The Incomparable Countess. Mary Nichols
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“This is what I remember most about you,” he murmured.
“The graceful way you move when you dance.”
She should bring the conversation to an end. Frances knew that, but she loved it.
“The way you laugh. The way your hair curls on your neck so lovingly, and your mouth. I do not think I can begin to describe that….”
She stumbled, but his firm hand held her upright and she was able to bring her steps and her swiftly beating heart under control. “Your Grace, I do believe you are trying to flirt with me.”
“Of course. And you are not indifferent, I hope?”
“A woman would be a ninny to take compliments seriously, Your Grace, especially when they are delivered by someone so obviously skilled in the art.”
The Incomparable Countess
Mary Nichols
MARY NICHOLS,
born in Singapore, came to England when she was three, and has spent most of her life in different parts of East Anglia. She has been a radiographer, school secretary, information officer and industrial editor, as well as a writer. She has three grown-up children and four grandchildren.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
1817
Frances, Countess of Corringham, paintbrush in hand, looked up from her easel at her sitter. Lady Willoughby was extremely fat; she had innumerable double chins, made more obvious by a heavy necklace of diamonds, and her small eyes were sunk in folds of pink flesh. Her ginger hair peeped from the edges of a huge pink satin turban which sported a sweeping feather fastened with a diamond pin.
The picture on the canvas bore little resemblance to reality, for Frances knew that she must flatter her sitter if she was ever going to be paid for her work, and though she had caught the eyes and the shape of brows and nose, the flesh had been toned down, there were fewer wrinkles and only the merest suggestion of a double chin. But it was still undeniably a portrait of Lady Willoughby.
One day, she mused, one day she would paint what she saw and never mind the consequences. Now she had done enough for one day. She was just picking up a cloth to wipe her brush, when her ladyship spoke. ‘I heard the Duke of Loscoe was come to town and intending to stay for the Season,’ she said with a note that sounded uncommonly like triumph.
Not by a single flicker of an eyelid did Frances reveal any sign of agitation, though it took all her considerable self-control. ‘Is that so?’ She cleaned the brush with more than usual care.
‘Yes, I had it from my son, Benedict, who was told by the Marquis of Risley, the Duke’s son, so it came from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. Benedict is at school with the Marquis, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t know,’ Frances murmured, wishing she could add that she didn’t care either.
‘Oh, yes, Benedict, being seventeen, is two years older, but they are great friends.’
‘You don’t say!’
‘Yes and Lady Lavinia will soon be making her come-out, though what the ton will make of her I cannot imagine.’
‘Lady Lavinia?’ Frances was determined to feign ignorance of the progeny of Marcus Stanmore, third Duke of Loscoe, though she was perfectly aware of the undercurrents in Lady Willoughby’s words. She did not want that old scandal dragged up again. Oh, it did not hurt now; widowed and approaching her thirty-fifth birthday, she considered herself mature enough to let the gabble-grinders have their say and not mind, but she could not deny a twinge of something that might have been regret. Or was it anger? Could she still be angry?
‘Oh, you know very well Lady Lavinia Stanmore is the Duke’s daughter and by all accounts thoroughly spoiled by her father, especially since the Duchess died. I have heard she rides astride and drives a curricle all over the Derbyshire estate without so much as a groom beside her. And her father lets her meddle in estate business and allows her to dine with his friends and say whatever she likes to them and her not yet seventeen.’
‘I am sure the Duke knows what he is doing.’ Frances stood up and began gathering together her easel, canvas and paints, prior to leaving.
‘Give me leave to doubt it, Countess. What that girl needs is a mother, someone to show her how to go on or she will never take. I heard that was why he had come to town—he’s looking for a new wife.’
This time Frances did give a small start which she disguised as annoyance that a smudge of paint had got on to her blue jaconet gown, while her informant carried on blithely adding salt to a wound which should have healed long before. ‘He is all of forty, but well preserved and still very handsome. I do believe he will be the catch of the Season.’
‘I am glad my stepdaughter is already happily married,’ Frances said as she packed her painting accoutrements into a large case made for the purpose. ‘And I can watch events from the sidelines. Now, I must be off. The portrait will be finished in a couple of days, I think.’
‘Good. Bring it round on Thursday, when Lord Willoughby will be at home, though I am sure he will approve. You have an incomparable reputation for excellence or he would never have engaged you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I am having a few friends in for tea. Please do join us.’
Frances thanked her again and took her leave. A servant conducted her to the front door where another servant restored her pelisse and gloves to her and yet another carried her painting things out to her carriage and put them on the seat before letting down the step so that she could take her seat. John Harker, her groom and driver, set the beautifully matched horses to a steady trot, along Upper Brook Street, before turning into Duke Street and pulling up at the front door of Corringham House.
‘I shan’t need you any more today, John,’ she told the groom, as a footman came out of the tall mansion and took her case, canvas and easel from the carriage and carried it indoors.
‘Yes, my lady.’ He drove away to the mews and she followed the footman into the house, where she took off her hat, a scrap of straw with a small brim and a large feather, and handed it to Rose, her maid, before following the footman up to the studio. He leaned the easel against