Tarnished Amongst the Ton Read online

  I cannot because I am not a virgin and there is no way I can explain to you why that is so. How would he react when he realised? With revulsion? Would he blame her, think her wanton? It would be hypocritical of him, of course, but men held women to different standards than they applied to themselves.

  Might she deceive him into thinking her a virgin? She had no idea how to go about that. Besides, she shrank from the deceit. I cannot because if I do lie with you now and you believe me a virgin, then nothing is going to persuade you that we must not wed.

  Phyllida rested her forehead against Ashe’s shirtfront and tried to find some composure, some strength of will. It occurred to her that, of all the reasons she had for not making love with him, the fact that society would say it was immoral mattered not at all.

  ‘No,’ she said after a while. How long had she been sitting there? Ashe was warm and strong and she could hear his heartbeat and his hands around her felt so good she could stay like this for ever. ‘No. I want to. You know that, of course. But, no.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said, his voice a deep rumble against her ear. ‘I see I must be patient. But you will let me know if you change your mind? There are many things that would give us both pleasure that would still allow you to go up the aisle a virgin.’

  ‘Stop it!’ Phyllida pushed back against his chest and he let her go. She swung round and got to her feet, retreating to the far side of the room while he remained sitting on the edge of the desk.

  ‘I am merely trying to persuade you of the joys of marriage,’ Ashe said mildly.

  ‘ Marriage being the operative word! And I do not believe this has anything to do with me and my feelings. You are trying to reconcile yourself to the marriage by telling yourself if the physical side is good, then that is all we need to worry about. Your confounded sense of honour is telling you that you must marry me, but you do not want to. Not with your head—that knows how unsuitable I am—and certainly not with your heart, because I do not believe for a moment that you are in love with me.’

  ‘Love?’ Ashe stood up abruptly. ‘Why did you have to drag that into it? Why is it that women must imagine all relationships are about love?’

  ‘I did not drag it in,’ she said and felt sick. Because I am so close to loving you. I didn’t know it before, but I do now. ‘It is one factor in a relationship, that is all. Women talk about love because we understand that emotions are important, too. It is not some sinister plot to entrap the entire male population—why should we want to do that when you men are mostly as insensible to your emotions as an illiterate man is to literature!’

  She wrenched the door open, stalked out, shut it behind her, remembering just in time that this was not her house and slamming was out of the question, then realised she had no idea where to go. Her room, if she could find it? Back to the salon to face Ashe’s family?

  ‘Are you lost, my dear?’

  The lightly accented voice made her jump. ‘Lady Eldonstone. I was just wondering where I should go now I have finished with those crates.’

  ‘Let me walk with you up to your room. I am sure you would like to get rid of the dust and the ink stains. Then we can go to Sara’s room and see what she has found for you to wear to the masquerade.’

  ‘Thank you, I should like that.’

  ‘And it has the added benefit of removing you from my son before you are moved to tell him he is so impossible you will not marry him,’ the marchioness said calmly halfway up the stairs. ‘Careful, my dear, you will trip.’

  ‘Ashe is… Lord Clere… That is, we had a slight disagreement, but I am sure it is normal.’

  His mother sighed. ‘Men are sometimes inclined to think with their heads and certain parts of their anatomy first and their feelings a long time later. At the moment Ashe is doing what he believes to be right. I hope you will not take it amiss if I say that it may take him a while to accept that he is doing what he cannot bear not to do.’

  ‘I do not take it amiss, Lady Eldonstone, I simply find it impossible to accept,’ Phyllida said as they reached the door of her room. Which was a mercy. If he was truly attached to her, then to leave him would hurt him. It was better this way, she had to believe it.

  ‘Ah well, we will see. I had to run away from Ashe’s father before he realised he was in love with me. It was quite dramatic—I was dressed as a youth and he dragged me off my horse and kissed me in the middle of a group of very confused Bengali traders.’ She sank down on to the chaise at the foot of the bed and curled her legs up under her with enviable ease.

  ‘I should imagine that would cause a stir in the middle of London,’ Phyllida suggested as she poured water into the basin to wash her hands. But she was going to jilt Ashe, she was determined on that. If he was truly his father’s son, he might make that very difficult indeed—but it would be pride, not love, that was going to make him refuse to give up.

  ‘It caused a stir on the banks of the Ganges,’ Lady Eldonstone said with a reminiscent smile. ‘Shall we go along to Sara’s room? I have had a very civil note back from Lady Auderley who will be delighted if you accompany us to her masquerade.’

  Phyllida told herself that the more she was accepted, the better it was for Gregory and that she should swallow her pride with good grace. ‘Thank you for asking her, I am sure I will enjoy it,’ she said politely as her hostess opened Sara’s door, then stopped dead on the threshold. ‘My goodness, how beautiful you look.’

  Sara was twirling in front of the long glass, her skirts flaring out in a bell of shimmering, heavily embroidered golden silk that revealed her legs, clad in tight dark-brown silk trousers, almost to the knee. Her bodice, which left a hand’s span of bare flesh between its hem and the waistband, matched the skirts and her hair, covered by a transparent scarf of dark brown, hung in a long plait down her back.

  ‘Do you like it?’ She came to a halt and a jangle of golden bracelets fell down her arms to collect at her wrists. Her ankles had bands of little bells tied around them and her earrings gleamed with more gold.

  ‘I think it is stunning. But all that bare skin at your midriff is very daring.’

  ‘I wondered about that,’ Lady Eldonstone said. ‘I think a jacket over the bodice, Sara, we do not want the ladies fainting away with shock.’

  ‘I was thinking more of the gentlemen having heart attacks,’ Phyllida said as Sara put on a jacket that was cut open to expose the front of the bodice and then buttoned tightly from below her breasts to flare over her hips.

  ‘Mata will be wearing blue, so I thought this be best for you.’ Sara gestured to a pile of green silk on the bed, its colours ranging from darkest fir to palest grass, the embroidery glittering gold in the light from the window. By candlelight it would be spectacular. ‘I think we are about the same size.’ She held up the bodice for Phyllida to see.

  ‘Try it on.’ Lady Eldonstone kicked off her slippers and assumed what appeared to be her favourite cross-legged position on a sofa.

  ‘I’ll help you undress.’ Sara propelled Phyllida behind a screen and began to unbutton the back of her gown. Unused to having a sister, Phyllida felt almost shy shedding her clothing, especially when Sara said, ‘You need to take off everything. Stockings, chemise, the lot.’

  ‘No stays?’

  ‘Goodness, no. The bodice is tight enough to keep everything in place,’ Sara said, ruthlessly tying and tweaking.

  ‘Trousers feel very strange.’

  ‘The absence of them feels stranger, believe me,’ Lady Eldonstone said. ‘I felt positively indecent when I had to start wearing European clothes. And don’t forget, skirts were still wide then. I was in constant alarm that the wind would flip everything up.’

  ‘It certainly makes the most of my bosom.’ Phyllida peered down at a cleavage she had not known she possessed.

  Finally Sara finished. ‘No, do not come out. I do not want you to see yourself until the night of the masquerade. Mata, do come and look. Doesn’t Phyllida look lovely?’

 
‘Exquisite.’ The marchioness came round the screen and studied her. ‘Ashe will be enchanted. I will find jewellery for you. Now, Sara, help Phyllida change again. The day after tomorrow, in the afternoon, we will turn my bedchamber into the women’s mahal—the women’s quarters in the palace,’ she explained.

  ‘All afternoon?’ Phyllida turned her back so Sara could lace her stays.

  ‘It will take us hours to get ready. Baths, our hair, the henna for our hands and feet, dressing, choosing jewellery. We will have dinner up here and the men can wait in suspense to see us.’

  And we, them, Phyllida thought. She had some idea of how Ashe would look from the subdued Indian costume he had worn at the warehouse. What he might wear for a masquerade, she could not imagine.

  The next day was occupied with finalising the list of items for the specialist sale. Phyllida visited the auctioneer disguised with severe clothing and French accent. Ashe and his father spent most of the day closeted in the study, working on estate papers, and only reappeared for dinner.

  Phyllida found herself coming to like the Herriards more and more. They were unconventional, affectionate to each other, intelligent and their outsiders’ view of the world she was so used to was constantly entertaining. Sara and her mother treated her as though she was already one of the family and it was all too easy to slip into the comfort of having a sister and a mother after years of fighting to stay afloat with no close female support.

  The morning of the masquerade Lady Eldonstone had announced that after luncheon her rooms were to be considered out of bounds to all males.

  Phyllida had no idea what to expect, but after half an hour she was convinced that she had strayed into the world of the Arabian Nights. The dressing room was filled with fragrant steam as three baths were prepared, separated by filmy curtains. They wallowed and soaped and scrubbed, then emerged wrapped in towels to have their hair brushed and braided. Once their skin was completely dry, Sara and her mother set to work painting elaborate patterns on palms and feet.

  ‘Will it wash off?’ Phyllida surrendered her palm, trying not to flinch as the pen tickled.

  ‘Eventually. It just fades away. This isn’t very strong henna.’

  Then there was the lengthy process of going through jewellery boxes to select three sets of ornaments. Phyllida tried her best not to gawp at the gold and silver and gems, but she could not resist exclaiming over the set of Burmese sapphires that Lady Eldonstone selected for herself.

  ‘They are very fine, are they not? A bride gift from my uncle, the rajah. Sara, the yellow diamonds for you and for Phyllida, the emeralds, of course.’

  ‘But… Lady Eldonstone, they are far too valuable to lend to me. If I may borrow some bangles and earrings, that would be perfectly adequate, I am sure.’

  ‘You are one of the family, Phyllida, and you will wear the Herriard gems.’ Lady Eldonstone quelled her protest with a raised hand. ‘It may not be known yet, but you will marry Ashe. Not to dress you accordingly would be to insult you both. Please, humour me in this.’

  There was nothing to do but surrender. They ate a light dinner, then, finally, dressed. Phyllida was given sandals to wear, heavy earrings with emerald drops were fixed in her ears, bangles slid up her arms and clasped around her ankles and a gold chain with a single emerald hung around her neck to dip between her breasts. Then the veil was pinned in place over her hair.

  ‘Now you may look,’ Sara said, turning her so all three women were reflected in the long pier glass.

  ‘That is not me.’ It could not be her, that exotic, bejewelled silken creature with the wide eyes and the curving form.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Sara assured her. ‘We would make any maharaja proud, would we not, Mata?’

  ‘We would indeed. Now, if this was the women’s quarters of the palace we would go and spy on the men through pierced marble screens, move our skirts so our perfume would waft down to tease them, but we must do our best with the staircase.’ She handed masks to both young women and slipped on her own. ‘Everyone will know who Sara and I are, but you, Phyllida, will be a mystery. Ashe will be so jealous of the admiration you will provoke.’

  Phyllida had no doubt Ashe would prove to be exceedingly possessive, but she doubted that his feelings were engaged enough for jealousy, which was a good thing. If he channelled as much energy into anger as he did into passion, he would not be a good man to cross.

  ‘Will they be in the hall?’ she asked, wondering how the staircase could give them a secret view of the men.

  ‘Of course,’ Lady Eldonstone said with a certain smugness. ‘Naturally, we are late.’

  They walked to the landing, their sandals making only the softest sound on the carpeted floor. Phyllida found the wide skirts and tight trousers strange and yet liberating to move in. When they reached the banisters Lady Eldonstone put her finger to her lips and leaned over, Sara and Phyllida on either side.

  Beneath them, pacing slowly on the marble floor, were the two men. Ashe, his hair loose on his collar, was wearing a golden-brown coat, with tight trousers beneath of bitter orange and a sash of the same colour. As he moved the long line of buttons down the front of the coat glittered gold. Beside him his father wore dark green with black trousers and sash, the spark of green fire from his coat buttons surely that of emeralds.

  The marchioness plucked a flower from the vase that stood in an alcove at the stair head and dropped it over the rail. It spun down and landed on the floor between the two men. As one they looked up and smiled and then, in unison, put their hands together as if in prayer and bowed.

  ‘Like this.’ Sara showed Phyllida as the ladies turned to go down the stairs. ‘We do not curtsy or shake hands. The depth of the bow signifies respect for rank or age.’

  It seemed a long way down to the hall and the waiting men. Phyllida hung back to let her companions go first and the marquess came to the foot of the stairs, his hands held out to them.

  ‘How do you manage to look more beautiful every day?’ he asked his wife as he bent to kiss her cheek. The emotion just beneath the surface caught at Phyllida. This truly was a love match. ‘It is no wonder we have such a lovely daughter.’ He smiled at Sara and Phyllida saw he had an emerald stud in his earlobe. ‘Miss Hurst. You look—’

  ‘Enchanting,’ Ashe finished for him. ‘Magical.’ Phyllida put her hands carefully together and bowed her head and he did the same, the skin around his eyes creasing as he smiled at her. He had a diamond in his ear and looked, she decided on a wave of longing, indecently glamorous.

  ‘Will we have an armed guard?’ she asked, needing to cut the tension that flowed between them. ‘We are all wearing the most beautiful gems and jewellery. I imagine we are a footpad’s dream come true.’

  ‘We are all armed,’ Ashe said.

  Of course, he seemed to be able to conceal knives anywhere about his person and his father no doubt did the same. But ‘All of you?’

  ‘Naturally. Sara and I have these.’ Lady Eldonstone flipped the thick braid of hair over her shoulder and withdrew an ornamental pin that proved to be a long, and probably lethal, skewer. ‘Would you like one? I think there is a small one that would be hidden by your hair.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Ashe said. ‘You have both been trained to use the things. Phyllida would probably impale a dowager or run an ambassador through, just by turning her head too fast.’ He put on his mask and became even more mysteriously exotic. ‘I promise to rescue you if you are set upon by footpads.’

  Phyllida shivered, partly aroused by the promise in his heavy-lidded gaze, partly in reaction to the potential for violent action in his lean, muscled body.

  The carriage was at the door. The marquess began to usher his wife and daughter out, but turned as Ashe said, ‘With five of us the ladies’ silks will get crushed. I have ordered the chaise and we will follow you.’

  ‘Unchaperoned?’ But the marchioness did not appear to find it shocking, or to hear her, and the footman was already closing the door of the
larger carriage.

  ‘Do I need a chaperon?’ Ashe asked as the chaise drew up.

  ‘Not for you, you wretched man! What if someone sees us arrive?’ Phyllida demanded as he handed her in.

  ‘We will be right behind the others, don’t fuss so.’ He reached forwards and tweaked her veil evenly about her shoulders. ‘You are nervous, that is all. Calm down, Phyllida. You look utterly ravishing. No one will know who you are, you can relax and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Calm down? I am alone in a carriage at night with a man who keeps trying to seduce—I am sorry—persuade me to sleep with him. I am laden with a fortune in someone else’s gemstones and gold. I am wearing a gorgeous outfit that feels positively indecent for some reason I cannot quite put my finger on and you, you patronising man, you tell me to calm down?’

  Ashe moved to sit beside her. Phyllida stiffened, but the seat was too narrow to shift away. Through the thin silks the heat of his thigh was like a brand against her skin.

  ‘When I make love to you, Phyllida, neither of us is going to get any sleep,’ he promised, his voice like a tiger’s purr in the semi-darkness. ‘That is a promise. Those clothes feel indecent because wearing them you are more aware of your body and of what your body wants. As for the jewellery, I will protect both you and it.’

  ‘And who is going to protect me against you?’ she demanded, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice.

  ‘Why, no one,’ Ashe said and lifted her so she was sitting on his thighs. His arms closed around her. ‘I want your hands on me, Phyllida. I want to strip those silks from your body and cover it with mine.’ She gasped as his mouth found the angle of neck and shoulder and his tongue slid insinuatingly up to the soft skin beneath her ear. ‘I want to make love to you until you beg me for mercy.’

  They were in a carriage, driving through the streets of Mayfair, minutes away from a crowded ballroom. There was nothing Ashe could do to carry out his threats, his promises, surely? But she wanted him to. With a groan Phyllida ran her hands into the thick silk of his hair and captured his head, holding him as though to prevent the delicious torment his tongue was wreaking ever stopping.