The beleaguered Lord Bourne Read online

  Goldie was then called front and center and given detailed instructions on the proper way of dressing her mistress’s hair—casually upswept in the Grecian manner, with only a few seemingly haphazardly cascading curls dangling at her nape, a charge which left Goldie speechless, as it was the only style she knew. The maid curtsied and fled the room, part of her unbelieving of her good luck, and the rest of her shaking with the fear that one day Miss Gladwin would demand another hairstyle entirely.

  Miss Bundy, entering from the hallway just as Goldie sped by, head down and muttering something that sounded much like “woe is me,” took in the situation at a glance and heaved her shoulders in a heartfelt sigh. “Miss Gladwin, I see it is you,” she pronounced in much the same tones as one who had just discovered roaches in her larder.

  “Ernie! By all that’s wonderful, don’t tell me you are still above ground. I thought surely Jennie’s shenanigans would have put you to bed with a shovel long since.” Lucy crossed the room to envelop the stiff person of Miss Bundy in a warm embrace. “Now, now, Ernie,” Lucy scolded, stepping back a pace, “don’t tell me you still haven’t forgiven me for putting that toad in your bed?”

  There were times, as Jennie could attest, when Miss Bundy could be the best of all good fellows—although those times were admittedly few and far between—and then again, there were times when the dear lady could be a gargantuan pain in the posterior. Clearly, Jennie could see from the faint rush of scarlet running up the back of her companion’s scrawny neck, this was to be one of her less fun-loving days. “Did you have something particular in mind, Bundy, or is this purely a social visit?” Jennie asked as casually as she could, knowing full well Bundy was not above tossing Lucy out on her ear and saying it was on orders from her papa.

  “This note just arrived from Boodle’s, as you can see by the wax imprint. I would imagine it is from the earl,” Miss Bundy informed her, handing the note over unopened—and therefore quite reluctantly.

  Jennie ripped open the missive with little regard for the elaborate seal and read the note with ever-increasing fury. “The nerve of the man,” she said feelingly as she crumpled the missive into a ball and tossed it in the general direction of the fireplace. “He has ordered me to reserve two extra places at table tonight for his friends—he who hasn’t shared a dinner table with me since our marriage.” A martial light came into her eyes as she began pacing back and forth in high dudgeon. “For two pins I’d serve swamp grass on stale toast!” she said wickedly. “That would set him down a peg or two!”

  “Pooh,” Lucy said breezily. “That’s letting the bounder off entirely too easily. Here now,” she pronounced firmly, taking in Jennie’s woebegone expression, “don’t you go turning into a watering pot on me. If it’s revenge you want—and I clearly believe you have every right to demand it—I believe I have a sure idea for throwing a bit of a rub in his lordship’s way.”

  Every family had its black sheep, Ernestine Bundy knew, but why the Gladwin girl couldn’t have had the good sense to be living in the wild outbacks of Australia or some such place she never would understand. The minute Renfrew had told her the identity of Jennie’s visitor, Miss Bundy had felt apprehension flow into her body and become a crushing sensation in her breast. And within minutes of encountering the horrid child the woman’s worst imaginings were well on the way to becoming fact. “Now see here, Miss Lucy,” she began heatedly, only to be cut off by a languid wave of that young schemer’s slim white hand.

  “Now, Ernie, don’t fly up into the boughs,” Lucy warned with a chuckle. “You cannot have lived under the same roof with the newlyweds without sensing something is amiss between them. Jennie cannot allow this situation to go on if she is ever to establish herself as mistress of this household. Now,” she said, pacing back and forth as she thought and spoke at the same time, “as I understand it, Kit’s impolite order has been issued with no thought to any plans his wife may have made. I see no reason for the master of the house to be denied a dinner at home with his cronies; m’father raised me too well to deny any man on that head. However, I likewise see no reason for Jennie to forgo her own plans just because of some last-minute whim of her unthinking husband. Lord Bourne shall have his dinner, sure enough, but Jennie shall also have her night out at Lady Sefton’s,” she ended triumphantly. “Who said a girl can’t have her cake and eat it too!”

  “Lady…Lady Sefton?” Miss Bundy stammered, clearly much impressed. Who would have thought Lucy Gladwin could wrangle such a coveted invitation? Of course, Miss Bundy couldn’t deny her baby the chance to move in such exalted circles. Knowing defeat when she tasted it, the companion retired from the field, leaving the two girls to plan and giggle their way through the afternoon.

  THE EARL OF BOURNE was dressed all in blue, his velvet coat a light robin’s-egg shade that contrasted nicely with his darkest midnight-blue inexpressibles; the whole set off by a snowy white lace-trimmed cravat tied in the latest style, and onyx jewelry of elegant, understated design. Admiring himself in the mirror in his dressing room, he did not need (though secretly enjoyed) Leon’s flowery praise, believing himself amply armored for the task at hand—bowling over his recalcitrant wife with both his charm and his good looks.

  Kit saw this night’s tame entertainment as a fore-taste of things to come; a sort of gentle easing into society that would stand Jennie in good stead for the months of grueling social engagements that loomed ahead of them. Ozzy, he knew, was the perfect dinner companion for this, their first entertainment, as the man was as much renowned for his good ton as he was notorious for his mediocre intelligence. The only fly in the ointment was in the person of Dean Ives, a man Kit, even after two days’ close acquaintance, just could not seem to like. But the fellow was a prime example of a tulip of fashion, one of those sarcastic, cynical sorts that breeze through the ton like scraps of yesterday’s newspaper blown in the wind, and Jennie must learn to deal with his type sooner or later.

  One last check of his toilette completed, Kit bounded down the steps to see if his wife had preceded him to the drawing room. It wouldn’t do for her to be either overdressed or underdressed. He could only hope Miss Bundy could be relied upon to guide her in such matters. But when he entered the room he realized he had beaten her downstairs, and he was forced to content himself with sipping from a glass of wine while he waited for her entrance, which was not long in coming.

  She looked wonderful! Kit straightened himself from his lounging position against the mantelpiece and crossed the room hurriedly to place a kiss on the back of her white-kid-encased hand. “You are ravishing tonight, kitten,” he drawled smoothly, inwardly delighted when his words brought a warm blush to her cheeks. “You do me proud.”

  It was now or never, Jennie thought, gently disengaging her hand, which he was still fondling in the most disturbing manner. “Thank you, my lord, for your kind words,” she replied in a small voice before moving to stand near the wine decanter in hopes he would take the hint and offer her a drink. Clearing her throat, which suddenly felt strangely dry, she launched into speech before her courage deserted her entirely. “What a shame I shall not be here for dinner, as Montague has planned a veritable feast. Please do try to eat all of it,” she added swiftly, her tender heart forcing her to warn him of the French chef’s abhorrence of seeing plates returned to his kitchen half-full.

  Kit did not hear her warning, for he was too intent on the first part of her speech. “What do you mean, you will not be here?” he growled, grabbing her rather fiercely by the elbow. “Did you not receive my note? And where the deuce would you be going anyway? I was not aware you knew a soul in town.”

  Jennie looked rather pointedly at Kit’s restraining fingers before gazing directly into his deep blue eyes (eyes so compelling her resolve nearly melted then and there) and coolly asking him to remove his hand from her person. “I have an invitation to Lady Sefton’s card party this evening,” she told him with some asperity. “My cousin Lucy Gladwin was kind enough to al
low me to share her invitation. You see, husband, I am not destined to molder away in Berkeley Square just because you refuse to do your duty and introduce me to society. I am not entirely without resources of my own.”

  “Lucy Gladwin!” Kit exploded angrily. “That female disaster? God give me patience!”

  Jennie stood up very straight, her chin reaching for the ceiling. “How dare you, sirrah! Lucy is not a disaster but a very dear, sweet person. I will not stand here and allow you to insult her. Have the goodness, sir, to step aside.”

  “In a pig’s eye, I will!” Kit shot back, standing his ground, planting his fists firmly on his hips for good measure. “I am your husband, madam, and I have every right to dictate where you shall go and with whom. Lady Sefton may be unimpeachable, but Lucy Gladwin is next door to a hoyden and no person for you to be seen with either formally or informally. God, madam, I wouldn’t be caught dead within twenty feet of that incorrigible minx.”

  “Then I suggest you retire to your chamber, my lord, for she shall be arriving here at any moment. And if you make a scene, Kit,” she warned direly, “I shall lie down on this carpet and throw a tantrum that will have your high and mighty guests dining out on their story of the Earl of Bourne and his mad wife for a month or more. Do I make myself clear, sir?”

  “You dare to flout me?” Kit bellowed, clearly losing control of the situation. What imp of perversion had ever made him believe that Jennie was a reasonable, fairly biddable chit? The harridan now staring him down bore all the soft vulnerability of a charging Prussian, and he was at a loss as to how to deal with her.

  Luckily, or unluckily, depending on whether or not Renfrew (who was standing outside the door) really desired to know how the argument would have turned out, the sound of the knocker interrupted the sparring pair and they swiftly took up positions at opposite ends of the room to await whatever guest was first to come through the doors.

  “Look who we met outside, Kit, old fellow,” Ozzy said in greeting as he entered the room, a smiling Lucy Gladwin hanging from his arm and Dean Ives bringing up the rear. “I haven’t seen Lucy since that day she raced her curricle against Lord Beazley’s in the park. Was that before or after your escapade in the reflecting pool, Lucy? I disremember, seeing as how you’re always running some sort of rig.”

  “Now, Ozzy,” Lucy admonished her grinning admirer as she caught sight of Lord Bourne’s darkened features, “you mustn’t embarrass me by bringing up past indiscretions. Since my sojourn in the country I am a veritable pattern card of respectability. I have to be, else I forfeit my allowance for the next decade, or so says my poor oppressed papa. I beat old Beazley all hollow, by the way,” she added with a wink.

  Jennie chanced a quick look at her husband and cringed inwardly at the thought he may have been just a teensy bit correct in his assessment of Lucy’s behavior. Not that she was about to change her plans at this late date, especially now that he had stated his opposition so adamantly. “Lucy, dearest,” she trilled brightly, welcoming her cousin, “you are just in time. If we tarry, Renfrew will be late in calling the gentlemen to dine—a sin of such magnitude I shudder to think how Montague will react. Gentlemen,” she went on, curtsying sweetly in the newcomers’ direction, “I do not believe we have been formally introduced.”

  Mr. Norwood, endlessly grateful that Lady Bourne was willing to overlook their first, rather lamentable meeting, hastened to introduce Mr. Ives and himself, as Kit showed every indication of having been stuffed and permanently mounted in front of the mantelpiece. Jennie liked Ozzy even better on this second acquaintance, but there was something about the knowing look in Mr. Ives’s handsome face that reminded her of a weasel stalking a mouse. He was, she thought idly, just a little too smooth, a little too handsome for her liking; not like Kit, who had just enough of the raw youth about him to make him seem human.

  After the introductions, and knowing full well that Kit wouldn’t dare a scene in front of his friends, Jennie made short work out of bustling Lucy out of the house, pausing only to warn the gentlemen to be sure and eat all their peas.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  LUCY’S PARTING ASSURANCE, tossed over her shoulder as Jennie half dragged her through the foyer, that her maiden Aunt Rachel—just then resting in the Gladwin coach outside—was to serve as their “respectable” chaperon for the evening did little to placate Lord Bourne’s raging temper. If left to his own devices, in fact, one could only cringe in fearful anticipation of just what form his anger would take. But he was not given the option of being left alone as he, his weary brain reminded him, had dinner guests. Dinner guests, moreover, whose wide grins showed just a little bit too much enjoyment in their host’s predicament.

  “Gentlemen,” he said with a social smile that failed to hide his chagrin, “I am being a poor host. Allow me to get you each a drink before Renfrew calls us to dinner.” So saying, Kit went to the side table and poured three generous drinks, downing his own in one gulp before serving his guests. Get ’em drunk, he thought sagely. Get ’em drunk and they’ll never remember in the morning whether a hostess sat at the bottom of the table or not.

  When Renfrew summoned the small party to the dining table, Kit pulled the man aside for a moment and whispered his wish that his guests’ glasses be topped up whenever they so much as took a sip of wine, and Renfrew, having served the Wildes for more years than the present earl had had hot dinners, did not so much as raise an eyebrow at the request.

  For the next two hours and more the men feasted on some of the finest victuals served this side of Prinny’s table, washing down each course with the best wines to be found in the Bourne cellars. Mr. Ives commented more than once on both the quality and the quantity of both, adding rather tackily his own estimate of the price of each exotic foodstuff and vintage. Indeed, Ozzy was so amused by his friend’s assessing remarks that he dared to tease Dean by asking him if he intended to upend the dinner plate and check to see the crest of the manufacturer, a remark that drew a killing look from Mr. Ives and a raised eyebrow from his host.

  Although the food, all prepared in the best French style, was everything that Kit could have asked for, the choice of five desserts seemed, to him, to perhaps be overdoing things just a tad. His dinner partners, stuffed chock full of buttered lobster, duckling, a variety of vegetables served in creamy sauces, and other delicacies, were likewise hard-pressed to do more than token justice to the impressive array of pastries and cakes that were meant to close their meal. A few bits of cheese and some cracked walnuts were desultorily picked over, but the groaning tray of sweets was returned to the kitchen virtually untouched as the men lit cheroots and leaned back in their chairs to watch Renfrew serve them with generously filled goblets of finest port.

  The evening, Kit congratulated himself silently, seemed to be a success, even without Jennie’s presence. He’d show the chit just how little she meant to him either way. He admitted that no matter how odd her choice in footmen and maids seemed to be, she had really outdone herself in filling his request for a good French chef. If he hadn’t felt so out of charity with her he might have even believed he could be brought to compliment her on her choice. But no, he thought, savoring his small revenge, let her wonder whether or not he was pleased. Keep her dangling, that’s the ticket, he decided. If she really wanted to please me she would be sitting opposite me right this very minute instead of gallivanting about town with that inane Gladwin chit.

  Drat Jennie anyway! he thought, setting down his goblet with more violence than he had intended, causing his companions to look at him oddly. He had planned this evening as a sort of peace offering—a small introduction to society that, if she conducted herself correctly, would serve as a forerunner to other, larger engagements where he would magnanimously serve as her tutor as she dipped her toes into the stream of high society. She was his wife—certainly there was no way out of the marriage after the events of the other evening—and if she enjoyed herself in London it might make her come around a bit in her
feelings for her new husband. Oh, the plan made sense, all right—at least to a man it did—but he had not counted on her finding her own way into society. Instead of being pleased at his efforts on her behalf she had deliberately flouted him, just as if he hadn’t had her best interests at heart.

  It is amazing how a man can rationalize away his own desires and have them appear as altruistic sacrifices, but then men have since time immemorial assumed they knew what was best for their women and then acted on those assumptions without ever once asking those same women whether or not they wished such a sacrifice. Kit, being no worse or better than any of his fellow male ancestors, was now reacting in a typically male way—if Jennie didn’t appreciate what he had done for her, he decided firmly, then he’d be damned for a dolt before he ever did anything nice for her again!

  While Kit variously plotted revenge and entertained thoughts of sweetly forgiving Jennie as his fingers made casual inroads on the fastenings of the fetching gown she had worn that evening, Ozzy and Dean, feeling more than a little well to go, idly discussed the possibility of the three of them adjourning to one of the discreet houses on the fringes of Mayfair that specialized in the comforts of lonely men. Ozzy was just about to suggest the White House as one possible destination when there came a loud commotion at the doorway that led back to the kitchen.

  “What in blazes?” Kit said irritably, turning in his seat to see what was going on, only to be startled into silence at the sight of the very large, burly man dressed in the all-white uniform of a chef who was at that very moment advancing upon his lordship waving a very menacing-looking meat cleaver. Bob, Ben, and Del, looking about as effectual as minnows trying to swim upstream against a tidal wave, hung from the wild chef’s arms and were carried along, their feet nearly a foot above the floor.