The Chaperon's Seduction(28)

‘Are you sure it can be true?’ asked that lady, when Phyllida had explained everything. ‘Is it from a reliable source?’

‘My sister had it from Lady Heston, ma’am.’

‘Well, I do not like to doubt the lady’s veracity but I find it hard to believe such a thing would happen in Bath.’

‘Nevertheless I cannot ignore it,’ said Phyllida.

‘No, of course not.’ Lady Wakefield thought for a moment, a tiny crease furrowing her brow. ‘It would explain the inordinate amount of interest that some creatures are taking in your stepdaughter. Mr Tesford, for example. And George Cromby. One cannot cut their acquaintance, of course, without solid proof, but I have never liked either man very much.’

‘And then there is Sir Charles Urmston, and Mr Arrandale.’

Phyllida held her breath while Lady Wakefield considered the two names, only letting it go when the lady shook her head.

‘I cannot think they would be party to such an outrage, but neither of them has a spotless reputation and how do we know what any gentleman is up to at these clubs and gambling hells? Even Wakefield has been known to visit them.’ She caught herself up and added hastily, ‘Not that I mean he would ever be involved in anything as reprehensible as this, I assure you! Hmm. Have you mentioned it to Ellen? No? Well, I think you are wise. It could damage her confidence.’

That made Phyllida smile, despite her concerns.

‘I have no fears for Ellen’s confidence, ma’am. It is more likely to make her angry, and to wish to punish those concerned.’

‘Nevertheless it would do Ellen’s reputation no good at all if it got out. I think we would be advised to keep this between ourselves, if we can. You may be sure that I shall take good care of Ellen whenever she is with Julia, and will send my own maid with her in the carriage when I send her home to you this evening.’

Thus reassured, Phyllida left Ellen in Lady Wakefield’s care and went back to Charles Street via the registry office, where she set about finding another footman to add to her household.



The next evening was the Denhams’ ball. Phyllida was tempted not to go, but what good would that do? If she was to prevent Ellen from attending parties in Bath she might as well remove from the city. A number of nosegays were delivered during the morning, from the tasteful to the absurd and Phyllida found Ellen in the morning room with them all spread out on the table. Normally she would have been amused by her stepdaughter’s popularity, but Olivia’s revelation prevented her feeling anything but anxiety.

‘Goodness,’ she said, forcing herself to speak lightly. ‘Are you deciding which gentleman to favour?’

‘Well, some of them are far too big to pin to my gown,’ replied Ellen, surveying the array with a slight frown. ‘And I have no wish to raise false hopes.’

‘No, indeed,’ replied Phyllida solemnly.

‘There is a very pretty arrangement from Sir Charles Urmston and—oh, this is not for me at all.’ Ellen picked up a small spray of white rosebuds. ‘This one is for you, Philly. It is from Mr Arrandale.’

‘Indeed?’ She felt herself colouring under the speculation in Ellen’s eyes. ‘How, how ridiculous.’

But how gloriously flattering. And heartening. Surely Richard would not be showing her quite such attention if his target was Ellen. Dare she believe what her heart was telling her?

‘I do not think it is ridiculous at all, Philly. Why should he not send you flowers?’

‘Because I am far too old for such things. I cannot wear them, of course, but they are so pretty I shall put them in a vase.’

Taking the nosegay from Ellen she left the room, glad of the excuse to get away from Ellen’s bright, enquiring gaze. No man had ever given her flowers before, not even her husband. When she had mentioned it, on the eve of their wedding, Sir Evelyn had laughed and said that once they were at Tatham she could have as many flowers as she desired, all she had to do was order the gardener to send them indoors. Suddenly, she was quite looking forward to the evening. Phyllida had planned to wear her lilac gown with the white overdress. It would mark her out as Ellen’s chaperon and preclude her from dancing, but at the last moment she decided instead to put on the peach silk. She had worn it before, but unlike the lilac it had no demi-train, and she would therefore be free to dance.

If anyone should ask her.



The Denhams owned a large property on the outskirts of Bath, but this did not prevent the city’s residents from making the journey, for Lady Denham’s parties were renowned. Phyllida had offered to take up the Desboroughs, since they kept no carriage in Bath and by the time they arrived at Denham House the dancing was already in progress. A large ballroom had been built at the back of the house with glass doors leading directly on to the gardens, which Ellen had heard would be decorated for the occasion with hundreds of coloured lamps.

Ellen and Penelope went off to find Julia Wakefield while Phyllida took her place with the matrons. There was no doubt the three young ladies made an entrancing picture, Ellen’s golden curls showing to advantage against the darker heads of her friends and Phyllida watched the gentlemen beginning to gravitate towards the little group. Ellen was wearing none of the flowers so hopefully sent to her but she needed nothing to augment her sparkling looks as she stepped on to the dance floor with Mr Naismith. Phyllida’s eyes roved over the assembly. Sir Charles Urmston was present, as was Arnold Tesford and Henry Fullingham. George Cromby was dancing with his wife, so she hoped he would not be paying Ellen undue attention that evening. She wondered which of the gentlemen were party to the wager.

If indeed such a wager existed. Here, amongst so many friends and acquaintances it seemed too fantastical to believe. After all, Olivia had heard it from only one source, and Lady Wakefield was inclined to dismiss it as mere conjecture. Perhaps it was all gossip. She prayed that might be the case. A sudden flurry of excitement ran through the room and she glanced towards the door, standing on tiptoe to see above the crowd. The Dowager Marchioness of Hune had arrived, escorted by Richard Arrandale. Phyllida’s heart skipped a beat when she saw his tall, elegant figure with the black coat stretched across his broad shoulders. His light-brown hair was brushed back and gleamed almost golden in the candlelight. She turned away, trying to ignore the fluttering in her stomach as she tried to concentrate on what Lady Wakefield was saying to her.



Richard could not remember the last time he had felt such anticipation when attending a party. For once he was not seeking out the most dashing matrons with whom to while away the evening. Instead his eyes were roaming the crowd, looking for the willowy figure of Lady Phyllida Tatham. He soon saw her on the far side of the room, standing with Lady Wakefield and Mrs Desborough. Sophia tapped his arm.

‘There is a free chair beside Colonel and Mrs Ongar, I shall sit there and you can go off and enjoy yourself.’

He did not argue, and after delivering her to her seat and exchanging a few polite words with the colonel and his lady, Richard made his way across the room to Phyllida. She had her back to him and he had no idea if she was wearing his roses. They would not look amiss against the muted shade of her gown which was the colour of a ripe peach. Then she turned towards him, as if aware of his approach and he saw the low-cut bodice was unadorned. His smile did not falter, but his spirits plummeted like lead, only to rise again when he observed the shy smile of welcome in her eyes.

Lady Wakefield claimed his attention and he spent precious moments talking with her until he could invite Phyllida to stand up with him, but at last he was leading her out. Her hand on his arm and the hectic flush on her cheeks stirred the blood and made his heart pound. She used no arts to attract him yet she moved him far more than any of the ripe beauties he had known. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her away. Perhaps there was a summer house in the gardens where he could whisper endearments to her and steal a kiss, or even more. Deuce take it, he was acting like a moonstruck schoolboy.

‘You are laughing, sir. Not at me, I hope.’

Her soft voice interrupted his thoughts. The musicians were striking up but there was still time to talk before the movement of the dance separated them.

‘No, ma’am, at myself, for being conceited enough to think you would wear my flowers.’ They crossed, turned, but she did not reply and he said anxiously, ‘Did they offend you?’

That brought her eyes up to his. The soft glow in them made his heart swell.

‘Offend? No, no. But I did not think it right to...’ She paused, her cherry lips firmly closed, as if reluctant to speak. She said, just before the dance parted them again, ‘I have them in water. On my dressing table.’

The idea of his flowers in such an intimate setting sent his imagination rioting and he almost missed his step. Phyllida moved away and they circled other dancers before coming back together. The dance obliged him to take her hand and pull her close, which suited him perfectly.

‘So you will think of me when you go to bed tonight.’

Colour flooded her cheeks and he felt the hot burn of desire in his blood. They separated again. It was a penance to smile at his next partner, to keep in time when he wanted to rush through the dance until he was beside Phyllida once more. When at last he did get back to her she was very composed and her eyes warned him to go carefully. He smiled. It should be as she wished. He would court her as he had never courted a woman before.