Gentle conquest Page 2

  Georgiana dropped her eyes meekly to the toes of her blue slippers. "Yes, Papa," she said.

  And that was just the sort of threat he would keep, too, she thought glumly. She could safely disregard the threats of a spanking. Papa had never ever beaten her, though he must have threatened to do so at least once a week since she was six. He had even dismissed a governess once when he caught the woman rapping her over the knuckles with a ruler for not paying attention to her lessons. But he would send her home. That was just the sort of thing Papa would do. She would take the beating any day rather than have to go home. She would positively die of boredom.

  So she had quite sincerely assured her father that she would behave herself that afternoon, and gloomily allowed herself to be turned over to Price, Mama's hatchet-faced dresser. And here she was as a result, a lamb prepared for the slaughter, sitting meekly in the drawing room wearing her pale pink muslin, which she positively hated because it was so delicately feminine. And her hair! She had not counted the ringlets as Price turned them out, like so many sausages on a string, from the curling tongs. But it felt as if there must be at least two hundred of them bouncing against the back of her head and the sides of her face. And ribbons! One pink bow on each side of her head, starkly noticeable against the darkness of her hair. Georgiana scowled, remembered her promise, and schooled her features into bland emptiness again.

  Why had she never met the Earl of Chartleigh? She had never even heard of him before. Was he newly arrived from the country, still smelling of the barn? And how old was he? What did he look like? What sort of man had to have a marriage arranged for him? And with a girl he had never set eyes on! She heartily despised him already. She was going to hate him, she knew she was. But how was she to put him off without making it obvious to a hawk-eyed papa that she was doing so? She would not marry him. She was not going to marry anyone. If she ever did marry, it would be to someone like Warren Haines, a thoroughly good fellow with whom she could be herself and not have to trouble about ringlets and pink dresses and all that faradiddle. But she had laughed at Warren the week before when he had suggested that perhaps they should think of becoming betrothed. She did not really want to marry even him.

  Georgiana stifled a sigh. Mama and Vera were all dressed up as for a big occasion too, and both already wore on their faces that bright, sociable, artificial expression that they reserved for visitors of special significance. Why could not this earl marry Vera if he was so anxious for a bride? She was the older sister, after all. And Vera was not an antidote, though Mama was fond of saying so when Vera herself was not within hearing. She was a little too thin, perhaps, and a trifle pale, and her hair of a somewhat indeterminate color, but she had the finest gray eyes Georgiana had ever seen. "Windows to the soul" was the phrase that leapt to mind when one really looked into Vera's eyes. And, more than that, she looked beautiful when she felt deeply about something. Her cheeks would flush and her whole face come alive. Unfortunately, that did not happen often enough. Vera seemed to think that a lady should always be calm and in control of her emotions. She was an angel-even Mama admitted that much. She never lost her temper or got into scrapes.

  Georgiana jumped noticeably in her chair as the butler opened the double doors into the drawing room with a flourish and announced the Earl and Countess of Chartleigh in his best theatrical manner. Her heart fluttered painfully. How could one possibly be expected to behave naturally in such very embarrassing circumstances? She schooled her features into a smile that matched exactly in artificiality those worn by her mother and sister as her father stepped forward to greet the visitors.

  She curtsied deeply to the portly countess, whom she recalled seeing on occasion at church, and to the earl, who was blocked to her view at first by the large frame of his mother.

  When she did see him, Georgiana was definitely shocked. This was the husband her parents had chosen for her? This… this boy? He was surely no older than she. There must be some mistake. She felt an alarming urge to giggle as everyone settled into chairs and began the laborious business of making polite conversation. The older people sustained the flow of talk. The three younger ones sat mute after the opening greetings-like children who must be seen but not heard, Georgiana thought hilariously.

  At first she kept her eyes riveted to the face of whichever adult was talking. But several furtive glances at the Earl of Chartleigh assured her that he was not looking her way at all. He seemed to be engrossed in the conversation. She studied him openly, losing all track of what was being said.

  How old was he? Far too young to be married, at any rate. Most of the men of her acquaintance held that marriage before the age of thirty was a shocking waste of a youth. She doubted if this man was even twenty. Her eyes passed over his tall frame, slender and elegant in his mourning clothes. A boyish figure. Not the sort of godlike, muscular physique that all girls dream of. His hair was very fair and looked baby-soft, but it was thick and rather unruly. Although it was fashionably rumpled, she doubted that the effect had been created deliberately. His complexion, too, was fair. He had a sweet face. His nose was high-bridged, a rather prominent feature; his eyes and his mouth looked as if they smiled, though his face was in repose.

  He was beautiful, she thought, and then realized with some revulsion just what adjective her mind had chosen to describe him. What woman wanted a beautiful man for a husband? Handsome, yes. Rugged, perhaps. But beautiful?

  It was while she was frowning at the thought that the earl turned his head rather jerkily and looked directly into her eyes. He looked sharply away again, his fair complexion decidedly flushed.

  Good God, Georgiana thought irreverently, he is shy.

  CHAPTER 2

  RALPH MIDDLETON, Earl of Chartleigh, sat on a straight-backed chair in his room, staring into space, a riding crop swinging idly from one hand. He had left off his mourning again, at his mother's bidding. He was wearing a close-fitting coat of blue superfine, biscuit-colored pantaloons, and gleaming black white-topped Hessians, the fashionable purchases of the day before. Crisp white lace was visible at his throat and wrists. His fair curly hair, newly combed, was looking somewhat less unruly than it had appeared to Georgiana two days before.

  There was really no point in sitting here ruminating, he told himself, not for the first time. Wheels had been set in motion, and it was beyond his power to stop them. In exactly forty minutes' time he was expected at Curzon Street to pay his addresses to the Honorable Georgiana Burton. Her father had assured him the day before that she would receive his offer favorably and had proceeded to talk in great detail about settlements.

  Since the death of his father little more than a year before, Ralph had been somewhat dreading the approach of his one-and-twentieth birthday. It would precede the end of his studies at Oxford by barely a month. He would be an adult, equipped by age to take over his responsibilities as Earl of Chartleigh and head of the Middleton family. He had not felt old enough. He had felt inadequate. He had never wanted such a life for himself. If only time could be suspended and he could have stayed at Oxford. There he had felt thoroughly at home with his books and with people like himself, people who delighted in talking about important ideas rather than about fashions or the latest scandal. There he had felt as if he had a mind of his own. He had his own ideas and opinions, and his companions, though they might argue hotly with him, respected him too.

  He had never felt quite accepted at home. It was a dreadful admission to make about one's own family. He used to look at his father sometimes without recognition. How could that man possibly be his father, the man who had begotten him? There was some slight physical resemblance, he knew, but there was no similarity whatsoever in character and personality. His father had been larger than life, doing everything to excess. Ralph had been somewhat afraid of him; he had known that his father despised him. He had felt inferior.

  His mother had always dominated the whole family, though she was firmly of the belief that his father had ruled single-hand
ed. She dominated through her complaints and her hints and suggestions. As a child, Ralph, always dreamy and somewhat absentminded, small in stature until he suddenly shot up in his fifteenth year, unaggressive, had allowed himself to be dominated more than the others. He knew as he grew older that his mother did not always rule her family wisely, but it had always been easier to give in to her than to argue. Obedience to her became almost a reflex action.

  He had never been very close to his brother, three years younger than he, though there was an undemonstrative affection between the two. Stanley was very much like his father: confident, aggressive, physically active, very obviously masculine. To be fair, though, he had to admit that Stanley appeared to have a warmer heart than the late earl.

  Gloria was perhaps the only member of the family of whom he was really fond. Although she looked like their mother, he could see much of himself in her. She was six-and-twenty and had considered herself betrothed to the vicar at Chartleigh since she was twenty.

  The countess opposed the match. The vicar was merely the younger son of some obscure baronet. She constantly found excuses to force the couple to postpone their wedding. And Gloria took it all with great meekness. The only sign of firmness she showed was in remaining constant to her betrothed. She had consistently refused to be attracted to any of the brighter matrimonial prospects her mother had presented her with before their year of mourning had forced them into seclusion.

  Somehow, in the year since his father's death, Ralph had reconciled himself to the fact that his life of free choices was at an end. He had hoped to stay at Oxford even after his graduation. He had not expected his father, so full of vigor, to die for many years. That life was out of the question for him now. But if he was to be the Earl of Chartleigh, he was to be so on his own terms. He had never approved of his parents' life of selfish privilege. His estates and all the people dependent upon him had meant nothing to the late earl beyond a source of seemingly endless income. Ralph had found it hard to love his father.

  It was not going to be easy, the life he had chosen for himself. It would undoubtedly be lonely. His mother would never accept his need to understand the workings of his properties and his need to see all those dependent on him as people. His brief mention of Chartleigh the day after his return from university had confirmed his fear that his mother would interpret his interest as weakness. They had always thought him weak because of his hatred of inflicting pain-even on poor hunted animals. Perhaps they were right.

  Ralph sighed, realizing that in five more minutes he must move if he were not to be late at Lord Lansbury's home. He certainly had one glaring weakness, one that had troubled him somewhat for a few years but which had now been drawn well to the fore. He was unnaturally shy of women.

  Mama had suggested to him a week before that it was time he was married. He owed it to his position to take a wife and begin to set up his nursery, she had said. And she even had a bride all picked out for him, a girl she knew by sight only, a girl he had never met.

  He had been horrified. The idea of marriage had occurred to him before, of course, but it was a thought rather like that of death. One assumed that one must come to that time eventually, but it seemed comfortably far in the future. He had never had anything to do with girls. He had had the opportunity. There were plenty of students at university who frequented taverns where the barmaids were pretty and accommodating. Some of them had persuaded Ralph to go along with them one night. Their obvious intention had been to help him lose his virginity. They had picked out for him a very petite and very pretty little barmaid, and she had been very obviously willing.

  After a few drinks he had become bold enough to look at her and had felt the stirrings of desire. She had come to their table frequently, swishing her skirts against his legs each time, looking provocatively down at him out of the corner of her eyes, leaning over the table to pick up empty tankards so that he could have a clear view of an attractive mole far down on her generous breasts. Ralph had realized afterward that his companions must have paid her in advance to seduce him. He had shamed himself by lurching to his feet suddenly and rushing from the tavern, his face burning. He had been teased mercilessly for a long time after that.

  And now here he was, Ralph thought, about to propose marriage to a girl. Was he mad? How could such a thing possibly have come about? He knew he was not the weakling his family thought him to be. He was quite calmly determined to live his position according to his own conscience. But he had never considered personal matters. When his mother had mentioned marriage to him and pointed out his duties to provide his family and dependents with a countess and with an heir, he had felt almost like a child again. It was very hard to withstand his mother's persuasions unless one had a moral conviction to aid one's resistance. He had no moral conviction against marriage. Indeed, he agreed with her. It was necessary for him to marry. But not yet, surely.

  That had been the only argument he had put up against her. She had demolished it with an ease that matched the feebleness of his resistance. He had finally agreed to pay a visit to the girl and her family two days before. There was no possible harm in paying an afternoon call, his mother had explained reasonably. There was no commitment in such a move. If he did not like the look of the girl, there would be the end of the matter. She would say no more to him.

  Why was it, then, that a mere two days later he was dressed and ready to call again at Lansbury's house to make a marriage proposal to the girl? What had happened to his freedom to say no? The countess had been greatly impressed with the viscount and his family. And she had been delighted by the demure dignity of Miss Burton. The girl had been brought out during the spring, she had explained to her son, and had been in London all Season, gaining social experience. Lady Sheldon, whoever she might be, had assured her that the girl had spirit and that she had been much admired.

  "She is perfect for you, Ralph," the countess had persuaded him. "She is pretty and clearly knows how to behave. She has good parentage and doubtless a competent dowry. And any number of young gentlemen have been paying court to her. If you delay, you may find that she will betroth herself to someone else. And what a loss that would be, dear boy. You must see it is your clear duty to marry. If only your poor dear papa had lived, God rest his soul, there would be no immediate need for you to do so. But you are Chartleigh now, my dear, and you must learn to put behind you any selfish considerations."

  It was that argument again that had finally crumbled his defenses. If it was his duty to take a wife, he would do so. Besides, he had to admit to himself that he liked the look of Miss Burton. In the brief glance he had of her, he had seen a very youthful, pretty, and shy girl. He hated his own terror of women. Perhaps if he did something really decisive like offering for this girl before he had time to consider what was ahead of him, he would overcome this one weakness in himself that even he despised. So he was going. Must be on his way, in fact, he thought, jumping to his feet.

  Ralph paused on his way out of his room, his hand on the doorknob. How could he face Miss Burton? What would he say to her? How would he force himself to look at her? He had hardly done so two days before and had heartily despised himself ever since. He had been tinglingly aware of her presence the whole time, but he had found himself totally unable to turn to her, as he should have done, and engage her in conversation. He could not even look at her. He had glanced at her once, having steeled himself for five whole minutes to do so. But she had been looking at him, and-fool that he was -he had not smiled easily at her and made some polite remark. He had looked hastily away, his face burning, and sat paralyzed with embarrassment for the rest of the visit.

  She really was very pretty. He had seen that much. She was gracefully slim and had looked very feminine in her delicate pink dress and with her masses of beribboned ringlets. Her eyes were very dark. At least that was the impression he had gained from that one hasty glance. She was eighteen, Mama had said. Three years younger than he. Little more than a child. It was an arr
anged marriage for her too. She had looked like a timid little thing. She was probably even more frightened of the afternoon before her than he was. The thought gave him courage. He must reassure her, convince her that he would not be a demanding or overbearing husband. He must tell her that he would be gentle and patient with her. Really, he had no reason whatsoever to be nervous.

  With such thoughts Ralph finally turned the doorknob, left the sanctuary of his own room, and ran nimbly down the marble stairway of his London home. He even managed to grin confidently at his mother, who stood at the foot of the stairs waiting to bid him a tearful farewell, and at Gloria, who hovered in the doorway of the drawing room, smiling encouragement.

  He left the house, concentrating his mind on the fluttering fright that Miss Burton must be experiencing at this very moment, a mere fifteen minutes before his expected call.

  ***

  Georgians Burton was indeed awaiting the arrival of her suitor. She was standing at the window of the green salon, glaring out at the street beyond the small front garden. Her teeth were tightly clamped together so that her jaw was set in a stubborn line. There was the small crease of a frown between her brows. One blue slippered foot was tapping impatiently on the Turkish rug.

  Mama had left the room for a moment, giving her the opportunity to display the wrath she was feeling. How had she got herself into this coil, anyway? A mere few days ago she had been as free as the wind, her only problem the difficulty of finding sufficient amusement in this off-Season period in London. With Ben Greeley and Warren Haines not yet departed for Brighton, she had been succeeding quite nicely.