A Lady of Consequence. Mary Nichols

I don’t know. I suppose I am.’ This conversation was not going at all the way he had expected it to. It was not the light, teasing banter he usually employed when talking to the little bits of muslin he chose to dally with. She had more about her than they did, much more. He had not been joking when he said she had the bearing of an aristocrat. It showed itself in the proud way she held her head, the way she used her cutlery, the way she sipped her wine, the way she spoke, without that silly simpering voice young women of the lower orders used when trying to impress him. Madeleine Charron saw no need to impress him; she considered herself his equal.

      ‘How in particular?’ she asked.

      ‘That’s just it, I do not know,’ he said. ‘I have never troubled to analyse it. I suppose what I mean, is that I shall recognise her when I meet her.’

      She laughed. ‘So you have not yet met her?’

      ‘I think I might have.’ Even as he spoke, he knew the idea was preposterous, outlandish, laughable. But it would not go away.

      ‘When did you meet her?’

      ‘About an hour ago.’

      She stared at him for a moment, then sat back in her chair and burst out laughing. ‘I have heard many a proposition, but that is a new one, it really is.’

      He frowned. ‘You laugh.’

      ‘Am I meant to take you seriously?’

      His mind suddenly produced an image of his illustrious father, of his stepmother and his sister, Lavinia, as he presented Madeleine Charron to them as his intended wife and knew she had been right to laugh. ‘We could pretend, just for one night,’ he said lightly. ‘It might be fun.’

      ‘It depends what you expect of me,’ she said, and she was not laughing now. ‘I am an actress, pretending is second nature to me, but if you mean what I think you mean, I am afraid you have quite misunderstood my role.’

      He sat back and rocked with laughter. ‘Oh, the lady is the aristocrat and no doubt about it. What rank was that grandfather of yours, a comte, a marquis or a duke, perhaps?’

      ‘A comte,’ she said. Marquises and dukes would be too easy to trace.

      She was not naturally a liar and suddenly she found it all very hard going. He was too nice to deceive, too much the gentleman. She knew he would not coerce her or force himself upon her as Henry Bulford had done, but if she were determined enough, she could make him fall in love with her, make him defy his stiff-necked father to marry her. The ball was in her court. Why, then, was she so reluctant to pass it back? Why, when she had the opportunity to further her long-term goal, had she lost her courage? Only the memory of her humiliation at the hands of another aristocrat kept her from confessing her perfidy.

      ‘And one does not lightly roast a comte’s daughter,’ he said, unaware of her tumultuous thoughts.

      ‘I am sorry,’ she said, suddenly serious.

      ‘Sorry? Sorry for what?’

      ‘If you have deluded yourself that I would easily succumb…’

      ‘If I had, you have soon put me in my place,’ he said with a smile. ‘Let us begin again, shall we?’

      ‘How so?’

      ‘Tell me about being an actress. I once acted in a play my sister put on for a charity my stepmother favours and I found it quite hard work.’

      ‘It is. What part did you play?’

      ‘Oberon. It was A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’

      ‘I know it well.’

      It was easier after that. They spent the remainder of the evening talking pleasantly, laughing together, comparing their likes and dislikes and Maddy found she could forget he was one of the hated aristocracy, could forget her schemes and just be herself. He was a charming and attentive companion and she paid him the compliment of genuinely enjoying his company.

      At two o’clock in the morning, they found themselves alone in the dining room and the waiters hovering to clear the table. Reluctantly they stood up to leave. ‘My, how the time has flown by,’ he said. ‘I have never been so well entertained in my life. Thank you, sweet Madeleine.’

      ‘It has been a pleasure,’ she said, allowing him to drape her cloak about her shoulders and escort her to the door.

      They had almost reached it when the proprietor came, bowing deferentially. ‘I hope everything was to your satisfaction, my lord?’

      ‘Yes, indeed,’ he said. ‘You may send the reckoning to Stanmore House. It will be paid promptly.’

      Stanmore House. Maddy knew where that mansion was and who it belonged to. Sir Percival Ponsonby had pointed it out only the week before when he had taken her out in his carriage and regaled her with who was who among the many people they had seen in the park. Why hadn’t she made the connection when Duncan Stanmore had first introduced himself?

      She had been having supper with the Marquis of Risley, the Duke of Loscoe’s heir. The Duke was reputed to be one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom, so it stood to reason his son wanted for nothing. He had entertained her for several hours, and not once had he hinted of his illustrious background. Why? In her experience, most young men were boastful and would not have been able to keep quiet about having a duke for a father. Was he, too, playing a part?

      He put his hand beneath her elbow to escort her to his waiting carriage and helped her inside. ‘Tell me where you want to go and I will see you safely there,’ he said.

      He was being studiously polite now, as if the contract he had made to give her supper in exchange for her company had been fulfilled and that was the end of it. She admitted to a tiny feeling of disappointment. And telling herself she was being more than inconsistent did nothing to appease her. She had made it clear he could expect nothing else and he, like the gentleman he was, had accepted that. But he might have put up more of an argument!

      She told him the address of her lodgings at the bottom end of Oxford Street, which she shared with several others in the company. He passed it on to his coachman and they sat in silence as the coach rattled through the almost deserted streets. There was a constraint between them now, as if they had run out of things to say and did not know how to proceed.

      It was unlike Duncan to be tongue-tied, but she had bewitched him, not only with her good looks and her curvaceous figure, but also with the way she spoke, the way she held her head, the way her expressive hands drew pictures in the air, her humour. He could see that speeding coach, could see the childlike figure weeping over a dead mother, could feel her pain. And no one to comfort her, no father, no grandparents, no one except an orphanage such as his stepmother supported. It was a wonder she had not become bitter.

      Instead she had risen above it and the result was perfection. He had never been so captivated. Not that any liaison other than that of lover and chère amie was possible. She was not wifely material, at least not for him, and suddenly he could not bring himself to spoil that perfection by suggesting they continue the evening elsewhere.

      When the coach stopped at her door, he jumped down to help her to alight. ‘Thank you for a truly delightful evening,’ he said, raising her hand to his lips.

      Dozens of young men had done the same thing, but none had made her shiver as she was shivering now. It was not a shiver of cold, but of heat. His touch was like a lick of flame that spread from her hand, up her arm and down to the pit of her stomach and from there it found its way to her groin. She had never experienced anything like it before, but she recognised it as weakness. She shook herself angrily for being a traitor to herself. This was not the way, she berated herself, allowing herself to fall under his spell was not part of the plan. He was supposed to fall under hers!

      ‘I nearly forgot,’ he said, putting his hand in his pocket and extracting the diamond ear drop. ‘You must have this to remind you of the delightful time we spent together.’

      ‘Thank