My Lady Original Page 2

  So he grinned, flicking his gaze back up to the Scot, who was being tactfully silent. ‘My brothers will have a field day. Sarcastic little sods. Still, I doubt you came here for this; what are you up to?’

  There was a moment as Sandy hardly suppressed a sigh. ‘Will you ever admit that being gorgeous can get right up your nose?’ he asked.

  There was a dangerous pause in the study. Suddenly, Lord Darenth looked far less sunny than he did a former Army officer with three mad brothers to control; if his taboos were less obvious than Sandy’s, it didn’t mean he didn’t have them, and one of them had just been crossed.

  He never mentioned his looks. Generally, he didn’t think about them, and if he could hardly miss the passion they aroused, he didn’t acknowledge it because to do so would make him the kind of conceited berk he despised. He looked how he looked, which he suspected would have been seen as far less gorgeous had he been a potboy instead of a Viscount; he did not take it seriously, and he was never going to complain about it because that would make himan ungrateful, idiotic little arse.

  Staring Sandy out, he asked, ‘Would you like this rubbish written about you?’

  ‘About me? Heh heh heh, I’d like that! Alexandre le Farlane was a little Jock shortarse with a lovely stick about him to admire. Sorry, Jack, I’m not the type. You are, and I can’t be bothered dancing around it. You’re going to have trouble with this.’

  Very confidently, Jack pointed out that he was marvellous at handling trouble. He laughed in the face of trouble, which was just as well given how much his three younger brothers brought him. Or his friends, he added beadily, before he announced, ‘If that book’s not about Anthony, then I’m bored of it. I’ve had worse than that before, it’ll be nothing. Not that I don’t appreciate the warning, but could you change the subject?’

  There came the sigh of a man who knew better. ‘Oh fine, all right then, I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if you need help.’ With a laugh, Jack asked where he was going. ‘I’m going to Glenfaba’s. Yes, at this time. God knows they’ll probably be in the middle of a Bacchanalian orgy, as if I want to see the Countess’ garters again.’

  ‘Northern barbarians,’ said Jack, with all the supremacy of a Kentishman.

  ‘Spare me. You’re next door to France. Not but what they are barbarians, the lot of them. They’re family,’ he added, when Jack asked the obvious question, then hit him for six by going on, ‘And I’m thinking of marrying Hermione.’

  ‘Er,’ Jack replied, then unsurprisingly ground to a halt as Sandy grinned at him.

  ‘She might say no, of course. And I haven’t entirely decided. I thought I’d suggest we see how we get on first and see how she takes that.’

  ‘You’d marry a Pargeter?’ Horror rang out in his voice.

  There was cause for this. Up in Grosvenor Square, the Pargeter clan less lived than ran amok every time they descended from their Border lair, as it was invariably described. They weren’t mad. They were just debauched. Headed by the Earl of Glenfaba, Pargeters drank, gambled, rode horses up staircases, placed outrageous bets and on one occasion had all turned up to a ball dressed as sans-culottes with a false guillotine, a piece of appalling taste that had got the lot of them asked to leave. They quarrelled in public. They got drunk and then fell over at their own dinner parties, as did their servants. Still, as Sandy pointed out now, they were his family. He had sat through several dinner parties where soup was thrown and worse. ‘And it wasn’t that terrible. Dreadful ton, yes, but at least I wasn’t bored. Besides, Hermione’s by far the best of the lot. I get on with her, and she won’t mind the trial suggestion … pick your jaw up, Jack,’ he said sweetly. ‘I’m thirty-one. It’s time I got moving.’

  ‘I don’t see why. My father was nearly forty when he got married, you’ve plenty of time. You shouldn’t feel you have to rush.’ Let alone into an institution that seemed to send half the men he knew doolally in a way he frankly found alarming. Haughty men let girls sit on their knees, calling them darling while twisting their hair as the formerly haughty men dropped all shame to sigh adoringly back. Cynical devils broke into song. Brazen playboys turned respectable and talked about losing their hearts. It was terrifying. Good luck to Sandy if that was what he wanted, but despite being also thirty-one, Jack was in no rush at all. Since Sandy did want it, he obeyed jaw-wise. ‘Yes, of course. I just didn’t … if you want her then I hope she does take you. She couldn’t do better.’

  ‘Yes, I see what you’re thinking. At the risk of sounding like Charlotte Lucas, I’m not romantic, and it’s just as well. I’m a short, lame Scotsman—yes, I am. I’m perfectly happy to be so, but that does mean that expecting a love match is just plain daft. Hermione and I understand each other. If a match between us would mean we both compromised, there’s no harm in it for that.’

  When he smiled, his friend smiled back, swallowing the urge to pounce on this ridiculous notion, blow it out of the water and then tell Sandy that if he thought his limp damaged his chances, he was a fool.

  Understand each other? A Pargeter! Good God! For Sandy to aim so low—how could he think that was the best he could do? Except, coming from Jack, this wouldn’t go over well. Sandy was prickly in this area. For Sandy to compromise... Jack never would. None of his family ever had. Hermione Pargeter? Which one was she anyway? Christ, how could he even consider it?

  ‘Because I’m not Prince Charming,’ said Sandy dryly, reading him with ease, lifting his mouth to show he wasn’t offended. ‘And to be honest, Jack, I’m grateful. Good luck with this one! I have a nasty feeling Mrs Fothergill’s given you more than you might bargain for. Let me know if you can’t cope. If Hermione turns me down, I might take the worst admirers off your hands!’

  ‘Ha, ha, ha,’ laughed Lord Darenth, making a mental note that there was no way in hell he’d let that happen, that he’d get to the bottom of why Sandy was settling for ridiculously less, and that he’d better start running fast.

  Chapter Two

  The Earl of Glenfaba’s house in Grosvenor Square was as chaotic inside in the late morning as it was during a late debauch, and every bit as unexpected. The family was not only awake, they were up, but they were busy. On the floor in the salon was a large rug, on it was the picnic itself and round it, in floating dresses, shirtsleeves and lots of ivy, were the whole Pargeter clan, including Lady Hermione, third daughter, whose happy morning improved further when her favourite Scotsman was announced. Given she was herself a Scot, this was saying something, but on seeing Sandy enter, she jumped up, called, ‘Sandy!’ and waved at him to come over, because she thought he was marvellous. She frequently told him this, too. Life, Hermione held, was too short not to tell marvellous men the truth about them, and in any case, why would one not pay the compliment? True, every time she did say it, Sandy laughed at her, but marvellous he remained.

  He was also so impressively unflappable. Hermione had seen many men stumble upon her family gatherings, few of them half as marvellous as Sandy, but very few ever just waved back at her as if he were wearing ivy too. Which he wasn’t. Light green coat, pale buckskins, Hessians and the only bit of flashiness he had: the cane. Sandy had a variety of canes, some of them verging on the flashy and one disgustingly flashy because Hermione’s family had given it to him to amuse him, all gold-spotted mahogany. This one, a slim ash with silver top, was in miles better taste, as Hermione was going to point out when she suddenly remembered that this was a fairly tipsy Pargeter picnic, with some even tipsier Pargeter friends.

  Never mind jump, she was across the room like a shot before some of those female friends could try anything. ‘Sandy! Come and sit with me. I’ve stolen half the cake,’ she offered, beaming at him. At five feet six, she was a bare inch shorter than he was, a willowy blonde with turquoise eyes, ivy slipping down her forehead, but before she could drag him to safety, the Earl of Glenfaba himself, a tall, fair and now portly man, florid of complexion, heaved himself up to grab Sandy’s hand.

  ‘Ale
xander! Alexander Macfarlane, as I live and breathe,’ he exclaimed, as if their whole family hadn’t seen Sandy two days before. ‘What brings you? No, it doesn’t matter! Ha ha ha! Come and join our rural idyll.’

  ‘Is there a reason for it, sir?’ asked Sandy.

  ‘I was bored,’ the Earl said simply. ‘It’s raining … thought I’d drag the lot of ‘em out of bed for it. Play some cards! You can still sit on the floor, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sandy didn’t seem annoyed. ‘Although I wondered if you’d spare me Hermione for a few minutes.’ Gooseberry eyes popped at him. ‘I have a proposition for her.’

  The Earl did not bother asking what this was, nor indeed display any further interest. Instead he yelled, ‘Hermione, Sandy wants you!’

  Standing right next to him, Hermione grinned. ‘Yes, Papa.’

  ‘He’s got a proposition for you,’ her father snorted. ‘Just go over to the window.’

  ‘Ooh, really?’ Hermione obeyed, moving gracefully as Major Macfarlane limped over there with her, where she turned in the window embrasure with excitement to ask, ‘Is it a bet?’

  ‘No. I wondered if you’d like to marry me—well, if you wanted to try the idea out.’

  Hermione’s rather heavy-lidded eyes flew wide before she made a noise of interest even as her brain began to gallop. Marry her? Sandy? What on earth? This was the last thing she had expected him to ask her. It was astounding. It was also massively suspicious because Alexander always knew his own mind, he had no fear speaking it and he had never, ever given her a hint that he had considered her for marriage. Not once. Not even when she had rescued him from her sister Annabel’s expert but terrifying nursing. Yet suddenly he wanted to marry her? Why? There was no way on earth she was the best he could do or his ideal wife, so what was he up to?

  She didn’t know, but that didn’t matter. This was interesting! Very interesting. Clearly, she had stumbled on a huge mystery, and not solving it was not an option. Therefore, nor was turning him down. She beamed once more.

  ‘You mean, see how we go on for the Season before an engagement? Oh, I think that’s a good idea. Yes, that would be fun, I’d like that. Only I don’t think we should tell my family. Because if we do, they’ll tell the whole world,’ she could hear the resignation in her voice, ‘and you’d have no way out when you might not like me as a wife at all.’ He cocked his eyebrows at her, looking amused. ‘Let’s say yes but pretend it’s a bet. I’m impressed you’ve asked me this way, I have to admit. Horribly practical but so much sense! Would you stick me, do you think?’ she asked suddenly, her eyes sparkling with amusement even as her brain worked overtime. Why did he want to stick her? Really, why? Even if he wanted a Pargeter girl, her sisters were all prettier, gentler or miles better at running a home. Hermione was a bluestocking who published classical poetry, could quote Catullus and liked an argument, which was fine for friendship but not Sandy’s wife. Was something wrong with him? Alarmed, she squinted to see if she could spot heartbreak. Hmm. Not yet. Hopefully there wasn’t any to spot, but she had better find out.

  ‘Would you stick me?’ he retorted. ‘I’m bad-tempered, you know. I get horrible when it’s wet.’

  ‘I know. I saw you in the bath,’ she said outrageously, but he looked away.

  ‘Hermione, you don’t have to say yes. You get enough offers—you’re not meant to turn them all down, by the way, but you’re not desperate. Don’t say yes because you’re bored. Or because you feel … well,’ he shrugged, as Hermione’s smile turned rather fixed.

  Because you feel sorry for me. That had been what he had almost said, she knew it. Oh dear God. Feel sorry for Sandy? For Sandy? She did, of course, at times, she had to. She’d felt sorry for him after that night he’d spent drinking with her father, when he’d crawled downstairs the next morning nearly weeping. She’d felt sorry for him hearing he’d been made to visit their Aunt Mathilda and wind her embroidery silks. She had felt desperately sorry for him being bathed by Annabel, but good God alive, whatever her horror when he’d been injured, she did not feel sorry for him else. Nor did she feel sorry for him now, but she did feel that, quite possibly, the marvellous Sandy was being a great big daft eejit.

  Alive with nosiness, she grinned. ‘Sandy, I wouldn’t stick anything. I think you’re wonderful. Heaven knows if we’ll get to marriage but I’d far rather have you than anyone else I’ve met so far. At least we’re good friends. Although’, she went on, squinting, ‘this is very sudden. Do you mind if I ask you, why now? Are you in love with someone you can’t have?’

  Now that was cunning! If she asked him straight out, he would never suspect she was now determined that he was, and to find out with whom. It was, she reflected, a service to him, and after half the services he had paid her when she was younger, it was the least she could do. Yes, she would use this engagement to find his true love and unite them in eternal joy! It would be splendid! Shining with altruism, her eyes were yet beady, but he just laughed.

  ‘Oh, quite possibly. Are you?’

  ‘Pffft, no!’ she retorted at once, laughing at him, triumphantly thinking that he was not half as good at double-bluffing as she was. ‘I haven’t been in love for years and he’s married now anyway. Not that he liked me at all. Every time I got within fifty yards of him he stared at me like I was an unwelcome fungus. No, my heart is untouched! If yours isn’t, say if she changes her mind, won’t you? We ladies are jealous creatures. If it kicks her back into sense, you will tell me? I’m very fond of you, you know.’ The ivy suddenly slipped down over her hair, to be pushed back up. ‘Well, that was unexpected this morning. What do we do then? Just be friends and see how we go? Find out horrible habits? How long for? Until Christmas, do you think?’ Until I find out who she is, she thought, desperate to drag him out in public and start finding out.

  ‘Yes. I didn’t think this would be so easy,’ he said, blue eyes squinting in surprise. ‘Should I have done it differently?’

  ‘Oh, no. Always speak plainly to a Pargeter.’ Thus sagely spoke Hermione, behind whom the rest of her family were singing a folk song, fortunately the politer version, glasses full of wine swaying about, so that she turned back to him to continue, ‘I shan’t ask if you know what you’d be taking on—you must do—but I will ask if you’ve thought what people would say. No, no, not those people! Your friends.’

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her, but nor was he perturbed. ‘My dear, my friends have the intelligence to see happiness needn’t come from the orthodox. Besides,’ descending into amusement, ‘let he who is without sin cast the first stone, and none of them is!’

  This Lady Hermione considered without comment, recognising as she did the sense of it; Alexander Macfarlane didn’t associate with stupid people if he could help it, although once that was past he was remarkably phlegmatic about company. He also could stand anything and was very dear to her. And if she failed to find out what he was really up to? Marriage to Sandy? It could work. Certainly it was worth testing the notion. She should be married and better Sandy by far than anyone else who’d ever asked her! However, he was smoothing over a definite issue. His friends wouldn’t like it—his two closest friends wouldn’t like this proposed engagement at all, although given both would be most concerned with Sandy’s happiness, and given that Hermione was now determined to make Sandy happy, she wasn’t worried.

  Sandy’s two closest friends. The famous trio: Macfarlane, Darenth and de Waare, bound together no matter how long apart, guaranteed to come together if one were under attack, and making a rather odd group at first glance. Never having wondered much about it, Hermione wondered now. ‘How did your little trio come into being?’ she asked. He grinned.

  ‘Oh, I planted Jack Darenth a facer on his first day in the unit.’

  ‘Philistine,’ said Hermione at once. ‘That man’s a work of art.’

  ‘He was asking for it.’

  ‘How does one ask to be punched in the face?’ she asked, interested. ‘He met
me and said, I can’t believe they let the Jocks in, ha ha ha,’ Sandy told her.

  ‘Rude,’ said Hermione.

  ‘Arrogant. He was a bit back then. He grew up gorgeous, he was so used to everyone swooning as he passed—well, not his brothers, but nobody else had ever punched him. So I did. Gave him a shocking nosebleed and knocked him over. He took it well though. Said he was an arse—ahem, said he could be thick at times, apologised and that was it. Some men you just work with—that’s how it was.’

  What about Lord de Waare, she enquired.

  Cue a choke of laughter from Sandy. ‘Poor Tam! Oh Lord, you should have seen him when he turned up. Unbelievable. It was like Pharaoh in the unit—walked in as if he owned the place, stared at the colonel like he was a peasant. God, he was awful. He wouldn’t have lasted five minutes the way he was, we had to make a project of him.’

  ‘Ah, you planted him a facer too.’ Abandoning talk of marriage for this fascinating subject, Hermione was unsurprised. Anyone who could punch Prince Charming in the face would never think twice about smacking Lord de Waare.

  ‘No, not effective enough. Jack just woke him up every day for a month. Tam’s hopeless in the mornings. I mean, it’s pathetic seeing him, he can barely—ahem, well, anyway, Jack did all the usual tricks. Plunged his head into cold water, sang down his ear, threw him out of bed.’

  There was no sympathy from Hermione. ‘I daresay he deserved it. You know his uncle used to bring him here? He was so embarrassed, he was horrible, and what did you do to him? You did something else! I know you did, you’re laughing. Come on, Sandy’, she coaxed, ‘marriage is about being open.’