Mary Nichols - Devil-May-Dare

‘When is this deception to take place?’ her brother demanded. ‘It must be done publicly, you know, and I must see it with my own eyes.’

She laughed, realising the occasion had to be right; she could not expect to deceive her aunt, however short-sighted she was, or Frank Burford, who had already seen her dressed as a man. ‘I will tell you when I am ready.’

They were interrupted by the Marquis who, having returned Miss Thornton to her mama, was now bowing in front of Lydia and claiming the waltz. She smiled a mischievous little smile which both intrigued and alarmed him and allowed herself to be led on to the floor.

She had spent hours in the schoolroom learning the steps of the waltz with her brother and such friends who lived in the neighbourhood of Raventrees, though she had never danced it on a crowded ballroom floor, but she need not have worried, for her partner was expert and was so tall that he made her feel small and feminine, an unusual sensation for her. They moved as if moulded together and she hardly noticed that he was holding her closer than the regulation twelve inches.

‘It is a refreshing change to dance with someone without being tickled under the chin by a feather head-dress,’ he said, referring to the fact that her head was on a level with his shoulder and not the middle button of his waistcoat.

‘And I to find I am not looking over my partner’s head,’ she responded quickly. ‘You know, one of Papa’s criteria for a husband for me is that he should be tall.’

He was slightly taken aback that she should be so outspoken about it but recovered himself quickly. ‘What other requirements would a suitor need before he could approach the eligible Miss Wenthorpe?’ he asked. ‘A title, perhaps? And a fortune?’

She laughed, knowing he was bamming, but she was her brother’s sister and if she had allowed a teasing to bother her she would have had a very unhappy childhood. ‘Plain Mr is a title of sorts and a guinea might be a fortune to some poor beggar, so I suppose I could reasonably say yes to that.’

‘And handsome?’

‘Handsome is as handsome does.’

‘And should he be head over heels in love with you?’

‘Oh, that above everything,’ she said, turning her head to laugh up into his face. He was regarding her with a slightly lop-sided smile and a light dancing in his eyes which disturbed her. It was as if he had thought of some jest but was unsure whether to share it with her. ‘You do not agree with that, I see.’

‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘I concur whole heartedly. Do you think you will find such a one here?’

‘Probably not,’ she said. If her wager were to succeed it would have to be done when his lordship was absent, for he would, she was certain, see right through any disguise; he seemed to be able to look right into her heart and make it beat so fast she could hardly breathe. She was beginning to regret the impulse which had made her throw out such a challenge. It was madness. She smiled to herself. Mad and bad and heaven help her if she failed!

‘A penny for your thoughts,’ he offered, as they whirled round the floor in perfect unison, with his hand comfortably about her waist.

‘Oh, no, my lord,’ she said, colouring. ‘Not even for a golden guinea.’

He laughed, so that the dowagers closest to them looked up with startled expressions and then began to whisper among themselves that Miss Wenthorpe was far too forward and it would be her just deserts if no one offered for her except that scapegrace Longham, who would undoubtedly make her miserable. ‘Then I must remain in ignorance, for I have no intention of bidding any higher.’

‘I perceive, my lord, that you always consider carefully before you lay out your money.’

‘Now, I wonder what you can mean by that observation?’

‘I collect you were going to purchase a high-perch phaeton.’

‘Was I? Then I changed my mind. It was an unnecessary extravagance.’ He was enjoying the exchange, teasing her and titillating her curiosity. If she passed on what he had said to others, the town would soon believe he was mean-spirited as well as down on his uppers. Serve ’em right, he thought. He would not have his bride chosen for him by gossips or avaricious mamas, and if Ernest Grimshaw were to hear that he was without the blunt to pursue his case, then so much the better. ‘Would you join me for a drive in the park one afternoon?’

‘But how can I do that if you did not buy the phaeton?’ she queried, lifting her eyebrows at him and proving that she, too, could tease. ‘Surely you do not intend to drive me in that old coach of yours? I am still black and blue from my last outing in it.’

‘It’s that or nothing,’ he said, trying in vain to keep a serious face. ‘Do you dare?’

‘My lord, you should know I never refuse a dare.’

‘Then I will call for you the day after tomorrow. Shall we say at two?’

Oh, she should never have been so rash, she decided, as she lay sleepless in the early hours; it was almost as if the two glasses of champagne she had consumed had bemused her senses. Accepting the Marquis’s dare was enough to put her beyond the pale, but the wager with her brother was almost criminal and certainly cruel. She began to wonder how she would feel if she were Amelia Thornton and such a prank were played on her. Mortified and humiliated were the words that came to mind. No, she could not do it and she would tell Tom so. If it cost her twenty pounds, then so be it.

But her brother was nowhere to be found when she rose towards noon and went in search of him. His bed, she discovered, had not been slept in and his valet vouchsafed the opinion that Mr Wenthorpe had gone on to play cards after escorting her and her aunt home after the ball; Barber had been told not to wait for him, so he could not be sure. Forced to wait for Tom’s return, she decided to go for a ride and, ordering her horse to be saddled, she went to her room, changed into the blue velvet habit, perched the beaver on her curls and made her way to the stables, determined to gallop off her fit of the blue devils.

The day was fine, with a promise of spring, and Hyde Park was full of horses and carriages, barouches, phaetons, curricles, tilburys and gigs, each one containing its share of fashionable ladies, demireps and débutantes, together with their escorts, all wanting to be noticed, and the pace they were setting was slow, if not actually stationary. Riders were also out in great numbers on high-stepping thoroughbreds, neat little cobs and hired hacks. She saw Lord Longham sitting astride a huge black stallion, engrossed in conversation with a modishly dressed lady in a barouche across the railing which divided the Row from the carriageway. They were laughing together, oblivious to others around them. Lydia reined in; she was in no mood to exchange polite nonsense when all she could think of was that foolish wager. He looked up and their glances met and held. Disconcerted, she wheeled her mount away and cantered off.

Finding herself in what might pass in the metropolis for open country, she set the horse to gallop with Scrivens vainly trying to keep up. ‘It won’t do, Miss Lydia,’ he called after her. ‘It won’t do. At ’ome in Raventrees it don’ matter, but in London…’ When she returned home she was in a much better humour and even the scolding her aunt gave her for being late for nuncheon failed to dampen her spirits.

It was Tom who managed to do that. She met him on the stairs on her way to change out of her habit. His face was grey from lack of sleep, his hair was tousled and his cravat tied so carelessly it resembled nothing so much as a dishcloth. ‘Tom, have you been up all night?’ she demanded.

‘Got caught up in a game at White’s,’ he said.