Cut from the Same Cloth: A Humorous Traditional Regency Romance Page 4

  She couldn’t think. She put it down to lack of air. Foxed? This is what he says after a kiss like that? Dratted man. She would have slapped him if he hadn’t eased so efficiently out of range. “If you think I will accept ‘I’m foxed’ by way of an apology for this scandalous behavior, you are sorely mistaken.”

  “It was not an apology.” He accented each syllable. “Simply a rationalization. I never apologize.” He turned and headed straight for the door without so much as a by-your-leave.

  Izzie fumed at his back as he disappeared into the blackness of the hallway. “Wretch.”

  She closed the door on Robert’s room and returned to her own with renewed zeal for her sewing. The sooner she brought Lord Pointy-Nose-But-Has-Thirty-Thousand-A-Year to the sticking point, the sooner she could escape Lord St. Rude-Uncouth-And-Overbearing. She decided to make the neckline of her gown a full inch lower than she’d originally planned. No more shilly-shallying about.

  Not more than a half hour later, she heard scratching on her door. Aha! The wretch has come crawling back to apologize properly. Well, she wouldn’t accept. She hurried to open the door, planning to ring a peal over his head he wouldn’t soon forget. Her spirits fell when she saw it was a sleepy servant, his white wig askew.

  “His lordship said to bring you these oil lamps, lest ye go blind stitching in the dark.”

  “Stitching? How did he—” She stopped and took the lamps from the servant. “Thank you. You may tell Lord St. Evert that he is mistaken. I am not sewing at this hour. However, I do enjoy reading late into the evening, and therefore, I will accept his offering as a gesture of apology.”

  The fellow glanced pointedly past her at the sewing strewn across the small escritoire.

  Izzie sniffed loudly. “Don’t be impertinent. You will tell him exactly what I said.”

  He bowed. “Yes, mum.”

  She lit the lamps immediately and blew out her guttering candles. Pleased at the bright circles of light that illuminated her handiwork, she whispered, “Thank you.” Although, she was uncertain whether she was thanking Lord St. Evert or the heavenly beings who, on rare occasions, made good things happen.

  She bent back to her sewing, but before long, there was another scratch at the door. This time she approached it more warily. The same bedraggled servant stood in the hallway. “Begging your pardon, m’lady, but his lordship has sent me with a message for ye.”

  “I do wish you would stop referring to him as his lordship. He is not a duke.” She tilted her head, holding the edge of the doorframe as she waited. “Yes? What is the message.”

  “He says”—the befuddled fellow cleared his throat—“he says to tell the young lady, balderdash and folderol!’”

  “Balderdash?”

  “Yes, m’lady. That’s it. Balderdash. And I was to add that it weren’t no apology. His lordship waxed rather coarse on the subject. Mentioned he’d rather burn in hell and a few other words what might be best left unsaid, long as you get the meaning.”

  “Oh, I take his meaning.”

  “Very good then.” He bowed and tried to hurry away.

  “Wait.”

  He turned around and trudged slowly back to her door, reluctantly awaiting her instruction.

  “Folderol?” She repeated, frowning.

  “Yes, miss. I believe he was referring to the bit about you reading rather than sew—”

  “I know to what he referred. You tell him...” But she could not think of how to respond.

  The footman shifted impatiently from leg to leg.

  Izzie tapped her finger against her lip, cogitating, and at last, she smiled. She knew exactly how best to punish the rascal. “You may tell Lord St. Evert that I do not wish to be disturbed any further tonight, for I am going to sleep, perchance to dream. And what will I be dreaming of? You may tell him that I will be dreaming of the next time I might give him a proper taste of my tongue.”

  The servant stared at her warily.

  She sniffed and corrected her posture. “Be sure you emphasize the word proper.”

  “As you wish, m’lady.”

  And that, she thought as she closed the door, ought to keep his lordship awake and pondering the direction of her meaning for quite some time. But neither did she go easily to her sleep, for she found her waking mind fixated upon the very dreams with which she had threatened Lord St.

  Most provoking.

  Chapter 6

  Pattern Card of Perfection

  LORD POINTY-NOSE called on Lady Elizabeth the following afternoon. Lord Horton, she corrected herself. She must stop referring to him as Pointy-Nose in her mind. It would be disastrous if it happened to slip out in conversation. She scrambled through her wardrobe trying to find something suitable that he had not already seen, and almost didn’t hear the scratching on the door. Elizabeth stopped her frantic search and jammed her hands onto her hips. If it was Lord St. Evert’s insolent servant sent to annoy her again today, she would happily box his ears and say, “Take that back to his lordship with my compliments.” Although, he was a burly sort of servant, and she doubted he would take kindly to having his ears boxed.

  Owing to the scant amount of sleep she’d gotten the night before, her patience hung on a short leash. With a deep breath, she schooled her features, reminding herself that she was a lady. No colossal jackass, be he a lord or not, was going to rattle her cage. Before she could order whomever it was to go away, the door opened and in trotted a maid that looked for all the world like a dwarf with a great bobbing topknot of brown hair piled on her head.

  “Her ladyship sent this gown to see if it suits your complexion. She believes the shade will accentuate your dark hair and fair skin perfectly.” She tipped up onto her toes and held some of the deep cornflower blue fabric next to Elizabeth’s cheek. “And so it does. Her ladyship will be ever so pleased.”

  The odd little woman laid the gown on the bed and bustled about the room as if she were in charge.

  “You’re Lady Alameda’s abigail, are you not?”

  “Aye, that I am. I’ve been her lady’s maid since she was out of leading strings. An’ seeing as you have a gentleman waiting downstairs, I expect you’ll be requiring a bit of help.”

  Elizabeth obediently held out her arms as the lady’s maid untied her tapes. “Am I to understand that the countess means to loan this gown to me?”

  “Heavens no, m’lady. She wishes you to have it, with her compliments. She had it made for one of her nieces. No need of it now. Happily married, with a newborn babe. A lovely young lady. Saved my life, she did.” The chatty maid went efficiently about her work while relating a preposterous tale wherein Lady Alameda’s niece dove off a pier, into a raging sea, and performed a daring rescue to save the maid from certain drowning. The young lady’s handsome suitor found Lady Alameda’s niece collapsed on the beach and carried her to safety.

  It had been years since anyone told Elizabeth a fairy story.

  The gown slid over her shoulders, soft, luxurious blue satin floating down, draping across her figure. The heart-shaped neckline curved perfectly over her breasts and fell in cunningly simple lines. Very plain, but elegant, it had been trimmed at the hem and neck with darker blue silk. Elizabeth vowed to study the pattern in greater detail when she had more time, for the effect was stunning.

  She smiled and murmured, “It’s absolutely brilliant. Lady Alameda is a genius.”

  “Oh yes, miss, that she is. No question about it. Now, if you’ll sit down, I’ll be seeing to your hair, shall I?”

  When Lady Elizabeth finally set her slippered toe on the white marble staircase and prepared to descend, it was with complete confidence that Lord Horton would be kneeling at her feet before the afternoon ended. Men were such simpleminded creatures. Most men. There were a few exceptions. Her inscrutable father for one. And Lord St. Evert, damn his eyes...

  At the sound of his laughter emanating from the sitting room, she cringed. Once more, the lout was causing lines to form in her bro
w. No more wrinkles, she reminded herself. What she needed was a stiff plaster to hold her forehead smooth until the glorious day when she and Robert might remove themselves from Lord St. Evert’s abode.

  More guffaws, louder this time, echoed from the second-floor drawing room. Elizabeth recognized another familiar voice. Oh joy, Robert was there too. The three of them were so effectively entertained they would neglect her entrance entirely. It was so vitally important that Lord Horton receive a stirring impression. She hesitated on the stairs.

  Cairn appeared out of nowhere and bowed. “Would you care for me to announce you, my lady?”

  Yes. No. It would be doing it up a bit too much. She shook her head and stood in the doorway doubting whether any of them, Lord Horton in particular, would notice her at all. Everything depended on her securing his affections. The voice of uncertainty taunted her, whispering truths she didn’t want to hear. She was a pauper and no real beauty into the bargain, merely a cunning craftsman, a trickster. What was she playing at? Her family’s future depended on her, and what did she have at her command? Precious little. A title and a few artful tricks.

  She vacillated between anger and tears as she watched the men laughing together. It was all so abominably difficult. Unfair. Robert failed to grasp the gravity of their situation. How could he stand there hooting like a schoolboy and slapping his friends on the back as if he hadn’t a care in the world when she must do this wretched marriage thing? Her hands began to shake, so she pressed them against her thighs. She would not succumb to nerves. She would not.

  St. Evert noticed her first. He abruptly stopped chuckling, straightened, and let go of the fireplace mantel, staring at Elizabeth with the same startled intensity he had the night before. She felt utterly naked under the broad strokes of his gaze. He reddened. And so he should. She failed to understand why his features then hardened, and he frowned at her as if she had caused him some offense. Following such a shameless perusal, she was the one who ought to be offended.

  “Ah, Izzie. Speak of the devil...” Robert gestured broadly to her. “I was just telling St. Evert and Lord Horton about that time you put together a pair of wings for each of us.”

  She remained in the doorway exchanging hostile glares with Lord St. Evert, refusing to look away until he did. She noted his coat was sewn out of a fabric very similar to the dark blue with which her dress was trimmed. Her glare took on a slightly triumphant twist. A coxcomb cannot appreciate having his feathers mimicked. Although, he did not look so much like a coxcomb today. The blue coat was perfectly acceptable, and with his reddish gold hair, not entirely unflattering—she forced herself to look away.

  Her brother was yammering on about something. It nipped at her sensibilities. “You told them what?”

  “About the wings. You remember. The day we jumped off of the roof into the hay wagon.”

  “Surely you didn’t.”

  Lord Horton came forward and took her hands in his. “A delightful story, Lady Elizabeth.” He led her into the room. “I only wish I could have been there to see it. Your resourcefulness astounds me. However did you create the wings?”

  “Robert, dearest...” She tried, ever so hard, to smile. “Of all the stories to tell—”

  “Nonsense, Izzie. First-rate story. Tell them how you made the wings.” Robert turned to St. Evert and explained. “Our governess read us the story about the Greek chap and his father who made wings out of wax and flew too close to the sun.”

  “Icarus,” St. Evert muttered, his gaze flitting to hers and then returning to the fireplace mantel as if he saw something of great interest on the naked surface.

  “That’s the fellow.” Robert nodded gleefully. “So, our Izzie wonders what would have happened if they hadn’t made them out of wax. ‘Why not make them out of cloth?’ she says.”

  “Why not, indeed?” Lord St. Evert sounded cool and skeptical.

  Elizabeth wished her vociferous brother would choose a different topic. She pulled on his arm as discreetly as possible. “We were ten, Robert. No one wishes to hear that silly old antic.”

  “Eleven. Oh, but Izzie it was marvelous. I’ll never forget the way you soared off the rooftop. I honestly thought you were going to fly. Truly fly. And you did for a minute or two!”

  “Hardly.” She had their attention now, but it was not for the reasons she had hoped, not alluring beauty, or entrancing grace—the things men valued. No, she had their attention because she had behaved like an idiot, climbed out of the attic window, put on a pair of willow-whip and silk wings, and jumped off the roof. “I suppose you mentioned how it all ended?”

  “Not yet. Told them about me, falling like lead ballast into the hay wagon. Mind you, that was after I saw what happened to Izzie. Wasn’t sure I wanted to chance it, so I just jumped.”

  Lord Horton lifted her hand and solicitously patted it, shaking his head. “It’s a wonder you weren’t killed, my dear. A wonder.”

  Robert eagerly drew them back to his dratted story. “That’s the thing of it. Those wings she made were quite remarkable. She missed the hay wagon entirely. Sailed clean over. Wasn’t until she tried to flap that things went sour.”

  Valen’s mouth quirked sideways. He’d left off concentrating on the fireplace. “And then?”

  Lord Horton leaned closer to her. “Yes, Lady Elizabeth, you must tell us all. Were you injured?” He still held her hand, as if holding it might save her from the disastrous results of a child’s flight twelve years earlier.

  She tried to smile charmingly, but Lord St. Evert’s smirk made it quite impossible. “Bruised, but otherwise in one piece.”

  Robert laughed, and Elizabeth knew, short of gagging him with his cravat, there would be no way to keep him mum.

  “The tree, Izzie. You’re leaving out the best part. Tell them about the tree. And Father. It was spectacular. She glided straight into the old beech. Got hung up in the upper branches like a wayward cherub. Everyone on the estate gathered under it. Mother was terrified you were going to fall. Cook sobbed as if you were already dead. The stable lads laughed so hard they rolled on the ground, and Father sacked the governess on the spot. Surely you remember?”

  “I was tangled in the branches. Rather busy at the time.”

  “Well, you can’t have forgotten Father. As I remember, he threatened you with a horsewhip if you didn’t come down straightway.” Robert laughed as if it were a grand joke of some kind. And why shouldn’t he? He’d been a son, second in line to the title, a boy, not a recalcitrant daughter. Elizabeth recalled, all too well, their father’s livid face as he shouted up at her. She’d clung to the branches, wondering if she might not be better off falling to her death rather than climbing down.

  He hadn’t used a horsewhip. It might have been better if he had. A willow switch had served the purpose. Father surmised who’d constructed the wings and led his heir up to the roof. He applied sufficient persuasion to her backside and legs to convince her to think more clearly in the future. After that, she had been consigned to studying household management and endless lessons on deportment and proper etiquette, no more history, or poems, no more myths about Greeks flying too close to the sun.

  No more foolishness.

  Lord St. Evert broke into her stream of memories. “For pity’s sake, Horton, stop chafing her hands. It isn’t as if she’s fainted.” He appeared perturbed. “The gel jumped off a roof. Not the fainting type.”

  Judging by his exasperation, Lord St. Evert preferred the fainting type.

  Lord Horton dropped her hand as if it were an ember. “No, no, of course not. Such a harrowing tale, I simply meant to comfort—”

  “A child’s adventure.” Valen moved closer to them, his voice a trifle softer. “Who hasn’t dreamed of flying?”

  “Yes, quite. Just as the birds do.” Lord Horton eased her away from St. Evert. “And knowing how much you enjoy birds, Lady Elizabeth, I’ve composed a poem in your honor. If you will come and sit on the divan, I will be pleased to rec
ite it for you.”

  As Lord Horton led Elizabeth to the couch, she caught her brother and St. Evert exchanging disgruntled glances. So, naturally, she encouraged her admirer. “What? Only one poem? But I do so enjoy your exquisite verses.”

  “Oh!” He exclaimed and pulled a collection of papers out from inside his coat. “In that case, I brought two or three you might like to hear.”

  She smiled sweetly at her brother and St. Evert. “Won’t that be a rare treat?” She was certain one of them groaned.

  Lord Byron’s poetry would not meet with any competition from Lord Pointy-Nose-It’s-A-Lucky-Thing-He-Has-Thirty-Thousand’s poetic attempts. If it were not for the fact that she needed Lord Horton to come up to the mark, Elizabeth would have expired from boredom. While he droned on, and on, and on, she had fallen into analyzing the construction of Lady Alameda’s superb gown.

  She glanced up as Cairn walked quietly into the room with a small silver tray in his hand. The card was not for her. He presented it to Lord St. Evert, who read it quickly, nodded, and pretended to return his attention to the pitiable poet. Elizabeth wondered what St. Evert might be dwelling on, reasonably certain it wasn’t the noble song of sparrows and bluebirds. Did he recall kissing her the previous night? Or had he drifted off to sleep and forgotten all about it?

  Cairn returned to the doorway and cleared his throat. Elizabeth’s overdramatic poet stopped mid-sentence, his arm in the air, pointing to some imaginary fowl, and turned with the rest of the room’s occupants to greet newcomers.

  Cairn, in very stiff butler tones announced the arrivals. “Mr. George Dunworthy and his sister, Miss Susannah Dunworthy.”

  Miss Dunworthy was everything Elizabeth was not—a sweet, demure little lamb with hair the color of lemon rinds curling out from underneath her clever chip straw bonnet. Definitely the fainting type. St. Evert was bound to approve. Not that Elizabeth cared. Heavens, no. Why should she? She didn’t. But she hated Miss Dunworthy anyway, just for good measure.