The Proper Wife Read online

  Damn his eyes. This soldier whose handsome face still bore a French lance’s scar had done difficult and dangerous service while most of the men she knew slept past noon and gambled all night. Returning to poverty and heartache, he wasn’t bewailing his fate over strong drink, but facing it squarely and taking prudent steps to repair the situation. Here was a man to admire, honorable and courageous, persistent and resolute. The sort of man on whom a person—a woman—could depend.

  Reviewing her large acquaintance, she couldn’t think of another man whose good opinion she’d rather have. Or, after the Covent Garden episode and her behavior tonight, one whose good opinion she was less likely ever to earn.

  Angrily she brought herself up short. She’d been accused of being reckless and wanton—no need to add maudlin to the mix. Blinking, she found herself in the hallway near the ladies’ withdrawing room and realized she’d marched out of the ballroom, oblivious to all in her anger.

  Returning there meant running a gauntlet of gentlemen seeking dances—and wondering which of the honey-tongued courtiers had been responsible for the rumor.

  Once again she felt the sting of betrayal and caught her breath at the pain. No, she couldn’t face that just yet. She pushed into the crowded withdrawing room.

  Taking an unoccupied seat, she made a show of adjusting the pins in her thick hair, letting the chatter flow unheeded around her.

  She scarcely noticed the three young women beside her until one of them, combing through the blond curls of her taller friend, bumped Clarissa’s arm. “Oh Miss Beaumont, pray excuse us!” the short blonde exclaimed.

  Clarissa waved one pin-laden hand. “No harm done.”

  “So gracious of you,” the girl replied, while the third friend, a rather plain brunette, smiled shyly.

  Straight out of the schoolroom, Clarissa thought.

  “I wouldn’t even consider him,” the tall blonde said, recapturing her friends’ attention.

  “Why not, Deidre? I think he’s quite handsome, even if he is rather thin,” the brunette said.

  “Of course he’s thin, Maryanne,” Deidre said to the brunette. “He was wounded at Waterloo and only just got out of hospital, Mama says.”

  Clarissa’s attention snagged at that. Who were they discussing?

  “He will inherit the title one day, and he’s quite rich,” the short blonde said. “Even if Lady Barbara won’t have him, I’d not dismiss him out of hand.”

  Not the colonel. Clarissa released the breath she’d been holding, but curious now, continued to listen.

  Deidre tittered. “My dear Arabella, that’s the point—his hand! He cannot use it at all, you know. However handsome he may be in that Hussar’s coat, the idea of his touching one with those lifeless fingers…” She shuddered. “It makes me positively ill.”

  The short blonde shuddered as well and the plain brunette looked thoughtful. “It would be…unpleasant. Still, Lady Jersey told my mama he fought most valiantly. One must make certain allowances for a hero, I think.”

  “What does that matter here in England?” Deidre reached over to pat Maryanne’s hand. “You’re not likely to need someone to lead you a cavalry charge across Hyde Park.”

  As the two blondes went off into giggles, Clarissa’s fingers stilled on her pins in disbelief. Having read every account of that dreadful battle printed in the London papers, augmented by details drawn from Englemere’s private sources, she could not believe even a giddy chit from the schoolroom would dismiss a man cited for valor there.

  “Only imagine—he cannot dance,” Deidre continued. “And I heard the other day he took a fall from his horse. On Bond Street. Can you imagine anything more ridiculous?”

  Clarissa gave up any pretense of pinning her hair. All her turbulent emotion focused into outrage, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from lashing out at the girls.

  “How humiliating!” the short blonde agreed.

  “I couldn’t abide a husband who embarrassed me,” Deidre declared. “Add to that his revolting hand and, well, you must see he’s totally out of the question.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, Maryanne,” Deidre cut off the brunette with a laugh. “You’ve too soft a heart. If you fancy a husband in uniform, there are enough other handsome and well-born candidates. You mustn’t even consider throwing yourself away on a cripple. Are you quite finished, Arabella? Bixby bespoke a waltz, and I shouldn’t wish to keep him waiting.” She winked at her friends. “Ten thousand a year, Mama says, and a lovely townhouse on Portman Square. Much better than a withered hand and a coat hung with medals, Maryanne.”

  Not trusting herself to speak civilly, Clarissa acknowledged the girls’ goodbyes with a nod. As the little brunette made to follow them, Clarissa snagged her elbow.

  The girl’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Miss Beaumont?”

  “Miss Maryanne—Bennett, is it not? Lady Arundel’s granddaughter? If you please, who is the soldier you were just discussing?”

  The girl seemed to sense Clarissa’s anger. “L-Lieutenant Alexander Standish of the Tenth Hussars. Is he a…kinsman of yours? Please, Miss Beaumont, we meant no—”

  “Not a kinsman,” Clarissa cut her off. “But every Englishman must hold dear the soldiers who fought and bled in their country’s service. I’m relieved you, at least, seem to agree.”

  “Y-yes, of course! But you must not think—”

  “You may go now. Your friends will be missing you.” Clarissa waved the girl away.

  Her face distressed, the brunette glanced toward the door and back, apparently uncertain whether to obey the command of a lady whom she held in obvious awe or to stay and defend her friends. Swallowing hard, she curtseyed again, whispered, “I’m sorry, Miss Beaumont,” and fled.

  Bixby! The man was an ass with groping hands. So the finicky Miss Deidre prized that rotund, floor-capering London macaroni-merchant over a soldier who’d survived the hell of battle to return with a wound’s badge of honor?

  As did one Lady Barbara. Clarissa scanned her memory of the misses currently on the Marriage Mart and came up with Lady Barbara Childress. A soft, pretty brunette who’d been pining over a young soldier, Clarissa recalled. The chit’s mother, the imperious Countess of Wetherford, she remembered with distaste.

  So her lover had returned with a crippled hand that rendered him no longer eligible, according to the vastly discriminating countess?

  Men might whisper she was a reckless wanton, but as a leader of the ton for the past four years, Clarissa knew to a fine point the power she wielded. The styles she wore, the mantua-makers she employed, the hostesses whose parties she graced with her presence all were, or soon became, London’s most favored. In short, Miss Clarissa Beaumont could bring something—or someone—into fashion.

  Clarissa rose, delighted to channel her irritation and outrage into action. If she had anything to do with it—and she intended to have a great deal—Miss Deidre and Lady Barbara were about to see the man they so cavalierly dismissed become the most sought-after party in London.

  Chapter Ten

  Clarissa was fortunate to encounter Lord Alastair coming out of the card room. After enduring his obligatory compliments with barely-repressed impatience, she broke in, “Robert, do you know Lieutenant Alexander Standish?”

  “The Earl of Worth’s cub? He’s a member of my club, I believe.”

  Squelching the associations that word conjured up, she continued, “I understand he is something of a Waterloo hero, and just returned from hospital in Brussels.”

  “Yes. Acquitted himself well indeed, I’ve heard.”

  “Excellent. If he is present tonight, could you introduce me? I should like to extend my thanks.”

  Looking startled and none too pleased, Lord Alastair smiled gamely. “Ah, certainly, Miss Beaumont. You do so admire our valiant soldiers. Very—patriotic. Of course, Standish is hardly more than a stripling. Not that the fact diminishes the gallantry of his service—”

  “Quite.�
� She put her hand on Alastair’s arm and smiled warmly. “I should be most appreciative were you to find him for me.”

  Alastair clasped her gloved fingers. “You know I am honored to render any service you desire. Excuse me but a moment, and I shall determine it.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, and watched him walk away with a tweak of guilt. She feared Robert would be making her another offer soon, although she’d already turned him down twice. He was nice enough, and sometimes she wished he inspired in her a more fervent response. But he didn’t.

  Unlike a certain Hussar who came to mind.

  A group of gentleman hailed her loudly, distracting her from that unwelcome observation, and bore her off to the refreshment room. When Alastair reappeared some time later with a soldier whose fur-pelissed coat hung about his thin frame, the crowd around her was thick enough that she had liberty to observe him as they approached.

  Clarissa noted the slightly halting gait and the arm held stiffly at his side. Her eyes lingered a moment on his left hand—the one whose touch Miss Deidre so abhorred. Renewed outrage, and simple curiosity, stirred.

  As he drew nearer, compassion colored her anger. Lieutenant Standish was entirely too thin. His eyes and mouth were bracketed by lines that, she knew from watching her mama develop similar ones during a severe attack of dropsy, represented considerable suffering. In spite of his emaciated frame and the lingering pain his limp revealed, he held himself proudly erect.

  “Miss Beaumont,” Alastair said when they reached her, “allow me to present Lieutenant Lord Alexander Standish.”

  “Miss Beaumont, an honor.” His voice pleasantly deep, with his right hand he lifted her fingers to his lips. Though his hazel eyes registered admiration of her beauty, he refrained from the fawning compliments so often heaped upon her by men meeting her for the first time. Indeed, he remained coolly self-possessed, his slightly quizzical smile indicating his puzzlement over why an acknowledged Diamond whose suitors included men of greater wealth and stature than he had chosen to single him out.

  Clarissa decided she liked him. “The honor is mine, to make the acquaintance of such a valiant officer.”

  He waved his right hand. “Please, Miss Beaumont, you flatter me. I trust I did my duty, but no more so than every other soldier.” His hazel eyes clouded. “Including many not fortunate enough to return to bask in the praise of so lovely a lady.”

  “Then we must treasure those of you who did.”

  His eyes veered briefly to a young brunette dancing the quadrille. “It is kind of you to think so. How may I be of service, ma’am?”

  The veiled longing in that stolen glance deepened her resolve. “Would you stroll with me, Lieutenant?”

  He bowed and extended his right arm. Placing her gloved hand on it, she walked him toward the corner of the room. “Tenth Hussars, is it not? Were you wounded during Lord Uxbridge’s charge?”

  He turned to look her in the face, obviously surprised. “Why, yes! You’ve heard of it?”

  “I’m a great admirer of our ‘Infamous Army.’ I’ve read all the Gazette accounts, including Lord Uxbridge and the Duke’s full descriptions. Is it true French cuirassiers nearly captured Old Hookey the first day?”

  “Quite true, ma’am. The Duke was, as usual, riding forward to encourage the men. Some frog lancers broke through suddenly and nearly surrounded him. He only escaped by ordering the Fifty-second Foot to lie down and jumping Challenger clean over them!”

  “Like a box hedge?”

  He chuckled. “Quite. Lucky for us he’s such a good horseman. I daresay the battle might have had quite a different outcome, had he not been there to direct us.”

  By now they’d reached the corner. Instead of turning, Clarissa maneuvered the lieutenant to about-face. Obligingly he shifted direction, but when he again offered his right arm, she waved it away.

  “I should like to remain on the side toward the dancers. Your left hand, sir?” She tapped it lightly.

  Lieutenant Standish halted. Color rose in his thin cheeks. “I’m sorry, Miss Beaumont,” he said after a moment. “I…I have no feeling in that hand.”

  His strained tone revealed just how much he detested admitting that weakness, and for a moment she regretted forcing him to it. But, she comforted herself, the result would be well worth this fleeting embarrassment.

  “Ah, but the lady does.” Resting her hand on his left wrist, she clasped her gloved fingers around his motionless ones. Though he did not—could not—return the pressure, his hand was quite warm—not at all cold or repulsive.

  His eyes riveted on their intertwined fingers, he said nothing as she nudged them forward.

  For the next few moments Clarissa guided them around the ballroom, making sure the newly-returned Lieutenant chatted with the most prominent political and society guests. Most of them were acquainted with the young soldier’s father, and greeted him pleasantly, often with compliments about his gallant service.

  Occasionally in the intervals between guests she caught his quizzical glance on her. Nor, Clarissa was pleased to acknowledge, was his gaze the only one she attracted. Clarissa’s courtiers, who’d protested her abandoning them for yet another soldier, watched with varying degrees of puzzlement or mild indignation. Young ladies who copied her fashions and manners, and the mamas of hopeful daughters, cast openly assessing looks at her and the well-born, wealthy young man at her side. A virtual hum of speculation followed them.

  Her last visit—the pièce de résistance, she considered it—was with Lady Arundel and her granddaughter. Clutching the maligned left hand tighter, she greeted both ladies, introduced the lieutenant to the blushing Miss Maryanne, and after a bare nod to Miss Deidre and Miss Anabelle who stood gawking at Maryanne’s elbow, walked away.

  She was delighted to note that Lady Barbara Childress’s gaze was among those which followed them across the floor when, like Moses through the Red Sea, they parted the dancers before making a very public exit out the French doors onto the terrace.

  Having reached the relative privacy of the moonlit balcony, Lieutenant Standish stood for a moment silently staring at her fingers still gripping his left hand. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “Did Colonel Sandiford set you to that?”

  A tingle of shock drove all other thoughts from her head. “Colonel Sandiford?”

  “My commanding officer. You are acquainted?”

  Only as opponents, she thought. Still, it wasn’t fair to hold that against this thoroughly charming young man. “A little acquainted,” she allowed. “Why do you ask?”

  “A similarity of tactics. He’s been recommending I not allow my…disability to make me reticent. When you—an influential lady upon whom I’d never have imposed in such fashion—made it a point to parade me about, I thought surely ’twas he who incited you to it. He did not?”

  “No. I wasn’t even aware he was your commander.”

  While he pondered that, she tried to reconcile Sandiford’s evident concern for the lieutenant with her impressions of the stiff-necked Colonel who despised Society. It appeared he respected at least some of his own class. Just not the ladies.

  With a start, she realized Lieutenant Standish stood staring at her, his expression perplexed. “Then why…?”

  She squeezed his unresponsive fingers. “Let’s just say I have a fondness for returning soldiers.”

  Once more he cast a glance of wistful longing toward the dancers beyond the balcony’s French doors. “I still don’t understand, but ’twas very kind of you.”

  “Would you go driving with me tomorrow?”

  His head snapped back toward her. “Driving?” Once again, his cheeks flushed. “I’m afraid I don’t yet—”

  “As a cavalry officer you must be a notable horseman. I’d like your opinion of the new pair I just purchased for my phaeton.” She smiled at him. “I’m accounted a tolerable whip. I shan’t land you in a ditch, I promise.”

  “Of course. I should be honored to drive with
you.”

  “Meet me at Grosvenor Square at five?”

  That took him aback. “You mean to drive in Hyde Park?”

  “Have you any objection?”

  He laughed. “Why would I? Driving with the peerless Miss Beaumont during the promenade is a signal honor to which I’d never have aspired.” He studied her, as if trying to ascertain her motives. “You seem quite determined to bring one obscure lieutenant into fashion. You are sure Colonel Sandiford didn’t speak to you?”

  “Of Lady Barbara?” The mingled surprise and pain on his face, before he once again schooled his expression to neutrality, confirmed her guess. “My…information came from a different source. You mustn’t worry that I know your secret. I’m quite discreet.”

  He laughed without humor. “’Tis not much of a secret. We had…at least I thought we had, an understanding. But that was long ago, before—” he gestured toward his left side. “Obviously I was mistaken.”

  Her suspicions confirmed now, Clarissa knew just how to proceed. If Lady Barbara harbored any feelings whatsoever for the lieutenant, she was about to find herself awash in remorse, regret, and with a modicum of cooperation from the lieutenant, raging jealousy.

  “Perhaps. But the lady is just out, and very lovely. ’Tis not unusual all the flattering attention may have turned her head. Perhaps she merely needs a bit of…encouragement to help her decide what she really wants.”

  He sighed. “She is lovely, is she not? A sweet, gentle girl who deserves the very best. Apparently her mama no longer includes me in that category, and I can’t say I blame her. Why should she not want better than a…cripple for a son-in-law? Nor would I wish to cause Lady Barbara the distress of going against her mama’s wishes.”

  “Crippled because your leg and hand carry the scars of battle? Nonsense! And I must disagree. If Lady Barbara does not value the man she loves above her mama’s approval, she doesn’t deserve him. In any event, seeing you pining away gives her no incentive to ponder the depth of her feelings. Should we not make a push to help her discover that? I should think you would rather know sooner than later whether your hopes are futile.”