The Incomparable Countess. Mary Nichols
want to fling money at you too.’
‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘No, but I thought you had more spirit.’ He smiled at their hostess, who was bearing down upon them.
‘Lord Loscoe,’ she gushed. ‘What do you think? Is it not an excellent likeness?’
He bowed. ‘Oh, excellent,’ he said, ignoring Frances’s splutter of laughter at his duplicity. ‘Lady Corringham is indeed very talented.’
‘Have you ever sat for your portrait, my lord?’ her ladyship asked.
‘Not for very many years,’ he answered carefully. ‘It can be a very tedious business, and I have so little time for it.’
‘Ah, but now you are in town, you must surely have some leisure. I can thoroughly recommend her ladyship.’
‘Oh, please, Lady Willoughby,’ Frances put in. ‘You are putting me to the blush.’
‘Oh, you are far too old to be blushing,’ the woman said tactlessly, a statement which made the Duke chuckle. Frances felt colour flood her face, which only proved how wrong her ladyship was. ‘Now, my lord, you must come and talk to my other guests. And Felicity is dying to make the acquaintance of Lady Lavinia.’
He bowed to Frances. ‘My lady, your obedient.’ And then he was gone, followed by his daughter.
Frances watched his tall straight back moving away from her and then her attention was taken by other people who wanted to talk to her about having their portraits painted. She was kept busy for several minutes, making appointments to meet them again to talk about their requirements, and she did not see the Duke and his daughter leave. A few minutes later she left herself.
As a business exercise, the afternoon had been a great success, though she was left wondering why her ladyship was so enthusiastically promoting her. Did she think she needed the money? But she did, didn’t she? Every penny.
That evening she attended a concert arranged by Mrs Georgiana Butterworth in aid of the war orphans, one of her favourite charities, and enjoyed the music immensely. She had not given the Duke of Loscoe another thought and was taken aback to see him during the interval talking animatedly to one of the guests. He was wearing an evening suit of black cloth and a pristine white cravat, simple clothes, but superbly cut, she admitted to herself, while wondering if he was truly interested in war orphans or was simply doing the rounds in search of his new wife, though the company could hardly be classed as the haut monde and not one of the worthy ladies present seemed to qualify. They were either married, too old, or not from the upper echelons of Society and he would never marry so far beneath him, as he had proved seventeen years before.
It was some moments before he saw her and then his eyebrows rose in surprise as if she was the last person he had expected to see. He excused himself from the matron who was engaging him in conversation and made his way over to her.
‘Countess, I had not anticipated seeing you again so soon.’
‘Nor I you. It is not a gathering I would have thought would interest you.’
‘Why not?’ he asked sharply. ‘The plight of children orphaned by war is a worthy cause and you must think so, too, or you would not be here.’
‘Indeed, I do.’
‘Then we have a mutual interest,’ he said.
She did not reply, and he looked quizzically at her. ‘Do you find that unacceptable, my lady?’ he asked softly.
‘What?’
‘That we are both interested in the orphans and wish to improve their lives.’
‘Not at all.’ She forced herself to ignore the swift beating of her heart. She was behaving like a lovesick schoolgirl and her thirty-five years old in a few weeks! ‘The more help they have the better. Some of them are in dire straits.’
‘Good. I should not like to think my presence in any way deterred you from your good work.’
‘Now why in heaven’s name should it?’ she retorted, her voice rising a fraction. She immediately dropped her tone to add in a hoarse whisper, ‘You are insufferably conceited, if you think that your presence or otherwise makes the slightest difference to me.’
‘Then I beg your pardon for my presumption.’
Mrs Butterworth joined them before she could answer. ‘I see you have made the acquaintance of the Duke,’ she said to Frances.
‘Oh, we are old sparring partners,’ Marcus said, a remark which sent Frances’s thoughts flying back to her studio and the painting of the pugilist. ‘We have not met these many years and were enjoying a coze about old times.’
‘How delightful! You must be gratified, my lady, that the Duke has joined our little band of subscribers. His name on the list will encourage others, do you not think?’
‘I am sure it will,’ she murmured.
‘We are looking for a good property to give some of them a temporary home until we can find new permanent homes for them,’ the lady told him, while Frances surreptitiously studied his face for signs of boredom and found none. But then he was always good at pretending. ‘At present they are housed in a dilapidated tenement in Monmouth Street, but the lease is running out, so we must find something more substantial and comfortable very soon.’
‘Then you may count on me for a donation, Mrs Butterworth,’ he said with a smile which totally captivated the good lady. Little did Mrs Butterworth know, Frances mused, that his smile hid a heart as cold and rigid as stone.
‘Oh, thank you, sir. This concert has been such a success that we are thinking of holding a ball to raise more funds. May we count on you to purchase a ticket?’
‘If I am not engaged on the evening in question, then I shall be happy to do so,’ he said with a smile.
The orchestra began tuning up their instruments and everyone was moving back to their seats for the second half of the programme. Marcus gave Frances a thin smile and inclined his head. ‘My lady.’
‘Your Grace.’
Frances returned to her seat, her thoughts and emotions in turmoil. Was her every move to be dogged by the Duke of Loscoe? Was he to be everywhere she went? She had never dreamed she would come across him at this unfashionable gathering. It had been a severe shock, more than the shock of meeting him in the park, or the encounter at Lady Willoughby’s. Was nowhere safe from his odious presence? But she could not hide herself away at home, could she? She had told him his presence made no difference and she must school herself to make that true.
It had to be true. If he had not been so long absent from London, if he had always been in the forefront of Society these last seventeen years, she would have become inured, she told herself; it was his sudden reappearance that was causing the upheaval and reminding her of that summer in 1800. One summer. One summer could not possibly be important now. She was making a mountain out of a molehill. And there was far more to life than dwelling on the past.
It was when they were all taking their leave that she saw him again. She had just taken her pelisse from Mrs Butterworth’s footman, when she felt a hand helping her on with it. She turned to thank whoever it was, only to find herself looking into the amber eyes of the Duke of Loscoe, and like amber they seemed to have a light and depth of their own, as they surveyed her face. ‘Thank you,’ she said coolly.
‘You seem to be without an escort, my lady—may I offer my services?’
‘I have my carriage, thank you.’
‘Then I will say goodnight.’ He took his hat from the footman and clamped it on his head before striding down the path to the road where his own coach waited. ‘Take the carriage home, Brown,’ he told his driver. ‘I will walk back.’
It was a good walk, more than two miles through some of the less fashionable areas