Enchanting Pleasures (5 page)

Quill frowned. “I think it would be best if we do not receive guests.” His tone sounded pompous even to himself, but how in the world could he politely mention the state of her hair?

Gabby wrinkled her nose at him. “I may not know English customs, but I do know how irksome it is to travel all the way to a friend’s house and then find that he is out!”

When Quill nodded reluctantly at Codswallop, Gabby continued sunnily. “After all, we are family and need not stand on ceremony. I would be very happy to make my first London acquaintance.” She hesitated. “Will Peter be joining us for tea, do you think?”

Quill’s stomach tensed. “I doubt it. Peter rarely returns home before late in the evening.”

“Oh.”

Quill felt as if he had told a baby chick that his favorite dish was roast fowl. His future sister-in-law looked suddenly disconsolate, biting her lip.

“Is he in London at the moment? Does he know that I have arrived?”

A delicate question, Quill thought to himself. Undoubtedly, Peter had been chased to the ground by a footman and informed of the
Plassey’s
arrival. But that particular piece of news was likely to make him stay out all night.

“No,” he replied brusquely. “If he had known of your arrival, he would have met the
Plassey
himself. When the message arrived, I was alone in the house. In fact, I should have informed you that my parents will be most sorry to have missed your arrival. They are in Bath at the moment.”

Gabby instantly glowed again. “Well, of course, I should have guessed that Peter didn’t know that I have arrived! Do you think a footman could send him a message?” For a moment she looked adorably confused. “If it’s not presumptuous?”

“Impossible,” Quill barked. “I don’t know where he is.” Something about this whole conversation was making him irritable as a wet cat. The girl didn’t sound as if she was talking about a man she’d never met, nor was she acting as if this was a marriage of convenience. A marriage between
strangers
.

Codswallop reopened the doors and announced, “Mr. Lucien Boch.” An elegant man dressed in black strolled into the room.

Quill felt a wave of relief. Damned if she wasn’t right. This was hard business, talking amongst the family. It would be easier having Lucien with them. He was such a charming devil.

“Lucien, may I introduce you to my future sister-in-law? This is Miss Gabrielle Jerningham, the daughter of Lord Richard Jerningham. And Miss Phoebe Pensington, who is paying us a short visit.”

Lucien walked over and prepared to sweep into a graceful bow—when suddenly Miss Jerningham hopped up from the couch and stood before him. Lucien just caught himself as he stumbled back. If he bowed now, he would strike his head on her knee. He stepped back once more and produced a regrettably inelegant bow.

Gabby bobbed a curtsy.

“Miss Jerningham. I am enchanted to meet you. And you, Miss Phoebe.” Lucien turned to the little girl, who had risen with Gabby.

In response,
she
dropped an exquisite curtsy.

“My word!” Lucien said. And he swept her a court bow. “It is rare to meet a young lady of such refinement.”

Phoebe smiled gamely, but there was something wrong. Lucien could see that the little girl was exhausted and near tears. What an odd setup this was! This ungainly girl, Gabrielle, was to be the impeccable Peter’s wife? Where was Peter? And what was little Phoebe doing in the midst of it all?

He sat down and there was an awkward pause until Gabby realized that Quill apparently felt no responsibilities as a host to make conversation. “Are you French, Mr. Boch?” she asked, smiling at their guest.

Lucien nodded. “I lived in France for most of my life, although I have been in this country for some twelve, thirteen years.”

“I wonder if you might have known my mother when you lived in France? Her maiden name was du Lac, Marie du Lac.”

“I fear not,” Lucien said. “My wife and I lived a rather secluded life. We rarely went to Paris. Was your mother attached to the court?”

Gabby blushed. “I am afraid that I do not know. My father refuses to speak of her.”

Lucien gave a sympathetic nod. “It is the way sometimes, after a beloved person has died.”

Just then Codswallop bustled in, followed by three footmen bearing a huge silver teapot and various dainties. Tea was set up at a small table at the far end of the room, and it wasn’t until Gabby sat in the chair Codswallop pulled out for her that she realized the teapot was placed squarely in front of her.

“Shall I…?” she asked, looking at Quill.

“Please.”

“I’ve never had proper Chinese tea before,” Gabby confided to Lucien. “Those of us who grow up in India are taught that Chinese tea is akin to nectar.”

Lucien chuckled. “We in England think of it as liquid gold,” he observed. “It’s only people like Quill, who are hand and glove with the East India bravos, who can afford to drink tea at all hours.”

Gabby was carefully pouring pale golden tea into four delicate cups. “My goodness, what is an East India bravo? Am I such a person?”

“Happily not.” Lucien laughed. “East India bravos are the men who run the East India trade company. They control the importation of tea from China, you know.”

Gabby looked up and straight at Quill. “And you are a bravo?”

For some reason, Quill felt a chill of disapproval in the air. “Nonsense,” he said with a shrug. “Lucien has a French manner of exaggeration.”

“Gabby! Gabby!” Phoebe was squealing.

Gabby looked down with a start. To her horror, she found that she had forgotten to raise the spout of the teapot when she looked at Quill. Tea had spilled all over the polished surface of the table and was quietly pouring down onto the Axminster carpet below.

Hot red color rose into her cheeks. She jerked up the teapot far too quickly, and the stream of tea arched backward through the air and splashed all over the front of her white gown. Gabby instantly forgot the few rules she did know about a lady’s behavior.

“Blast!” she shrieked, slamming down the teapot. Instinctively, she tried to stem the flow of tea off the table with her gloved hand—but that merely diverted the stream so that it swung left and splashed down onto Phoebe’s gown.

Phoebe took one look at the stain on her gown and burst into sobs.

“Oh, Phoebe,” Gabby said, taken by surprise again. “I’m so sorry.” She leapt up to give the child a hug, but as she did so her tiger-adorned chair toppled backward on its spindly legs.

Gabby tried to catch her chair. But she missed when her foot caught in the hem of her gown. There was a loud ripping noise as she fell facedown across Quill’s lap.

At that moment, Codswallop dove for the chair. He managed to grab the back, but when the chair fell, he fell. Butler and chair both crashed to the ground amidst much impressive splintering and grunting.

Lucien smothered a laugh, stood up, and plucked Phoebe into his arms as if he had known the little girl for years.

“Now, my little chicken,” he said, his voice deep and soothing. “Tell me why you are crying over a mere tea stain.” He strolled over toward the other side of the room, instinctively rubbing his cheek against Phoebe’s ringlets, as she choked out a list of tragedies in which her new mama’s disappearance interwove confusingly with the length of her dress, and now its tea stain, and her ayah, and what her ayah thought of messy little girls.

Gabby, who had been thrown across Quill’s legs as if she were a lap rug, wiggled desperately, trying to get her feet solidly on the ground so she could scramble off his lap. Tears pricked her eyes. She was like to die from pure mortification.

In one smooth motion, Quill’s hands closed around her shoulders and he put her back on her feet, rising as he did so.

Gabby didn’t dare look at him. She had spilled the tea, and her best gloves had horrid-looking yellow stains on them. The same stains adorned the bodice of her best gown, and its hem was ripped clear off. The gown had been fashioned with an extra panel at the bottom in a Greek key pattern, and that panel was trailing on the ground. Quill must think she showed a complete lack of refinement.

Strong fingers closed around her elbow.

“Shall we adjourn? Our presence at the table is now superfluous.” To her surprise, Quill’s eyes were dancing with merriment.

Gabby looked back at the table. It was empty; the footmen were clustered around Codswallop, attempting to hoist him to his feet. She paled. “Codswallop is injured.”

“I believe he is merely winded by his dash across the room,” Quill observed.

Gabby still looked worried, so he added, “Don’t you think the footmen resemble amateur tooth-drawers clustering around a resistant patient?”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “You are laughing at me, sir!”

“Not a bit of it,” Quill said, his face almost earnest enough to convince her. “I would never be such a rudesby. Alike accidents have happened to those of the highest decorum. I believe that Codswallop’s dignity is perhaps offended, but his person is intact.”

“Well,” Gabby said, looking down at herself. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I can convince you that
I
am a lady of the highest decorum, is there?”

She met Quill’s eyes, and the merriment there so warmed her backbone that she giggled.

Quill, who was still rather intoxicated by the melting bundle of soft curves that had fallen so providentially into his lap, chuckled in response. Finally Gabby burst into laughter.

And that was how Peter found them when he pushed open the door to the drawing room.

G
ABBY HEARD THE SOUND
of the door opening and swung about quickly. For a moment she didn’t register who was standing a mere ten feet before her. Quill’s laughing eyes had made her feel prickly all over.

But she forgot that sensation in an instant as she took in the new arrival.

It was Peter. Her husband-to-be. She took a quick step toward him and then stopped. Peter was—Surely it was he. His eyes were a rather sweet brown.

But it was impossible to tell whether his hair was brown or not, since it was heavily powdered.

He was wearing a dark coat that was embroidered along the collar, the cuffs, and all down the front. And his waistcoat! It seemed to be made of poppy-colored silk, and it was embroidered all over with wildflowers. There was a perfect froth of silver lace edged with gold thread falling from his neck. His silk stockings were perfectly white. And his shoes had large silver buckles.

Gabby’s mouth fell open, and then she snapped it shut.

Her heart started beating so fast that she could feel it in her throat. The man—her future husband—didn’t say a word. He simply stood in the door of the drawing room, with a black hat in his hand, and stared at her. There was a liquid pool of silence in the room.

Gabby bit her lip and then forced her mouth into a smile. Just as she was about to speak, she heard Quill’s deep voice behind her.

“I gather you’ve been at court, Peter.”

Peter—for it was he—cast a glance at his elder brother. “It’s the second of November, Quill.” He seemed to consider that comment a sufficient explanation.

He tucked his hat under his arm and made a leg toward Gabby. “Your servant.” He turned toward Lucien, who was still holding Phoebe, and made another leg. “You needn’t respond, my dear Boch,” he said. “I can see that you are otherwise occupied.”

Gabby cleared her throat. “November the second?”

The man turned his eyes back to her. He looked her up and down, from the very tip of her stained boots to her tumbled hair. She could read censure in the sharpness of his gaze. “November the second is the duke of Kent’s birthday,” he remarked.

By now Gabby’s stomach had clenched into a little knot.

Peter walked a few steps into the room. “I trust Codswallop has not had an attack of some kind?”

Quill shook his head. “He appears to be uninjured.” Sure enough, Codswallop was back on his feet, adjusting his black frock coat to its usual perfection.

“He tripped on the chair,” Gabby said breathlessly, “and he spilled the tea, and now my dress is quite ruined.” She avoided Quill’s glance.

Peter’s eyes warmed just a trifle. “I believe you are Miss Jerningham? I have been waiting for my brother to introduce me, but he is quite neglecting his responsibilities as a host. I am Mr. Peter Dew—”

Gabby hurried over, tripping a little on the trailing hem of her gown. She grasped Peter’s left hand, the one that was not holding his hat. “Please, call me Gabby. Since I am—since we are—”

Peter choked. He gently withdrew his hand and resisted the impulse to check his gloves for tea stains. After all, it wasn’t Miss Jerningham’s fault that their infernal butler had dropped a teapot on her. She must feel appallingly embarrassed to be standing about in this condition.

“I believe that Miss Jerningham would like to retire to her room,” he said, looking at Quill and deliberately avoiding Gabby’s eyes. “Given that our butler has quite destroyed her ensemble.” Although to call that horror of a gown she was wearing an “ensemble” was gilding the kitchen kettle, to be sure.

He moved to the side to allow Codswallop to leave the room.

“I can’t think what you are about, Quill,” Peter continued, all his animosity about this absurd situation brewing in his tone. “By all rights, you should have been at court this morning.
Everyone
was there to celebrate the birthday. Believe me, Prinny may not be hand and glove with his brother, but he always notes if Prince Edward is slighted. Now that you are walking, you no longer have an excuse for such flimsy manners!”

“I forgot,” Quill drawled, moving forward so that he was standing just behind Gabby.

“You forgot!” The acid brewing in Peter’s stomach leaked into his tone, making it a trifle shrill. “
No
gentleman could forget the happy occasion of doing honor to one of our princes. Just as no gentleman would force a lady to remain in public in such a state.” His eyes skittered over his future wife’s ruined clothing once again.

“I can’t
think
what Codswallop was about,” Peter went on, finally meeting Gabby’s eyes. “He is not, in general, a butterfingered fool.” His tone warmed as he thought about the agony Gabby must be suffering. Indeed, her face looked pinched and rather white. “One of Mother’s chairs is quite ruined. Although the chair’s demise is nothing compared to the affront offered Miss Jerningham.”

Quill turned toward Gabby, but she looked away. She couldn’t admit to being the butterfingered fool she actually was, not in front of her elegant betrothed. Even though Quill’s horrid grin implied that she was acting like a naughty five-year-old by remaining silent.

Peter rang the bell cord. “I shall summon your lady’s maid to escort you to your chamber. If you feel too discomposed to join us for dinner, please know that my feelings are with you. Should this insufferable accident have happened to me on my first visit to England—nay, at
any
time!—I should take at least a day to regain my spirits.”

He made another elegant leg to Gabby.

Gabby gasped and bobbed a curtsy. She felt incapable of responding to anything Peter was saying. This couldn’t be Peter. Well, it was Peter. Now that the shock was over, she could see that the lines of his face approximately followed those of the portrait. But this restless, elegant, shrill…popinjay! He was scented. She smelled it when she grasped his hand.

Gabby swallowed. She was very close to tears. She had never felt like such a loutish gawky girl in her life, and her life had been generously adorned with such moments.

Then someone took her hand. Gabby gulped and looked up. Through her slightly blurred eyes, she suddenly saw the Peter of her portrait. He smiled down at her kindly.

“I am so sorry that your arrival in our house was dampened by Codswallop’s unfortunate accident, Miss Jerningham.”

She smiled a bit shyly at the handsome young man before her. “Will you call me Gabby, please? Since we are to be married?” She had to say it out loud. Peter appeared to be viewing her as a mere visitor.

Peter seemed to stiffen all over, but he nodded.

For the first time, Gabby considered the possibility that Peter was not entirely happy with their proposed marriage. She herself had been so pleased to escape from her father’s household, and so delighted with the portrait of Peter, that she had not given a second’s thought to her betrothed’s feelings on the matter.

“Shall I escort Gabby to her chambers? I believe that Mother had the Blue Room prepared.” Quill looked down at his wilted future sister-in-law. She had a strained expression in her eyes that made him want to give his brother a facer.

“Absolutely not,” Peter broke in sharply. “May I remind you, Quill, that Miss Jerningham is a gently bred young lady? Under no account will you escort her to the upper reaches of the house. We shall summon her maid immediately. I must say it seems remarkably odd that your father allowed you to travel without a lady’s companion, Miss Jerningham!”

“My father didn’t believe in lady’s maids or companions. He said that—”

But Quill interrupted what he sensed was a flood of information about Gabby’s unconventional father. He didn’t think that Peter would be able to take any more revelations.

“I am soon to be a member of Gabby’s family, Peter. There can be no hint of impropriety if I escort my sister-in-law to her chamber.”

“She’s not yet your sister-in-law!” Peter snapped.

Gabby’s heart sank. Peter didn’t want to marry her. That was clear. She shook off the hand Quill had slipped under her arm.

“Do you not wish to marry me, sir?” Her voice was huskier than normal, due to the tears that were backing up her throat.

Peter gaped.

Lucien put Phoebe on her feet and they soundlessly retreated together to the other side of the chamber. Phoebe might be a mere five years, but she had an instinctive sense of propriety.

“Because we could—we could make some other arrangement,” Gabby said miserably. “I certainly never thought to force you to do anything that you didn’t wish to do.”

Quill was horrified at Gabby’s insight. “Of course Peter wishes to marry you,” he injected, his tone rough. He grabbed her elbow. “Peter is right. You should be in your chamber, changing your attire!”

Gabby ignored him, looking up at her fiancé. “Why didn’t you tell my father that you were not happy with this arrangement before I traveled all the way from India?” Her voice was choking now. “Your father’s letter said that you were…that you were …”

Quill gave Peter a look over Gabby’s bowed head that shook his younger brother to his toes.

Peter reached out and took Gabby’s hand again. “You quite misunderstood me, Miss Jerningham—Gabby. I
am
looking forward to marrying you.” And when he met Gabby’s drenched eyes, Peter almost felt he could do it. She was so pitiful, standing there in her ragged, stained clothing. His eyes softened. After all, her lack of distinction likely had more to do with the lack of mantua-makers in India than with her own sense of dress.

“My tone was sharp because I was—am—mortified by the deplorable conduct of our butler. I felt all your anguish when I realized the accident that had befallen you. In fact, I believe that I shall speak to my father about having Codswallop dismissed. We cannot tolerate a servant in this household who would act in such a reprehensible fashion. Please believe that my feelings about you are quite firm.

“I can hardly wait for our nuptials,” he added, rather more uncertainly.

Gabby took a deep, shuddering breath. The sight of Peter’s slender white hand, adorned with one tasteful signet ring, mesmerized her.

The hand vanished as Peter realized that his future wife was likely nonplussed by his indelicacy, given that he had held her hand beyond the permissible six seconds.

“
I
shall escort you to your chamber,” he said, and took Gabby’s arm, drawing her toward the door.

She cast a rather desperate glance back at Quill.

He smiled reassuringly. “I will arrange for Phoebe to be housed near your chamber, Gabby.”

Gabby bit her lip and nodded. It seemed ungracious to plead that Quill accompany them. A mere hour or two ago she had considered Quill a formidable and terrifying presence; now Peter’s querulous, modish accents were terrifying her in quite a different manner. Helplessly, she allowed Peter to draw her into the hallway and up the stairs, listening numbly as he deposited her in a light, airy chamber papered in blue.

“Will Phoebe be in the chamber next to mine?” she asked, as Peter was bowing his way out of the room.

“Phoebe? Phoebe?”

“Phoebe is the child with Mr. Boch,” Gabby explained, only just realizing that Phoebe had not been introduced. “You see, Phoebe was traveling on the
Plassey
as well, and when her relatives did not appear at the wharf after the ship docked, your brother arranged to bring her here.”

Peter pursed his lips. “It seems most unusual,” he observed. “I cannot fathom why you did not leave her with the ship’s captain. Surely her relatives will suffer unnecessary anxiety if they are unable to locate her.”

“Perhaps you are right. But the problem is that we were not entirely sure whether Phoebe’s living relative—a Mrs. Emily Ewing—ever received the letter recounting the death of her sister and brother-in-law. When Mrs. Ewing did not appear at the wharf, I thought it best to keep Phoebe with me, because what if it takes some time for Mrs. Ewing to be located? Most of the crew of the
Plassey
disembarked immediately. We were blown far off course, and they were eager to return to their families. I was not at all sure who would be in charge of Phoebe.”