The Unflappable Miss Fairchild Read online

  “What the devil,” he began, but the orchestra music began to filter through the walls. The second act was about to start.

  Anne broke away from him. “My aunts will be wondering what happened to us. Please, let’s just go back.” She forced herself to walk to the door of the box. He must have picked up the glasses, for he followed her in with them in hand.

  Anne slipped into her seat as Chas handed the drinks to her aunts. He made some pleasant remark that set Millicent atwitter. The sound grated on her overset nerves. She forced herself to sit properly in her seat, hands clasped in her lap, eyes on the stage. She felt rather than saw Chas take a seat beside her.

  What was happening to her? Ever since meeting him her behavior had become less and less proper. Sitting by his side in a carriage race, exchanging confidences by firelight, bringing a supposed wounded stranger home: the events had seemed quite innocent at the time, but now she felt her face grow hot remembering.

  Was Lady Scanton right? Had she been unconsciously throwing herself at him from the moment they met? If so, she seemed to have succeeded if his request this afternoon and his appearance this evening were any indication. Could she really be as calculating as Lady Scanton?

  It was back to the question she had asked herself earlier. What did she want? The answer eluded her. She felt totally alone.

  She managed to compose herself to the point at which she could actually hear the music again. At a particularly stirring point, when the lead baritone began a heartfelt solo, she felt Chas’s hand on her arm. She stiffened.

  “Please forgive me if I’ve done anything to offend you,” he whispered in her ear, his breath a caress. “I’d very much like to make amends.”

  “No need,” she whispered back and was surprised to feel the heat of tears on her cheeks. His hand and voice withdrew, but she could feel his presence next to her in the dark, strangely comforting. The feeling of being alone had disappeared with his touch.

  When the second act ended to thunderous applause, she realized she’d have to make a decision. If she could only get time to think!

  Unfortunately, Agatha, the first to rise, attempted to take matters into her own hands. “Well, thank you for your services, Mr. Prestwick,” she said with a snif. “We shan’t keep you waiting.”

  “Why else was man created but to wait on the pleasures of woman?” Chas bowed gallantly, winking at Anne.

  “I doubt that was the good Lord’s plan,” Agatha replied.

  “Still, I am but your servant, madam. May I have the pleasure of escorting you ladies home?”

  “How delightful,” Millicent began, but Agatha interrupted. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Suddenly, Anne had had enough. Her arm ached where that horrid woman had pinched her. Her head was beginning to ache from the strain of hiding her feelings from Chas and her aunts. Just at the moment, she knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted to be somewhere she felt accepted, appreciated. There was only one person who had ever made her feel that way.

  She linked her arm with Chas’ and was gratified by his look of surprise, quickly masked. “How very thoughtful of you, Mr. Prestwick. My aunts have another conveyance, but I for one would be pleased to ride home in a private carriage. I’ll see you at home, dearests.” She managed to pull Chas and her cloak from the box before either of her aunts could say a word to stop her.

  Chapter Ten

  Chas stared down at the woman on his arm, wondering if this were the same proper young lady who had charmed him. He had never seen her in such a mood--strong as stone, cool as ice, and quite sure of what she wanted. Was this his angel, or the sorceress he had first named her? Frankly, both had appeal.

  He had been so pleased with himself at finding a replacement sofa that he found he simply couldn’t wait for some chance meeting to see her reaction. If they had been dressed in evening clothes, he’d reasoned, they could only have been going to the opera or a play at one of the theatres. He knew enough theatre managers to get himself in and out of the main play houses without having to stay for the performances. It took only a short time to bid Leslie adieu, slip home, make sure his mother was safety in bed, and change his clothes.

  He had been lucky enough to find them at the third theatre he tried. Using a friend’s opera glasses from the pit, he’d scanned the tiers of boxes until he spotted Anne. The hawk-nosed woman in black beside her could only have been Lady Crawford. Her harsh looks made Anne’s understated beauty stand out all the more. This evening she was dressed in a cranberry-colored gown, cut modestly low across her shoulders, with a high waist. A ruby locket on a gold chain hung about her neck. Her hair was once more up in that bun that he longed to undo. She sat there looking completely composed and at peace with the world.

  He had endured the first act and rushed to the box for all the world like a schoolboy anxious to impress his first crush. While Lady Crawford’s manner had nearly taken the wind out of his sails, he had been pleased to be invited to sit with them. With any luck, he could drive them all home and see Anne’s reactions to the sofa first hand.

  With that in mind, he had refrained from mentioning the sofa to Anne. Her kindness about her aunt’s slight had nearly unnerved him, but he had regained his composure in what he felt was a reasonable amount of time. He was still mystified about the change in Anne’s behavior when he had returned with the refreshments, as well as the spots, for all the world like blood, on her arm. He’d felt a strange satisfaction when she’d whispered back to him in the dark. That she had chosen to flaunt her aunt’s opinion and put herself in his protection surprised him. He was beginning to realize that he didn’t really know the lady at all.

  She was blushing now and biting her lower lip as if she regretted her hasty decision. Part of him thought to let her return to her aunts, but the more selfish part argued to take advantage of this moment. He slipped her black velvet cloak over her shoulders, smiling what he hoped was his most charming smile, and led her out to wait for his carriage.

  The crowds at the entrance were thick; carriages stretched for blocks in all directions. Chas knew his driver was long used to maneuvering the carriage to within inches of the door. When Chas whistled, the equipage was there in seconds. He handed Anne up, called up the address, and jumped in opposite her.

  He watched her closely as the carriage started off through the streets, but he could not determine her mood. She refused to meet his eyes, gazing instead out the window beside her. In profile, her classic features reminded him of a Greek bust. Was he looking at Ceres, Aphrodite, Diana? No, surely Athena, goddess of wisdom. A very proper young lady, this, and one that would require careful handling.

  “Is there anything you wish to discuss with me?” he asked, watching the play of moonlight and lamplight on her features.

  She continued to stare out the window. “No.”

  “Odd. A lady doesn’t generally manipulate a gentleman to be alone with her unless she has something on her mind.”

  She grimaced. “Yes, you have quite a bit of experience in that area, I believe.”

  It was the first time she had criticized him, and he was surprised to feel it sting. “Are you referring to Lady Scanton?”

  “Lady Scanton, and your other paramours. It has been pointed out to me that I lack what it takes to join their ranks.”

  How was he to respond to that. Anger that anyone would speak so to her warred with astonishment that she might mean she wanted to become his lover. To ask the question would have made him the greatest coxcomb. The anger won.

  “Who’d say such a thing?” he demanded.

  She shrugged, almost pathetically. “It doesn’t matter. The reason I ‘manipulated’ you, as you put it, is that I couldn’t stand my aunts’ bickering another second. I was tired of being the proper niece and watching them bat about my feelings like a shuttlecock. I wished to ride home with you, and I am doing so. That’s all there is to it.”

  So he was just a convenient way to prove her independence. It annoye
d him far more than it should. “Very well, Miss Fairchild. Enjoy your ride in peace.” He turned stoically to face the opposite window. He was surprised to hear a sound like a sob. Turning back, he saw tears shining on her cheeks. Guilt smote him.

  “Confound it, Anne, don’t cry! I didn’t mean to hurt you. I could cut out my cursed tongue.”

  “It’s not you,” she hiccupped between sobs. “I don’t seem to be myself this evening. I simply couldn’t hold them back an-an-another min-minute.”

  He crossed the coach to sit beside her. Pulling her unresisting body into his arms, he held her gently, smoothing her hair as if she were a frightened child. It felt like satin under his hand. She sobbed against his chest for a few minutes, and he felt his heart constrict at the sound.

  “Please, Anne. Can’t you tell me what’s wrong? If someone has hurt you, by God, I’ll call them out!”

  She sniffed, pulling away from him. He felt a sudden chill as the night air touched his damp shirt. “Oh, please, not again. I’m fine, really. I’m very sorry about weeping all over you. I’m much better now. Pray don’t give it another . . .”.

  “Thought,” he finished wryly. Did she think him made of stone? That a woman’s tears meant nothing? He had a sudden vision of his callous indifference to Liza’s sobs. Anne had been witness to some of his worst moments--she could very well believe him impervious to her pain.

  Before he could think to say another word, the carriage drew to a stop. His driver was well trained--he waited for his master’s rap before dismounting to open the door. Chas had one last chance to correct Anne’s impression of him. He found himself strangely tongue tied. Still, he had to try.

  “Anne, please believe what I’m going to say. I care very much about you. If I can help in any way, please call on me.” He gazed down into her dark eyes, made larger and darker with her tears. He gently wiped the last vestige from her cheeks. “Lord, girl, I guess I’m as bad as Bert Gresham, but you make me want to fight dragons for you!”

  She gave him a tender smile that made his heart beat faster. There was nothing for it. He pulled her gently to him and kissed her.

  He had meant it as a gentle reinforcement of his words, fully expecting her to resist as any proper young lady should. To his surprise, she melted against him with the finesse of a skilled courtesan, her lips parting, her hands sliding to his back as if to press him closer. He tightened his grip and drank of her lips, his hands molding her to him. The feel of her willing in his arms dizzied him, and he had the insane urge to tell his driver to carry them back to his town house where he could have her properly.

  The word proper seemed to reverberate in his mind. He let go of her and sat back, fighting his own feelings. This was not the kind of woman one carried off into the night. She had every right to hear a declaration of undying devotion, a commitment of marriage. He forced himself to calm, wondering what he could say to her.

  Her eyes had been closed; she slowly opened them and looked at him sadly. Then she lowered her eyes.

  “She was right, wasn’t she?” She gave a shaky laugh. “It was silly of me to try. I’m sorry, Chas. I’m simply not the ladybird type.” Before he could even reply, she pulled the door open, clambered down, and ran for the house. He found he simply couldn’t move, couldn’t call out. He wasn’t sure what he would say. Once again, she had completely disarmed him with her honesty.

  The sound of another carriage roused him, and he signaled his driver to take him home. The last thing he wanted to do was explain himself to her aunts when he couldn’t even explain himself to himself.

  Chapter Eleven

  Anne leaned against her bedchamber door, feeling her cheeks burning in mortification. How could she have been so brazen? To press herself against him like a common lightskirt! If he had had any respect for her before, she had totally destroyed it tonight. From the minute he had appeared in the door to the box, she had been capricious, vexatious, argumentative, and wanton. The only thing he could feel for her was complete disgust.

  But there had been a moment, in his arms, when she’d felt his heart speed, his breath quicken, his arms tighten. That and the way he had kissed her so, well hungrily, told her that he desired her. And then he had broken from her, his green eyes shocked. She shuddered at the memory.

  Fool! She yanked off her evening gloves, wincing at the pain in her upper arm. What did you think? You could win his love where so many others have failed? That giving him your body would somehow prove your love? Lady Scanton’s words echoed in her mind again--”You simply don’t have what it takes to entertain a man like Chas Prestwick for long.” She had proven that tonight.

  What had she been trying to accomplish by allowing, no encouraging, him to kiss her? Deep down, did she really want to be like Elizabeth Scanton? She rejected that thought with a shudder as she undressed. Then what? Was she trying to show him that she could compete with the other women for his attentions? Or had she fallen so quickly in love with him that nothing else mattered? Was she in love with him, or was it the romance of him that appealed to her?

  What had he said, “I truly care about you”? How she had reveled in those wonderful words. But they could not longer be true. He would never want to call on her now. She had ruined everything.

  Too tired to cry, she climbed into bed and lay there watching her one fire of the day die to ashes. Even that reminded her of how Chas’ feelings for her must be dying. It was a long time before sleep claimed her.

  * * * *

  If the day before had been difficult, the day Anne woke to seemed doomed to be worse. Her room was cold, her head pounding, her eyes reddened from lack of sleep, and her face pale and blotched. She delayed going downstairs as long as she could, knowing that she would be greeted by a harangue on her impertinence by her Aunt Agatha. Finally, she convinced Bess to give her some tea and biscuits in the kitchen so that she could avoid the breakfast room.

  Bess, sympathetic, had told her that her aunt would be going out to a friend’s for nuncheon, advising her to “lay low” until after noon. Unfortunately, she had her hand on the door handle of her bedchamber to escape inside when the door to Agatha’s room opened. With a frown that made her aristocratic nose look sharper, and a crook of one gnarled finger, her aunt indicated that her presence was required. Knowing that for once she deserved the scold, Anne sighed and went to meet her aunt.

  “I assume you have some explanation for your behavior last evening,” Agatha said with a sniff, pointing to the footstool near the fireplace. Anne sank down upon it, watching as her aunt seated herself in the matching armchair. She found it impossible to meet the sharp grey eyes, looking instead into the fireplace. To her surprise, the grate was empty, and she paused to wonder when Agatha kept her one fire. Before she could puzzle it out, Agatha called her back to the purpose of their meeting.

  “Well, girl, have you nothing to say for yourself?”

  Anne looked down at the toes of her shoes peeking out from under the hem of her serviceable blue poplin dress. “No, Aunt,” she murmured. She made up her mind to endure the scold and escape as quickly as possible.

  “Look at me,” Agatha commanded, and Anne forced herself to look up. There was calculation and something else in her aunt’s eyes, but not the anger or disgust Anne expected. To her amazement, Agatha’s face struggled into a grimace. Good heavens, Anne thought, she’s trying to smile!

  “No, girl, I’m not going to eat you,” Agatha said at the look of relief on Anne’s face. “But I do want the truth. Do you fancy yourself in love with this Prestwick fellow?”

  Anne shrugged, answering honestly. “I wish I knew. He is different from anyone I’ve ever met.”

  Agatha’s eyes narrowed. “Different? I can well imagine that. But differences can repel as well as attract, my girl.” She paused, eyeing Anne with obvious speculation. “He isn’t good enough for you.”

  Despite herself, Anne chuckled. “I find that hard to believe.”

  Agatha shook a long finger at h
er. “Believe it! It is your only defense against his charm. A charm, I might add, that has ruined less easy prey than you.”

  “I won’t believe that either,” Anne proclaimed, refusing to wilt under the fierce gaze.

  “What--that there are others more gullible than you?”

  “No, that he has ruined anyone.” The memory of Elizabeth Scanton crying in the Cranfield library sprang to mind, and she found her eyes lowering. “At the very least,” she protested against the vision, “they were willing victims.”

  “Just see that you do not join their ranks,” Agatha replied. “From today on, this family does not associate with the house of Prestwick. I trust I have made myself clear.”

  Anne rose, shaking out her skirts. “Quite clear, Aunt. You need have no worries. After last night, I very much doubt I will ever see Chas Prestwick again.”

  Unfortunately for Anne, her talk with Agatha was not the last of her trials to be endured. She tried to lose herself in an extended piano practice only to find herself all thumbs. She spilled her soup at luncheon like some country bumpkin.

  To make matters worse, Mortimer Dent paid her an unexpected call in the afternoon, but before she could query him about his new-found fame, Henry announced the arrival of Julian Hilcroft. Julian looked none too pleased at having to share her company and she was forced to endure an hour of the two of them posturing and throwing veiled insults at each other before they took themselves off in high dudgeon. By tea time, she was grateful just to sit on the sofa and listen to Agatha and Millicent disagree. Then she remembered she had never cleaned the blood stain.

  Her eyes flew guiltily to the corner of the sofa, but, to her surprise, the stain was gone, just as Chas had promised. How had he managed that? She blinked and looked closer. No, it was definitely gone, as if it had never been there.

  Then she began to notice other things missing. The rip, for example, carefully mended, but still visible to the knowing eye, where a careless Bess had dropped her shears while fitting Anne for a remade dress. Gone. The small pink spot where Millicent had sat on Anne’s first pot of rouge. Gone. The nick in the wood where the ladder had fallen when Anne was putting up the Christmas boughs last year. Gone. The sofa she sat on was in far better condition than the one she remembered.