Louise Allen - Tarnished Amongst the Ton

‘I know your title, that is all, and he just called you Clere. I saw you come in with your family and Lady Malling deduced who you all were. I was attempting to avoid you,’ she added bitterly, apparently with the intent of flattening any self-congratulation that she might be interested in him.

‘My name is Ashe Herriard, Miss Hurst. Have you any other disguises I am likely to meet with?’

‘No, you have viewed them all.’ She regarded him, her head tipped a little to one side. He was reminded of Lucifer assessing a strange object for its potential as food or plaything. ‘Ashe. Is that an Indian name? I know a trader down at the docks called Ashok. He has been here for years and has an extensive business, but he told me he came from Bombay.’ She smiled. ‘A bit of a rogue.’

‘No, that element of my name is from my paternal grandmother’s family. If you want the lot I am George Ashbourne Talish Herriard.’

‘And Talish means?’

‘Lord of the earth.’

‘That seems… appropriate,’ Miss Hurst observed astringently. She was still leaning back, gently fanning herself, but the tension was coming off her in waves.

‘It is somewhat high-flown,’ Ashe agreed. ‘After my great-grandfather, the Raja of Kalatwah.’ He might as well get that out of the way now.

‘Truly?’ Miss Hurst sat up straight, dark arched brows lifting. ‘Does that make you a prince? Should I be curtsying?’ That last, he could tell, was sarcasm.

‘It made my grandmother a princess and it made my mother, who had an English father, confused,’ he explained and surprised a laugh from her. ‘I am merely a viscount with a courtesy title.’

‘She is very beautiful, your mother.’ He nodded. ‘And your father is exceedingly handsome. I imagine most of the women in the room have fallen in love with him.’

‘They will have to get past my mother first and she is not the demurely serene lady she appears.’ He stretched out his long legs and made himself comfortable. On the other side of their jungle screen the ball was in full, noisy swing. Cool air flowed through the gap in the window, wafting sensual puffs of jasmine scent and warm woman to him. There were considerably worse places to be.

‘Demure? She makes me think of a panther,’ Miss Hurst observed.

‘Appropriate,’ he agreed. ‘What is your first name? It seems hardly fair not to tell me when you know mine.’

She studied him, her brown eyes wary. ‘Indian informality, Lord Clere?’

‘Brazen curiosity, Miss Hurst.’

That produced another gurgle of laughter, instantly repressed, as though she regretted letting her guard down. ‘Phyllida. It is somewhat of a burden to me, I have to confess.’

‘It is a pretty name. And have I met Phyllida Hurst on a quayside, in a shop and in this ballroom? Or are there two other names you have not told me?’

‘I will reveal no more, Lord Clere.’

‘No?’ He held her gaze for a long moment, then let his eyes roam over her, from the top of her elaborate coiffure, past the handsome cameos displayed on the pale, delicious, swell of her bosom, down over the curves of her figure in the fresh green silk to the kid slippers that showed below her hem. ‘That is a pity.’

Colour rose over Miss Hurst’s bosom, up her throat to stain her cheeks. It was delicious, Ashe thought, like the flush of pomegranate juice over iced sherbet on a hot day. She was no wide-eyed innocent if she took the meaning of his glance and words so promptly. But then she was obviously no sheltered society miss.

How old was she? Twenty-five, twenty-six? Attractive, bright, stylish, but not married. Why not? he wondered. Something to do with her secret lives, no doubt .

‘I would very much appreciate it if you did not mention that we had met before this evening, my lord.’ She said it quite calmly, but Ashe suspected that it was a matter of far more importance than she was revealing and that she hated having to ask him.

‘Members of the ton are not expected to be shopkeepers, I assume?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Hmm. Pity my maternal grandfather was a nabob, then.’ He was unconcerned what people thought of his ancestry, but he was interested in how she reacted.

‘If he was indecently rich, and is now dead, there is absolutely nothing for the heir to a marquisate to worry about. Society is curiously accommodating in its prejudices.’ Her expression was bleak. ‘At least, so far as gentlemen are concerned. Ladies are another matter altogether.’

‘So I could ruin you with this piece of gossip?’

‘Yes, as you know perfectly well. Ladies are not shopkeepers, nor do they walk about anywhere, let alone the docks, unescorted. Did you spend much time as a boy pulling the wings off flies, Lord Clere?’

Ashe felt an unfamiliar stab of conscience. This was, quite obviously, deathly serious to Miss Hurst. But it was a mystery why a lady should be in business at all. Was she so short of pin money? ‘I am sorry, I had no intention of torturing you. You have my word that I will not speak of this to anyone.’

The music stopped and dancers began to come off the floor. Another set had ended and he realised he should not be lurking behind the palms with Phyllida Hurst any longer. Someone might notice and assume they had an assignation. He could dent her reputation. ‘Will you dance, Miss Hurst?’

He hoped to Heaven it was something he could dance. He was decidedly rusty and the waltz had not reached Calcutta by the time they left. He was going to have to join in Sara’s lessons.

‘I do not dance,’ Miss Hurst said. ‘Please, do not let me detain you.’

‘I was going in any case. It would be more discreet. But you mean you never dance?’

‘I do not enjoy it,’ she said.

Liar . All the time they had been together on the window seat her foot had been tapping along with the music without her realising. She wanted to dance and for some reason would not. Interesting . Ashe stood up. ‘Then I will wish you good evening, Miss Hurst. Perhaps we will meet window shopping in Jermyn Street one day.’

‘I fear not. It is not a street where I can afford to pay the prices asked. Good evening, Lord Clere.’

He bowed and took himself off, well clear of her hiding place. He watched the couples whirling in the waltz, concluding that professional tuition was most definitely called for before he ventured on to the floor. After an interval Miss Hurst emerged and strolled off in the opposite direction.

Ashe wondered if there were any more unmarried ladies around with that combination of looks, style, spirit and wit. He had expected all the eligible young women to be cut from the same pattern: pretty, simpering, dull. Perhaps hunting for a wife would be more interesting than he had imagined. Miss Hurst had her scandalous secrets, and she was a little older than most of the unmarried girls. But she was certainly still well within her childbearing years and a shop was easy enough to dispose of.

He found his parents, who were watching Sara talk to a group of just the kind of girls he was thinking of so disparagingly. ‘There you are.’ His mother put her hand on his arm to detain him. ‘Lady Malling, may I introduce my son, Viscount Clere. Ashe, this is the Dowager Countess of Malling.’

He shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. This was the lady who had been with Phyllida when they had arrived at the ball. As he thought it he saw her again, talking to the young man he had guessed was her brother.

‘Perhaps you can tell me who that is, ma’am. The tall man with the dark brown hair just to the left of the arrangement of lilies.’