Barbara Metzger The Luck Of The Devil

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sister's megrims to keep his own counsel on his own side of the coach.
To say Rowanne was upset was to say a monsoon was damp. On the way
back to Wimberly House, all that night and more than a few nights and
days after, Rowanne relived that kiss. It was a good thing the blackguard
was out of the country, she thought, for she did not know what she would
do if she saw him again, strangle him or aid wholeheartedly in her own
seduction!
Those were thoroughly unacceptable notions for a maiden lady, as she
well knew, but they would not go away. Uncomfortable thoughts had that
knack about them. When she worked on her miniatures, she saw the little
terra-cotta dishes he had brought. When she danced, she recalled the
waltz in his arms, and when she lay awake for hours in her bed she
wondered how it would be to
She went down to the library for a book of sermons. Absolutely,
positively refusing to consider that she was close to throwing her cap over
the windmill for a hell-born here-and-thereian who was, moreover, there,
Rowanne decided to try harder to find Gabe a wife and then get herself a
husband. Such feelings as were disturbing her rest and muddling her
senses were permissible in the married state, and she was not getting any
younger. In addition, Aunt Cora's letters were growing more and more
condemning of the Wimberlys' failure to provide her grandnieces and
-nephews; living with her as an ape-leader after Gabe married held as
much attraction as going to the tooth-drawer. Rowanne could no longer
consider raising roses in Dorset now either, though she had contrived a
cunning trellis for a scale-model patio out of a broken ivory hairpiece. She
fashioned climbing vines out of painted string and silk, despairing that
she would never get much closer to the real thing.
"Why don't you take over from the gardeners here, then, if you are so
eager to get your hands soiled?" Gabe asked, after her third sigh finally
penetrated Plato's Republic. "We have ample room out back, you know."
"Yes, but that would almost be like growing things in tubs in a
conservatory. I have always wanted a real garden, one that would blend
into the landscape and look natural despite the planning. The London
garden is lovely but can only look as contrived as my silk roses, with its
walls and terraces and spouting-dolphins fountain."
"Then why don't you accept Aunt Emonda's invitation to go visit at
High Clyme?"
They had just received a pleasant letter from their new relation,
thanking them for their kind congratulations and the gift of a Wedgewood
tea set. The gift had taken a great deal of discussion, for Rowanne's first
answer to the question of what to get the new bride was a younger
husband. Then she thought to send a family heirloom, one of the ugly
ormolu clocks or the silver epergne that seemed to depict Hannibal
crossing the Alps, elephants and all. The heirlooms already belonged to
Uncle Donald, Gabe reminded her, so they settled on the tea set, which
suited admirably, judging from the warm thank you.
"I am sure she would let you dabble in the mud," Gabe went on. "Lud
knows there is enough ground."
Rowanne put down the magnifying lens. "But it would not be mine."
"Still, she seems an all-right sort, trying to mend the family breech."
"And she hasn't thrown us out yet, nor sent word of a coming happy
event. Likely she wants an unpaid companion."
Gabe wiped his spectacles with a lawn cloth. "That's not like you, to be
so judgmental without evidence."
"You forget, brother, that I do have evidence, in an incorrigible rake. If
she is anything like that nephew of hers& "
"Gammon, Ro, they are not even blood relatives, and I am not sure
Delverson's wild reputation is entirely deserved."
Rowanne murmured to herself, "Trust me, it is."
"What's that, my dear? Never mind, you have been resty lately. Maybe
you have been trotting so hard you'd benefit from a month or more in that
clean country air and all that nice dirt."
"What, a month in someone else's household? Last week's halibut would
be more welcome. Besides, you yourself know how awful house parties can
be, with no solitude, no familiar servants who care about your comfort,
and no choices. A female guest has to sew when the hostess feels like
sitting quietly, entertain when she invites company, even retire for the
evening when the lady of the house is tired!"
"But you would not be such a guest, you are family."
"And a stranger to both our uncle and new aunt. No, Aunt Emonda may
enjoy her teapot in peace and her honeymoon too. I am too busy to leave
town now anyway. Did you see the pile of invitations? No one goes to the
country in the middle of the Season."
Especially if they want to shop at the Marriage Mart.
Rowanne did not read purple-covered novels from the lending library.
Not often enough, at any rate, to have her heart set on a storybook
romance. Storybook heroes were all well and good in the pages of books.
In real life heroes tended to act outside comfortable conventions or, worse,
go off to war. No matter, Rowanne was all too practical to wait for love to
sweep her off her feet. She had been born to the principle of marrying well
and had no doubt that if her father were alive, he would already have
arranged an advantageous marriage for her. The gentleman would have
been wealthy, titled, and well connected, whether she felt affection for him
or not.
Rowanne reassessed her requirements. She was wealthy enough in her
own right to consider a man's fortune of little concern, as long as he was
not marrying her for the money, and expediency meant less than comfort,
although she was not about to run off with the footman or anything. She
wanted a man she could respect and the kind of life she was used to living.
If he had a bit of property somewhere, all to the good. Now she added
another factor: He had to answer the new longings that toad Delverson
had aroused. To this end Rowanne started experimenting over the next
few weeks.
Miss Wimberly's most persistent suitor was Lord Fairborn, whose
self-esteem was as high as his shirt collars. With some little effort,
Rowanne happened to lead their steps away from the bright lights at
Vauxhall onto one of the infamous Dark Paths. Fairborn's kiss was wet
and pulpy, reminding Rowanne unpleasantly of Miss Worthington's
oyster. Rowanne had the dandy back in the lighted areas before the cat
could lick its ear.
Sir Allerby, who gambled often and won less often, according to the
omniscient Miss Grimble, was permitted to escort Rowanne to the balcony
at Lady Haight's rout for a breath of air. His kiss was as dry and lifeless as
yesterday's toast. Rowanne decided she needed a cool drink instead of the
night's breeze.
Squire Farnsworth was next. ("Country gentleman, in town one month a
year, but a good portion of Lincolnshire in the family. Pigs.") Rowanne
wondered if Miss Grimble meant the cash crop or Farnsworth's manners.
His kiss in the bushes of Hyde Park left her breathless all right, but only
because he crushed her ribs so tightly.
Surely a Frenchman knew how to kiss! Le Comte de Chambarque was a
newly arrived �migr�. ("Ancien Regime. Lost the land, saved the money.")
He was elegant in his manner, draping Rowanne across his arm,
whispering French love words. The languid kiss would have made Mrs.
Radcliffe weep, but his mustache tickled.
Lord Cavendish ("Good ton, gazetted rake.") tried to stick his tongue in
Rowanne's mouth, so she bit it, garlic breath and all.
Weeks became months and Miss Grimble was hard-pressed to come up
with new men to bring to Rowanne's attention. Hostesses began to look
askance at the popular Miss Wimberly, and her dance partners were
sending raffish leers her way. Miss Grimble's hair-ridden upper lip was
pursed, and even Gabe wondered if females were accustomed to sowing
wild oats. He did not ask what she was about; he just kept nodding and
smiling at the chits she dragged home, listened to them batter the
pianoforte, watched them simper over tea, danced with the required
number of wallflowers and hurried home to his books and speeches. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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