Anne O'Brien – The Outrageous Debutante (страница 2)

‘It is not a matter of safety. That has never been an issue, as you are well aware.’ Lady Drusilla turned her eyes away, unwilling to see the hurt that she must surely inflict. She knew her daughter’s temperament too well. Had she not herself fostered the strong streak of independence, the love of travel and adventure? But there were now steps that must be taken. ‘It is time that you married, Thea.’ She kept her voice light and gentle. ‘You are now one and twenty, high time that you were wed. I had been married all of two years when I was your age.’

‘There is plenty of time for that.’ Thea came to sit beside her mother, intent on persuasion. In her short life she had rarely found it difficult to get her own way. But Lady Drusilla, fully aware of her daughter’s tactics, shook her head and resisted the clasp of the urgent hand on her arm.

‘No. We have been too selfish with you, my love. Enjoyed your company far too much. I shall miss you dreadfully.’ She closed her hand over Thea’s, to still the restless fingers. ‘But it is time that you had a husband and your own home. Children, of course. We must not leave it longer. It would be most unwise.’

‘Mama—do I really need a husband? I would far rather come with you to Russia. Perhaps in a few years when—’

‘No! You are older than a traditional débutante for her coming out as it is, Thea, and that is my fault. You should have a Season in London—you deserve one. You are a beautiful young woman and should not be denied a formal introduction to London society. Besides, I want a rich and titled husband for you, so that you might be comfortable.’

‘But I am an heiress. I don’t need more wealth.’

‘Perhaps not. But you certainly need a husband. I do not wish to think of you growing old as an eccentric and lonely spinster, roaming the deserts with no company but your servants, the object of gossip and speculation from everyone you meet. That is not what any mother would want for her daughter.’

‘I would not be lonely. I should take a lover!’ The lady lifted her chin, deliberately intending to shock her mother, horrified at this sudden arrangement of her future life without any consideration for her own wishes.

‘You will do no such thing, Theodora. Your upbringing might have been somewhat out of the way in comparison with that of most young girls, but I will have no truck with the scandalous, the improper!’

‘I see.’ Thea lowered her chin, her mind working rapidly. ‘Does Sir Hector agree with this plan?’

‘Yes. Of course. We have talked of it.’

Of course they would have. And Sir Hector would undoubtedly be swayed by Lady Drusilla’s forceful arguments. All the joy, all the brightness, seemed to have gone out of the day. ‘Very well.’ What other could she say? ‘I suppose I shall have to be more conventional in London.’

‘Assuredly. I think I have allowed you far too much licence in the past.’ Lady Drusilla frowned a little at her daughter as she considered her sudden compliance.

‘No. Never too much. It has been wonderful, Mama. Can I gallop my horse in London?’

‘Certainly not. Nor wear the garments you enjoy at present, as you are very well aware.’

‘Or ride astride?’

‘Theodora! You must behave with decorum and dignity. Your purpose in London will be to attract a husband, not frighten him away with an exhibition of unseemly manners. I would not wish you to become an object of gossip or shunned because the ton considers you ill bred.’

‘Oh, dear! It all seems very dull.’

‘By no means. I wager that you will find it most entertaining.’

‘Well, I shall certainly do my best to make it so, as you know, Mama. I have never yet been bored. I suppose that London can offer as much to attract and occupy me as Constantinople or St Petersburg.’

‘Thea!’ Lady Drusilla warned as she recognised the glint in her daughter’s eye.

‘Don’t fret, Mama. Of course I shall behave.’ After a little thought, Thea’s good humour had quickly reasserted itself and she laughed. ‘Perfectly, in fact. I shall set my cap at a fabulously rich Earl and ensnare him, just to please you.’ Her eyes twinkled at the prospect, but she managed to keep an expression of innocent compliance in place. Perhaps London might not be so dull after all.

Chapter One

In the county of Herefordshire, far removed from the exotic delights and windblown sands of Arabia, Lord Nicholas Faringdon opened a letter with utmost reluctance, a letter that was destined to disrupt the unchanging predictability of his life.

His lordship had spent the morning, unaware of the devious workings of fate, in the company of George Dinmore, agent to the estate of Burford. A fine sense of optimism warmed his blood, as satisfying as the first real heat of early summer that brushed his skin. It was too early to tell if the harvest would be good but the crops were coming on well, the arable fields sheened with bright green. Now it was up to sun and rain and the will of God. There had been too many cold and wet summers of late. But the cattle and sheep were thriving, as were the horses on his own estate at Aymestry Manor. It could not be said that Lord Nicholas neglected his duty to his family in his role as trustee for Tom, his young nephew, who held the title and inheritance as Marquis of Burford.

The little town of Kingshall, its wood-and-plaster dwellings clustered around a central market square, hummed with life. Outside the Red Lion, Lord Nicholas had paused to listen to the landlord, who could be relied upon for knowledge of any local happenings. Nicholas made it his business to enquire and keep abreast of developments or hints of unrest. The local cottage industries were thriving well enough. There was no serious competition here from machines. He knew that if he rode down Back Lane, he would see the women who made the beautifully sewn gloves from the palest, finest of leathers, sitting working on their doorsteps in the sun. But another bad summer, another autumn beset by storms and heavy rain, would push up the price of grain. Lack of food, as Nicholas well knew, led to mutterings in the Red Lion over a draught of ale. The lord would be the easiest target for such discontent when tempers ran high. Lord Nicholas Faringdon had no intention of allowing his nephew’s inheritance to be destroyed or compromised in any way, even if his nephew was living in New York with Nell, his mother, and nearly four years old.

As soon as the pasture had opened up on the edge of the town he had urged the young chestnut mare out of her somnolence into an easy gallop. She had willingly extended her stride until they’d flown across the grassland in perfect unity, disturbing a small flock of Ryeland sheep. He rode well, could never remember not being at home on horseback. The speed, the breeze which had ruffled and tugged at his dark hair, the sun which had glittered on the still waters of the mere, had all served to lift his spirits, banishing the niggling worries that had plagued him of late.

He did not know why he had been so beset. There was no obvious cloud of concern on his horizon, nothing which could not be managed between himself, Dinmore and Hoskins, the family lawyer in London. Nicholas had frowned as he breasted a rise and the lovely, familiar view of Burford Hall had opened up before him, its mellow stone glowing in the sharp midday light. For some reason life was a little flat. Even a little lonely. The house was empty apart from himself and the servants and would be so as far into the future as he could see. His brother Hal and Nell, now his wife, were firmly settled in New York where the firm of Faringdon and Bridges occupied Hal’s business acumen. His eldest brother Thomas had been dead now more than three years. So the Hall was empty. As was his own attractive manor at Aymestry.

Perhaps a visit to town was the remedy for this vague sense of ennui. It was a year or more since he had last taken up residence for any length of time at Faringdon House in Grosvenor Square. The Season would be at its height with all the Polite World in town. It would not do for him to rusticate completely, to become nothing but a county squire, buried in soil and hunting with pretensions to neither fashion nor style. Nicholas smiled at his own harsh judgement. There was little chance of that. He could rise to the occasion as well as any and play the sophisticated man of fashion.

Lord Nicholas’s arrival on the sweep of gravel before the steps of Burford Hall had coincided with that of the post boy from Leominster, so that now he stood in the library, wine glass in hand, having leafed through the letters before casting them on to the desk. But not all. One of them, the fatal one, had caught his attention—he had recognised the handwriting immediately. It caused him to groan quietly. He might have wished for a change of pace and scenery, but that did not include the interference of Aunt Beatrice. He could guess at the content before he even unfolded the thin sheets of paper with Lady Beatrice’s distinctive scrawl. Carrying it to the window seat, he sat and prepared to read.