Beware Faery Gifts

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Shadow in her arms, Leah descended wearily from the coach in front of Lady Wheaton’s immense London townhouse. It was late afternoon, and two days of rattling around the inside of a badly sprung vehicle had left her exhausted and depressed. She was so far from home. Why had she willingly gone among strangers? She and her party had spent the previous night in a coaching inn, and the stares of the men there had been positively rude. Even with her maid and coachman near, she had felt nervous.

Dispiritedly she followed her maid up the steps, then waited for admission to the house. When an elderly butler opened the door, she said, “I am Miss Marlowe. Lady Wheaton is expecting me.”

The butler gaped at her before giving a little shake, like a dog after a bath. “This way, miss,” he said, in control again. “Her ladyship wishes to see you immediately.”

Cat still in her arms, Leah followed the servant upstairs to a small, richly decorated boudoir. A tall woman of middle years reclined on a brocade-covered chaise longue, a letter in her hands and a small dog curled up at her feet. Solemnly the butler announced, “My lady, Miss Marlowe has arrived.”

Lady Wheaton lowered the letter and looked up. Dressed in the height of fashion, she had strong, handsome features and an air of command.

Leah curtsied as well as she could with a substantial cat draped over one shoulder. “Good day, Lady Wheaton. It is so kind of you to invite me here to London.”

For a moment Lady Wheaton stared with the stunned expression Leah was becoming used to now that her appearance had changed. Then her ladyship rose and came forward, the small dog at her heels. “How lovely you are! Your mother was too modest in singing your praises.” She studied Leah with interest. “You shall be a great success. I guarantee it. But my dear child…a cat?”

Leah, who had begun to revive under the admiration, blushed. “I’m sorry, my lady. Shadow would not be left behind.”

Her godmother frowned. “Neither Rex nor I are at all fond of cats.”

A sharp canine yip identified Rex. The dog bounded toward Leah, looking ready to chase or eat the feline invader.

Shadow jumped from Leah’s arms and stared at Rex. The dog skidded to a stop. Then he whined and flattened his belly to the floor, all the fight gone out of him.

The cat stalked forward, gaze locked with the dog’s, until their noses touched. After a moment of whimpering panic, Rex gave a kind of sigh and relaxed.

Shadow turned to Lady Wheaton and began to strop her ankles, purring vociferously. Her ladyship’s first expression of distaste vanished almost immediately. “It’s quite a friendly creature, isn’t it?” She bent and patted the cat’s head, as if Shadow was a dog. “And rather pretty, for a cat. ”

Leah almost laughed as she watched Shadow charming her hostess.

Lady Wheaton straightened. “Since Rex doesn’t seem to object, I suppose there’s no harm in having the creature here, but don’t allow it to scratch my furniture.”

Clearly her ladyship knew nothing of cats, or she would not have the foolish idea that one could exact obedience from one. Still, Shadow hadn’t scratched anything yet, and she seemed to have a clear sense of which side her bread was buttered on. Meekly Leah said, “Yes, Lady Wheaton. She is a very good cat.”

“Call me Aunt Andrea,” Lady Wheaton said warmly. “You must be tired. You’ll want to take supper in your room. I shall have a tray sent up. Then you must get a good night’s sleep, for tomorrow we’ll be off to the modiste to order your wardrobe. I am giving my autumn ball next week. It will be the perfect occasion to present you.”

She slowly circled Leah. “Wait until Lady Hill sees you,” she said with satisfaction. “The whole spring season she went on insufferably about how beautiful her daughter Mary is, but you quite put the girl in the shade. Presenting you will be a great triumph for me. You’ll be the belle of the season.”

A little dismayed, Leah collected Shadow and withdrew. She hadn’t known that she would be used to score points for her godmother in what looked like a long-term rivalry. Still, she supposed it was harmless enough.

As she settled into an airy, attractive bedchamber, she turned her thoughts to the far more pleasant prospect of a new wardrobe.

The footman handed Leah into the carriage. She collapsed on the seat opposite her godmother with a sigh. “I had no idea how fatiguing it is to be fashionable. It’s been three days now of shopping and fittings, being pinched and pinned.” She glanced out the window as the carriage began to move. “May I remove the veil? It is not comfortable on such a warm day.”

“Wait until we are away from Bond Street,” Lady Wheaton ordered. “I don’t want to risk anyone seeing you in public before the grand presentation at my ball.” She pursed her lips absently. “Instead of introducing you in the usual receiving line, I shall wait until most of the guests have arrived. Then we will make a grand entrance down the front staircase.”

Leah suppressed a sigh, not sure she would like being so much the center of attention, but know it was her duty to cooperate with Lady Wheaton’s plans. Luckily, she was becoming quite fond of her tart-tongued but generous-hearted godmother. “Very well, Aunt Andrea.”

Still full of energy despite so much shopping, her godmother said, “It’s time to start discussing potential husbands. There are several available royal dukes, of course, but they are an unreliable lot. I want better for you.”

Thank heaven for that. Even Leah know that the unmarried royal dukes were fat, middle-aged, and chronically in debt. And from what she inferred from news stories, they were not very bright. She wanted to marry a man she could talk to. “I wouldn’t want to be a duchess. Indeed, I would make a sad muddle of such a high rank.”

“You simply must put a higher value on yourself, my dear,” Lady Wheaton said briskly. “I’ve never known a beautiful woman who had so little confidence as you. In relations between the sexes, a woman’s beauty is power. You must use yours to acquire the wealth and security that ensure a woman a comfortable life. Granted, the royal dukes are poor choices, but there is the Duke of Hardcastle. Much more handsome than any of the Hanovers, and in the market for a second wife.”

Her brows drew together. “Hardcastle is the greatest prize in the Marriage Mart, but there is young Lord Wye—you could win him with a snap of your fingers.” Grandly she demonstrated a snap. “If you like the military sort, there is Duncan Townley, who is a Peninsular hero and heir to his uncle’s viscountcy. Not the best title or the richest man, but very dashing. Or if you prefer poets, there is Lord Jeffers. Not so handsome as Byron, nor so good a poet, but far wealthier and better behaved.”

Before her godmother could continue, Leah said with alarm, “But which are agreeable men? Sure that is paramount when choosing a husband!”

“When enough wealth is involved, one scarcely needs to see one’s husband after the heirs have been produced. A wife who has done her duty to her husband’s family has enormous freedom,” Lady Wheaton said with an airy wave of her hand. “To continue, it is as important to know who is not eligible is to know who is. Under no circumstances can you accept dances from the following.”

For the rest of the ride, her ladyship rattled off more names and pungent descriptions of each gentleman’s virtues or failings as a potential matrimonial partner. By the time they reached Wheaton house, Leah’s head was aching in earnest. She went directly to her room and flopped onto the bed.

Shadow, who had been watching the passing scene from the window seat, jumped to the floor and came to join Leah on the bed. Leah cuddled the cat, grateful for the undemanding company. In a strange and disorienting city, she sometimes had the odd feeling that Shadow was her guardian angel.

Even more than her cat, she needed music. Her gaze went to her harp, which sat silent in its case beside her wardrobe. She hadn’t played since arriving in London; she had simply been too tired. Perhaps after dinner… No, drat it. A dancing master was coming to make sure that Leah was proficient in all the latest dances.

She sighed and her eyes drifted shut. In a few more days, she would be presented. Then she would be a belle, and it would all be worth it.

Monique, Lady Wheaton’s French maid, was putting the last touches on Leah’s coiffure when her ladyship herself appeared in Leah’s bedroom. “The ballroom is full, and almost every man on my eligible list has arrived. It’s time for your grand entrance, Leah.” Lady Wheaton smiled, eyes dancing. “For the last week I’ve been dropping hints to friends about how beautiful my goddaughter is, so everyone is madly curious. Now stand up and let me look at you.”

Leah stood obediently while her godmother examined her appearance, her shrewd gaze missing nothing. “You’ll do, girl. You’ll do.”

“What I might do is faint,” Leah said weakly.

“Nonsense. Look at yourself.” Lady Wheaton drew Leah toward the mirror. “You’re a warrior girded for war, armored in beauty to fight the great battle of the sexes.”

“I thought I was in London for love, not war.” Then Leah saw her image in the mirror and gasped, all other thoughts forgotten. Her tawny hair had been swept into an irresistible confection of shining curls, secured here and there with golden combs. In a fashionably low-cut gown with a gauzy overskirt studded with brilliants, she looked like an exquisite faery princess .

The thought made her flinch. In a sense, she was a faery princess, or perhaps a faery doll, decorated as a plaything to amuse a faery lord. Her gaze lingered on her reflection. She must give Lord Ranulph credit—when he came to collect his price, she would be unable to say that he had stinted on his part of the bargain. Shining hair, perfect complexion, alluring sylph-like figure—she had received beauty in full measure.

She glanced at Shadow, who was sitting on her haunches watching. The cat’s golden eyes seemed to gleam with warmth and approval. Absurdly comforted by the cat’s expression, Leah said, “I’m ready, Aunt Andrea.”

Arm in arm, the two women left Leah’s bedroom and descended the sweeping staircase into the vestibule that opened into the flower-filled ballroom. Leah felt as if she were wading into a river of sound as the roar of conversation clashed with the energetic playing of the musicians.

Halfway down the stairs, heads began turning toward Leah and her godmother. Silence fell, rippling from the vestibule into the ballroom. One man said reverently, “By Jove!” while another exclaimed, “She’s a goddess!”

Guests in the ballroom began crowding into the vestibule. Before Leah’s startled eyes, the area at the bottom of the stairs filled with people, their eyes fixed on her. Most of the expressions were stunned admiration, but here and there tight-lipped women resentfully analyzed the new competition.

Leah froze, wanting to run back upstairs, but the pressure of Lady Wheaton’s grip kept her moving down. “I told you,” her godmother whispered triumphantly. “Look at them! You’ll be betrothed to a duke before the month is out, my girl.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs and were instantly surrounded by men with avid eyes and lusting hearts. A tall, heavy-set fellow demanded, “An introduction please, Lady Wheaton! ”

Beside him, a soulful gentleman said with a French accent, “A dance, mademoiselle, you must save me a dance.”

A wide-eyed young man called out, “Your hand in marriage, my dear goddess. I shall make you Countess of Wye.”

Other demands, other needs, chewed at her. Leah could feel the lust coming from the men like animal heat. They were tall, strong, closing in like wolves….

You wanted to be admired. The words formed in her mind, light and ironical. Lord Ranulph, perhaps, watching her in some strange faery way?

The faint mockery of the thought steadied her. Well, she had wanted admiration. She simply needed time to become accustomed to so much attention. Already that first rush of panic was retreating.

Lady Wheaton began making introductions and allotting her protégée’s dances. Leah was more than willing to let her godmother handle such things. Her own energy was engaged simply in keeping her wits about her. A pity she had never attended a ball as her normal, mousy self. If she had, she would be better prepared. But of course, her normal mousy self had never been invited anywhere.

After the flurry of introductions, she was handed into the keeping of her first dance partner, Lord Wye, the young man who had virtually proposed before he’d even learned her name. He was one of the eligibles Lady Wheaton had described, which meant that he was possessor of a vast fortune and an impressive title.

Unfortunately, he possessed neither a chin nor conversation. Throughout their dance, he simply stared at Leah adoringly. She guessed that he was no older than she. She felt torn between sympathy for his shyness, and amusement at the way he blushed whenever she ventured a comment. The smile she offered him at the end of their quadrille reduced him to babbling incoherence.

Her next partner, the Duke of Hardcastle, was more articulate. He was in his middle thirties, a widower and man of the world who was at the top of Lady Wheaton’s list of eligibles. He was quite a handsome man, and he made witty comments whenever the patterns of the dance brought them together. Altogether a good husband prospect, except that his hot, hungry gaze seemed to strip her naked.

Yet even though Hardcastle made her nervous, she felt a glow of triumph at the knowledge that he wanted her. No one had ever wanted her old, plain self.

She curtsied prettily at the end of the dance. ‘Thank you, your grace. You are very kind.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with it.” His heavy lidded gaze studied her with searing intensity. “Until next time, Miss Marlowe.”

He returned her to Lady Wheaton, who took advantage of an interval between dances to introduce Leah to some of the powerful women who ruled London society. Leah had recovered enough from her earlier nervousness to smile, curtsy, and acknowledge the introductions without stammering.

Her progress was followed by approving comments such as “What pretty manners the girl has,” and “She does you credit, Andrea.”

Leah was tempted to laugh. She was merely practicing the courtesy learned by any child the schoolroom, yet some of the women acted as if her behavior was unusual. That meant either that great beauties were often rude, or that Leah was getting more credit for good manners than a less beautiful girl would.

By the end of the long evening, she was enjoying every shred of admiration that came her way. Lady Wheaton was right—this was power. The warm gazes were balm after a lifetime of being ignored. Leah’s simplest remarks were greeted with laughter, as if she was a great wit. Her every smile was received like a precious gift. Her dances were sought after as if they were the holy grail.

She had become a belle—and she loved it.