A Most Improper Proposal

Chapter Three

Lord James Crawford stood in front of his aunt and the young lady he had nearly mown down that afternoon. If he hadn’t been so agitated himself, he would have found their expressions amusing. Lady Lydia Watson was looking at him with a mixture of affection and bewilderment. His quick assessment of her informed him that she was either completely shocked or the yellow of her gown was having a draining effect upon her complexion. Typical of his aunt to choose a dress that would have made even a debutante appear less than her best. The old lady was sparky and defiant and had always refused to conform. It had been one of the things he had loved about her.

Isabella Adams was moving her head from him to his aunt, and back again, and she appeared to be totally confused. Her face was pinker than the rosebuds on the trim of her gown and her eyes carried a wariness that he had only seen before in the eyes of a hunted deer. He realised that he recognised the look; she had worn it this afternoon in the park when she became aware of the stares of the afternoon walkers.

What was it that she had to fear?

‘You have already met?’ Lady Watson asked.

Isabella had opened her mouth to answer when James jumped in. ‘Indeed we have, Aunt Lydia. We met this afternoon at Hyde Park, though our introduction was somewhat unconventional.’ He offered a conciliatory smile.

The comely young woman nodded her head at his aunt and sudden understanding filled the elderly woman’s face. ‘So you were…’

‘Yes, it was a most unfortunate incident,’ James agreed. ‘But thankfully both Miss Adams and my stallion, Loki, escaped unharmed.’

‘Thankfully,’ his aunt’s companion echoed, though he noted that it was not gratitude that passed across her pretty face. In fact, she actually appeared to be annoyed with him.

He was suddenly overwhelmed by an urge to reach out and touch her, to pull her against his chest and hold her until he felt her relax against him and he wouldn’t have minded the opportunity to be closer to the fresh pink skin of her bosom. What he could see was tantalising and he wondered if her nipples would be dark or fair, large or small. He shook his head to clear the images as he felt a stirring in his loins. This young lady was enchanting.

‘Well, Aunt Lydia, aren’t you going to enquire after my health? It has been quite some time since we last met.’

‘Of course, James, please excuse me. I am a little surprised. I am afraid that I did not know that you had returned until just moments ago.’ He watched as she lowered her eyes down and closed her fan then ran the fingers of her free hand through the feathers that hung from the end.

The silence hung between them.

When he did not attempt to fill it, she raised heavy eyes to his and asked, ‘When did you return, James dear? Is everything all right? Are you staying long?’

He raised a hand.

‘One question at a time, please, Aunt Lydia. I apologise for not contacting you to inform you of my return, but it was an impromptu decision. I was in Calais at the end of my tour of France, looking out across the channel, when I had a sudden and overwhelming urge to see England again; to feel British soil beneath my feet.’

‘In France?’

James eyed the pretty young woman. She really was delightful.

‘Yes, Miss Adams. The situation there is much calmer now. Many of the French are trying hard to rebuild their lives and livelihoods and are not as hostile as some would have us believe.’ He frowned as he thought of what he had seen in Calais and the surrounding countryside, the poverty of the people and the general antediluvian appearance of the place was a complete contrast to the Kentish towns he knew so well. He returned his gaze to his aunt. ‘I have been away so long and enjoyed my travels but suddenly I knew that it was time to return home.’

‘Well, I am extremely glad to see you, my dear. Your handsome face and your company have been missed.’ Lady Watson’s voice was tight and strained and he detected a slight quiver as she spoke. It made his heart ache to see her so distressed, yet a part of him whispered that she did not deserve his pity.

‘Indeed,’ he replied, nodding his head. ‘And I see that during my absence, some things have changed.’ He smiled at Isabella, holding her gaze until she was uncomfortable enough to glance away, then he turned and swept his arm across the staircase and upper rooms. ‘Yet some things have not altered. Not at all.’

‘No, James’ – Lady Watson shook her head, and his stomach churned to hear her voice laced with sadness – ‘some things do not change.’

‘However,’ he announced with forced brightness, ‘in answer to your questions: I returned six days ago; yes I am well and I intend to stay at least until spring. Although,’ he smiled at Isabella again and leant slightly towards her as if to whisper to her, ‘I may stay longer if I have reason to.’

His heartbeat quickened at the flush that burned in her cheeks and swept across her neck and chest. He was but teasing the maiden and meant no harm but she seemed so serious. She did not, he noted, react as most of the young women and debutantes did in his presence or that of other eligible bachelors.

There was, in fact, no return at all of his superficial flirtation. Instead, she seemed extremely uncomfortable. Almost… humiliated. What have I done wrong?

‘Well, there is room with us, James,’ his aunt interrupted his thoughts, ‘if you have not found suitable lodgings. I would be so pleased to have your company.’ Lady Watson raised a trembling hand to her chest and held it there to convey her sincerity.

‘That is most kind of you, Aunt Lydia, but I would not inconvenience you. However, we have much to discuss. I would like to call on you tomorrow, if I may?’

James stared at his aunt, his head on one side.

‘Of course, James, my dear, of course.’

He took her hands in both of his and raised them to his lips. His aunt was clearly distressed and he did not want to place her under unnecessary strain at her great age. She seemed to have shrunk during the course of their conversation and her yellow gown now appeared too big for her. It hurt him to be this formal with the lady who had rocked him in her arms in his infancy, sneaked into the kitchen with him to steal cakes when Cook’s back was turned and kissed his knees better when he had fallen and grazed them.

This was Aunt Lydia: sweet, kind, eccentric Aunt Lydia and he wanted things to be the way they were; the way they had been before; before it all went so terribly wrong.

He cleared his throat. ‘But this is neither the time nor the place to think on it nor to discuss it.’

She shook her head.

‘No, James. A public display of feeling would not be proper or desirable.’ Her lips twitched. Was there a touch of sarcasm in her tone?

‘It would not.’ Besides, he was acutely aware of the bright hazel eyes assessing his every movement and the small, pearl-clad ears listening to his every word, and he did not want a witness to the frank discussion that must take place between him and his mother’s sister. Not even such a comely and intriguing witness as Miss Isabella Adams.

He lowered his aunt’s hands, then turned to Isabella and reached for one of hers. She paused before giving it to him and he felt his own cheeks colour at her hesitation. If it was this hard to take her hand, he wondered how difficult it would be to take more. The thought of a challenge made him smile inwardly and he decided to reconsider it at a more convenient time.

‘Miss Adams.’ He bowed low over her silk gloved hand and brushed his lips against it. Her sharp intake of breath when his mouth met the silk caused him to look quizzically into her eyes. He caught sight of something there but blinked, and whatever he had seen was gone.

He lingered there for a moment longer than was necessary because her sweet fragrance pleased him but she did not look back in his direction. Reluctantly, he released her hand and pulled himself up to his full height.

‘Well then, Aunt Lydia,’ he straightened his black tailcoat, ‘I will visit you tomorrow morning.’

‘It will be good to see you,’ his aunt replied, her eyes full of a thousand questions.

‘Ladies,’ he bobbed his head, then turned on his heel and hurried away. He had to force himself not to turn and seek out Isabella’s eyes again.

He had found her aloofness most confusing and unusual and he wondered if its roots lay in her anger at the incident at their first meeting or if there was in fact more to the young woman. She intrigued him and he wanted to learn more about her. It had been quite some time since he’d felt any real interest in a woman and he had a feeling that there was something special about his aunt’s companion.

* * * *

‘Ah, Lord Crawford! How good to see you again,’ Lady Castlereagh reached out both hands in greeting to James, causing her ample bosom to bulge at the low neckline of her damask gown.

He took one of her hands and bowed low over it.

‘Lady Castlereagh, it is a pleasure.’

She giggled like a maiden.

‘You are as comely as ever, my lady,’ he bowed again.

She raised her fan and half opened it over her face flirtatiously.

‘Oh, Lord Crawford, you are too kind.’ It was difficult to imagine how this bubbly woman with her sandy brown ringlets and warm brown eyes could reduce some of those keen to attend Almack’s into trembling wrecks. He’d even imagined himself half in love with her at one point in his youth and spent several weeks fantasising about burying his head between her rounded thighs. He shook his head.

‘Lord Crawford, old fellow.’ James felt a large hand land on his shoulder and he turned to face Lord Castlereagh.

‘Foreign Secretary’ – he bowed – ‘how are you?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ the politician replied, shaking the proffered hand firmly. ‘Still being kept busy by our neighbours across the channel, amongst others’ – he smiled conspiratorially – ‘but Britain will always come out on top, old chap.’

James bit his tongue, not wanting a political war of words so soon after his return. He was as happy as the next man at Napoleon’s recent defeat but that did not mean that he agreed with all of British foreign policy. Besides, he had more pressing matters to deal with so he forced out, ‘Of course, Lord Castlereagh. I’m sure you’re right.’

‘How did you enjoy your travels?’

‘Very pleasant, thank you. It did me good to get away.’

The musicians in the balcony changed pace, moving to the triple metre of the waltz. The lively rhythm added to palpable buzz in the air.

‘Good, good, glad to hear it.’

They both watched as groups of ladies and gentlemen took to the floor.

‘I see that the Almack’s uniform has not altered during my absence.’ James gestured at the dancers where the men were identical in their breeches, waistcoats and jackets. They reminded him of magpies.

‘No, old chap,’ Lord Castlereagh replied gruffly. ‘The patronesses would never accept that.’

James felt Lord Castlereagh’s curious eyes upon his face.

‘But the ladies look good, eh, James?’

They did, he couldn’t deny it as he eyed the dazzling rainbow of jewels and evening gowns. A seasoned eye could easily distinguish between the married women and the debutantes, because the younger ladies were dressed in creams and pastel colours whilst the more mature and experienced amongst the gentler sex wore darker, richer shades of crimson, navy and black. The pure colours sported by the debutantes implied that they were themselves pure and innocent but every man of the ton was aware that it was not always the case.

‘We have had some delightful debutantes this year,’ the politician continued. ‘If I were a younger man… and single of course.’ He laughed and slapped James hard on the back. ‘But you…’

James’ nostrils flared. He knew where this conversation was heading.

‘I have just returned to England, my lord, and I need to reacquaint myself with my lands and such before I even think of such matters.’

He scanned the room for his aunt but he was unable to spot the lemon of her dress or the pink of her companion’s. If he could just locate Miss Adams, then Aunt Lydia would not be far away.

‘Well, do not leave it too long, James, or you might find yourself in the same predicament as my darling wife and me.’

James looked at the man’s raised eyebrows and nodded; Lord Castlereagh referred to their childless marriage.

‘Of course, my lord,’ James inclined his head.

‘Ah, there’s the Earl of Liverpool.’ Lord Castlereagh pointed at the prime minister. ‘I shall take my leave of you now, James.’

As the gentleman walked away, James allowed his eyes to perform another quick scan of the ballroom. He could not see Miss Adams and he wondered why she was not on the dance floor. He realised with a jolt that he wanted to see her dance, to watch as the delicate pink fabric of her dress floated around her as she waltzed across the floor, her face glowing with the exertion of the dance, not with humiliation or anger as he had previously witnessed. He wanted to see how she behaved when she relaxed and allowed that cold façade to fall away.

If it was a façade.

And if her clothes were to fall away too, then…

But what of these foolish fancies? He had been away too long and the first English rose he had laid eyes upon had captured his interest, that was all it was and he must refrain from making more of it.