town in such a simple robe, he might have raised his eyebrows at her.
‘Well, I shall write to Lord Frant and explain,’ Jane said. ‘Will, please ring for some tea for us all while I see to my letter—Melia will keep you company. Unless she has something more urgent pressing?’
Melia dimpled prettily and shook her head. She and Will walked into the front parlour, talking together animatedly. Jane thought the very ease of their manner together boded well for the future, but she was not certain that her young guest’s mind was as firmly fixed on marriage as was her brother’s.
She went into the smaller parlour that was her own when in town and sat down to pen a polite letter, explaining that she had taken Melia out to order some of the wardrobe she would need for the season. She apologised for wasting his time; had she known of his intention to call she would have waited in but, since they had arrived only that morning, Melia had been anxious to see a little of the town.
Feeling pleased with a letter that matched his in coolness, but was far politer, she sealed it with her own wax, mauve in colour, and pressed Harry’s ring into it. Lord Frant should see that he was dealing with the widow of Lord March and not some little nobody he could order about as he pleased! She had informed him that she would be at home any morning that week from ten-thirty until twelve and he would be welcome to call in those hours, but at other times he might find them all out.
* * *
Paul frowned over the letter that had been brought to his house just as he was changing for the evening. He and Adam had been invited to dine at a gentleman’s house and to play cards in the evening. Since the gentleman was an officer they’d known when serving with Wellington, both were delighted to accept.
Paul was not sure what to make of the letter. The paper smelled delightfully of a perfume that pleased the senses, but which he could not have named for it was subtler than the heavy perfumes he’d been used to in India. The writing was beautifully formed, but the message seemed glacial to him. What could he have done to deserve such excessive politeness? He’d seen middle-aged ladies giving the cold shoulder to some junior officers before this, but he himself had never been on the receiving end.
Lady March was probably some old trout with an acid tongue, he thought and grimaced. It was regrettable that he must call on her during the hours she’d set, for he normally steered well clear of those very haughty dames. However, since his ward had chosen to ignore his invitation to take up residence in her own home and await her chaperon and his ideas for her future, he had no choice. Had he been married, he would have had no hesitation in commanding Miss Bellingham to do as he bid her, but, as a single man of no more than one and thirty, he must be circumspect in his dealings with the young lady—and therefore he must try to get on to terms with the old biddy who had brought her to London. He had never met the Viscount Salisbury or any member of his family, but he’d been told by Mrs Bellingham that they were respectable people and rich. He’d thought Lady March a younger woman, but the tone of this letter made him think he’d been mistaken.
Well, he would forget it for this evening. Paul had already set things in motion regarding the furnishing of his house. Lady Moira had returned to town after discovering that her charge was not in residence at Paul’s country house and, discovering that he was camping out in two rooms, promised to arrange for him to meet a very good man who would furnish his house in the latest style.
He’d thanked her, for although he had his own ideas on what he wanted, he really had no idea where to start. Lady Moira knew all the best shops and the silk merchants—because, she said, when she called, all the drapes in the house needed refurbishment too.
Adam had told him he needed a wife, and a certain unease at the back of Paul’s mind warned him that Lady Moira was thinking of herself as filling the position, which meant he would be reluctant to ask for her help furnishing his house. She was actually five years older, but because she dressed in the first style, was intelligent and up to date in her thinking, she seemed younger. Many men seemed to prefer a slightly older woman, and there was something very sensual about Lady Moira. Although Paul did not care for the perfume she wore; it was too heavy and reminded him of some that the ladies of easy virtue who pleasured the Army officers had a habit of wearing. Indeed, Lady Moira reminded him of a beautiful courtesan he’d been offered by the Indian Prince he’d saved from death.
‘I owe you my life, sahib,’ the young Prince told him. ‘Selima is of royal blood and she is yours for the taking. She is trained to please men and she will show you tricks you never dreamed of, my dear lord and saviour.’
Paul had held his laughter inside for he knew the young man believed he was bestowing a great honour by giving him the services of the beautiful concubine, but he’d refused as politely as he could. A certain gleam in the woman’s eyes had spoken of a sly nature and she’d held no appeal for him. However, to refuse point-blank would have been considered an insult, so Paul was forced to fabricate an excuse. He’d been preparing himself for marriage with his English bride, he’d said, and must forswear the pleasures of the flesh until his wedding so that he could do his bride justice.
This had found favour with the young Prince, who clapped his hands and said very seriously that he thought the sahib was wise not to waste his strength on a courtesan when he could have a sweet young bride. Selima would be waiting for him when he returned to India, his heir already born or on its way.
Everyone had felt certain that Paul would return. Why would he wish to live in a cold, wet climate when he could have a life of ease in the heat and splendour of palaces made cool by tinkling fountains and little pools, with lilies and beautiful courtesans to play in them and await the attentions of their master? A wife was necessary for sons, who could inherit his wealth, but after one had sons there was so much more to enjoy.
Paul did not truly know what he wished for. Since his return, almost two weeks since, he’d taken a trip into the country to look at various estates, hoping to find Miss Bellingham where he’d expected her to be. Failing that, he’d visited her aunt and finally returned to London in a less than contented mood. He was still not quite back to his full strength and felt the extra journey had been wasted. Finding that his ward was out when he’d called that afternoon had seemed the outside of enough, and now this letter... For two pins he would sell his estates here and return to India. There seemed little reason for him to stay and he had almost made up his mind to book a passage next month, leaving the winding up of his various estates to his agents and lawyers.
* * *
Jane had just come downstairs the next morning and was about to write some letters in her parlour when she heard the door knocker sound in a manner that was no less than imperious. She hesitated as the footman looked at her, inclined her head and said, ‘I’ll be in my parlour if it is for me, John.’
Going into her parlour, Jane sat at her desk and dipped her pen in the ink. She had just begun her first reply to an invitation when a tap at her door heralded the arrival of the impatient guest. She waited as the door opened and the man she was expecting was announced. Getting slowly to her feet, Jane looked at the man that entered, her heart suddenly beating faster. He was at least a head taller than she, and she was a tall woman. Harry had been slightly shorter but that had never mattered because they were so much in love, but this man could look down on her. Her first thought was that he had a harsh face, but was otherwise unremarkable, and then she looked at his eyes—fierce, and wild, she thought with a little shock, untamed.
‘I have come to speak with Lady March and my ward, Miss Amelia Bellingham. Would you have the goodness to ask them to come down, ma’am?’
‘I am Lady March, and I will certainly