A Prior Attachment (Dorothy Mack Regency Romances) Read online

  A PRIOR ATTACHMENT

  Dorothy Mack

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  ALSO BY DOROTHY MACK

  CHAPTER 1

  Soft though it was, the tap on the door seemed to have a galvanizing effect on the woman reclining on a chaise longue fashioned of intricately carved mahogany and upholstered in sea-blue velvet. An observer might be pardoned for assuming she was waiting in no little anxiety for just such an event, since her worried gaze had been fastened on the door, but her reaction to the sound would cast some doubt on this theory. She started violently and her fingers sought and gripped the book lying unopened in her lap with knuckle-whitening tension. The voice that gave permission to enter was barely strong enough to penetrate the panelled wood, though she summoned up a singularly sweet smile to greet the girl who peeked inquiringly around the door. “You sent for me, Mama?”

  “Yes, dearest. Do come in. I was afraid I had missed you. Mrs. Benedict thought you had formed the intention of gathering flowers on the grounds.”

  “And so I have, now that the rain has stopped,” replied her daughter gaily, displaying a large basket over one arm as she came all the way into the room. “The flowers in the main reception rooms are perfect, of course, but I remembered how Lucy was used to admire the sloes in the blackthorn hedges, and I thought I’d gather some for her bedchamber.”

  “A nice welcoming touch,” the older woman agreed.

  A small silence ensued while the girl waited expectantly, her eyes following her mother’s gaze to the thin fingers that fiddled with the pages of her book. “Did you wish to charge me with an errand, Mama?”

  “No, no, thank you, dearest.” Large shadowed dark eyes fleetingly surveyed the waiting girl, then dropped again to her lap. After another short interval, the woman indicated a boudoir chair covered in the same sea-blue velvet with a flutter of her fingers. “Sit down for a moment, Gemma. I’d like to talk to you.”

  When the girl had obeyed this command, her mother seemed to find it difficult to initiate the conversation for which she had expressed a desire, but at last she laid aside her book and took a deep breath. “You have been looking forward to Lucy’s visit with a good deal of pleasure, have you not, my child?”

  Gemma bounced a little in her chair. “Of course, Mama. It seems an age since we’ve met. I scarcely saw anything of Lucy in town once the season really got started, and then, you know, she contracted the influenza in the spring, and Mr. Delevan thought it advisable to send her into the country to recuperate. I was working it out in my mind just this morning. Lucy and I haven’t set eyes on each other since April, though we have corresponded, naturally.”

  The duchess smiled in sympathy with her daughter’s bubbling expectancy. “I have to tell you that we are also to have the pleasure of entertaining Mr. John Delevan while Lucy is here.”

  Gemma’s eyes widened in surprise. “Lucy’s brother? It was my impression that Mr. John Delevan was busily involved with his career in the law.”

  “So I comprehend, but your father has invited him to accompany Lucy.”

  “Papa has? I did not know that he was acquainted with Mr. Delevan. For some reason or other I have not yet met him myself.”

  “I believe your father is slightly acquainted with the young man.” After another short hiatus the duchess continued, selecting her words with great care. “He especially desired me to request that you extend yourself to make Mr. Delevan’s visit enjoyable.”

  “Of course I shall. I have long wished to make the acquaintance of Lucy’s brother. She speaks of him so often and so fondly that I almost feel as though he were my brother also.”

  The older woman sat up straighter, swallowed dryly, and plunged. “As a matter of fact, your father is very … hopeful … that you and Mr. Delevan will find, on longer acquaintance, that you like each other well enough to make a match of it.”

  Gemma stared at her parent in dawning horror and leapt out of her chair as though it had become too hot to be borne. “Did I hear you correctly, ma’am? Did I hear you say Papa would like me to marry Mr. Delevan?”

  “I believe he is very set on it,” said the duchess, burning her bridges behind her.

  “But I am going to marry George! You know we have been as good as betrothed these two years past.” Gemma’s voice rose in pitch and volume with each succeeding word, and her mother winced and fell back among the pillows on the chaise with whitening cheeks.

  “Please, dearest,” she begged nervously. “You might be overheard by one of the servants.”

  “It’s immaterial to me if the whole world hears,” declared the young girl rebelliously, though she lowered her voice in automatic compliance. It shook with passion, however, as she reiterated her protest. “You know it has been an understood thing that George and I should become formally engaged when he returns to England. Now that Napoleon has abdicated, I have every hope that he will send in his papers quite soon. I do not believe he would care to be a soldier in peacetime.”

  “I know that there was an attachment between you the last time George was home, but he did not apply to your father for permission to pay his addresses. After all, you were no more than a child at the time.”

  “I wasn’t! I was turned seventeen and I have always known my own mind. I have loved George since I was a little girl.”

  Her mother smiled faintly at this indignant pronouncement, but she shook her head too and said with a gentle regret, “Your father could never countenance such an unequal match, my child. George is a younger son and his prospects are no more than respectable. You —”

  “I care nothing for that!”

  “I don’t suppose you do at your age, but others must keep your best interests in mind.”

  “You mean Papa, of course. If I do not care for a position of the first consequence, why should it concern my father? You have taught me to hold house; I shall make a good wife for a man of modest means. And George is not entirely without prospects, you know, nor dependent on his army pay. He will have Stanton Lodge for his own.” Something in the expression on her mother’s face caused the girl to abandon her arguments. “Will nothing make my father give his consent?” she demanded straightly.

  “I … I fear not.”

  Gemma bit her lip fiercely and stalked over to the window in the square apartment. After a moment while she fought for control, she said in a very different tone, “If it means waiting until I am of age, I am resolved that I shall marry no one but George, Mama. My father cannot compel me to wed Mr. Delevan.”

  This resolute speech was delivered over her shoulder while one hand played with the blind cord. The duchess eyed her daughter’s straight back and for a moment was able to relax the rigid control she had imposed over her features to allow the sympathy and pain she felt for this beloved child’s distress to show in her eyes. By the time Gemma had turned to face her with a touching assumption of dignity, her emotions were veiled once more. She watched her daughter bend to pick up the basket that stood near her chair, and begged, her tones betraying anxiety, “Gemma, you will treat Mr. Delevan with all the courtesy owing to a guest in our home?”

  “Naturally, Mama,” she replied dully. “Mr. Delevan has the d
ouble recommendation of being my friend’s brother and my father’s guest.”

  The duchess thought it prudent to ignore the slight stress placed on the word “father’s”, but there was still one more item of news that it was her duty to impart before her daughter quit the room. She sighed and took her fences with a rush. “Mr. and Miss Delevan will not be our only guests for the next few weeks,” she began, avoiding her daughter’s suddenly narrowed glance. “Your Aunt Sophronia and your Cousin Coralee will be arriving tomorrow for an extended stay.”

  “Oh, no, not my cousin,” wailed Gemma, instantly reduced to childishness by the weight of this fresh disaster. “Why did you not warn me, Mama?” she demanded, turning on her trembling parent with gritted teeth. “That was all that was wanting to spoil Lucy’s visit.”

  “I did not learn of it until today, dearest,” pleaded her mother in extenuation. “Your father told me an hour ago that Sophronia was bringing Coralee here to remove her from the vicinity of an unsuitable young man who had been dancing attendance on them ever since they arrived in Brighton.”

  This interesting piece of information failed to mitigate the disaster as far as Gemma was concerned, though she did speculate aloud on the amusement they might expect to derive from the situation should Coralee’s abundant charms and documented propensity for flirtation succeed in diverting the attention of Mr. Delevan from the original object of his visit. By the time she had put this happy thought into words and considered it for a moment, the frown had cleared from her brow and she was looking decidedly mischievous.

  The duchess protested. “Gemma, you are not to encourage Coralee to flirt with Mr. Delevan! Your father will be furious if such a thing should happen.”

  “Encourage her, Mama? I shouldn’t dream of it,” came the dulcet reply. “All that is required is for me to show the least interest in Mr. Delevan for Coralee to make a dead set at him.”

  “Gemma, such vulgarity! Please do not employ such expressions in the presence of your aunt. You know what she is.” Her grace had almost started up from her chaise and was wringing her hands in great agitation.

  “In fact,” pursued her undutiful daughter, disregarding this last plea, “it will not even be necessary to stimulate an interest in Mr. Delevan. I daresay he is so rich that he need be no more than one degree more prepossessing than an orangutan to catch Coralee’s interest. She’d flirt with anything in trousers just to keep her hand in, but rich as his father is, Mr. Delevan must be considered a matrimonial prize.”

  “Gemma, stop! You will bring on one of my palpitations,” moaned her sorely tried parent, and indeed she was looking so pulled that her offspring’s conscience smote her. Casting aside the basket, Gemma subjected her trembling mother to a quick embrace and bent her best efforts to soothing that poor lady’s disordered nerves with faithful promises to mind her tongue when in her formidable aunt’s company.

  “Yes, but Gemma, you will try to get along with Coralee this time, will you not? I know you girls rubbed each other the wrong way as children, but you are both young ladies now and the least we can expect is that you will remember that Coralee is our guest and behave accordingly.” Tears gathered in Lady Carlyle’s dark eyes and threatened to spill over. “Your father will be so angry if your conduct merits censure. He will say I have allowed you an unbecoming degree of freedom — he was against sending you to Miss Climpton’s Seminary from the beginning, but it was so lonely here for you with Peter away at school, and I thought … I thought —”

  “Shush, Mama, don’t talk. Here is your vinaigrette. Breathe deeply,” commanded Gemma, becoming increasingly concerned with the consequences of this lamentable interview on her fragile parent. The duchess frequently suffered from an irritation of the nerves, and the present occasion was shaping as a severe trial to her fortitude. “I promise I shall treat my cousin with all the consideration due to a guest and I shall try not to regard her sly digs. And I promise further that my aunt shall have no cause to complain of me to my father this time.”

  The frantic grip on her hands loosened as the duchess relaxed into the depths of the pillows, clutching feebly at the small aromatic bottle her daughter held beneath her nose. “Thank you, dearest,” she whispered. “I know all this has been a great disappointment to you when you were anticipating Lucy’s visit so eagerly, and I am well aware that Coralee can be difficult.”

  “Coralee,” said her daughter in succinct summation, “is a jealous cat.”

  “I know she is,” was the unexpectedly candid reply, “but you will never succeed in convincing any gentleman of this fact, so I beg you will not demean yourself by seeming to notice if she implies things to your discredit in that sweet insinuating manner of hers. Half of her barbs are too subtle for the masculine mind in any case.”

  Gemma gave a delighted chuckle at such a show of spirit from her gentle mother and managed to coax a smile from her lips before settling her among the cushions with vinaigrette handy and blinds drawn to keep out the sun that was trying to burn away the remaining clouds.

  Her own smile vanished the second she closed the door behind her. In the brief span of fifteen minutes, her peace had been cut up and all her pleasure in anticipating Lucy’s visit had been destroyed. Under any other circumstances she would have been eager to meet, and predisposed to like, John Delevan, but it was going to be the worst kind of embarrassment to have to consort on a daily basis with a man who was coming for the express purpose of making her an offer she could never accept. If only her father had given her some hint of his intentions in this quarter, she could have written to Lucy to make her sentiments known. She had given her schoolfriend some inkling of her feelings for George two years ago and could have trusted her to alert her brother to the situation. At least it would have prevented this beastly visit from taking place. And to complicate matters still further, they were to have the double misfortune of Aunt Sophronia and Coralee to cloud her delight in Lucy’s presence.

  Gemma’s feet had reached the east terrace without benefit of her brain’s guidance. She paused on the flags, unsure whether she still wished to embark on a quest for flowers with her thoughts in such turmoil, or whether it might not be advisable to seek her bedchamber for a quiet hour in which to compose her disordered mind before the influx of guests was upon them.

  She had half-turned back when a mad scratching at one of the French doors decided her in favour of a walk. Her mother’s Pekingese, Homer, was frantically signalling his desire to accompany her on an outing, yapping and wagging his absurd brush of a tail. Her mood lightened at the sight of his doggy enthusiasm, and she opened the door and accepted his ecstatic gratitude as he danced around her, licking any part of her anatomy she was so unwise as to present to him.

  CHAPTER 2

  With a reverberating crack rendered even more virulent by the fact of its being high summer, the fastmoving clouds parted and generously fulfilled their promise of rain.

  “Whew! Almost left it too late,” admitted the man entering the carriage with more agility than grace as he threw himself into a corner after hastily shutting the door against the almost horizontal fall of rain. He removed the hat perched atop his crisp brown locks and shook drips of water from it before placing it tenderly on the seat beside him. A small frown appeared as he caught sight of one brown shoulder while depositing the hat. The frown deepened to a grimace once he had divested himself of his tan gloves and confirmed his fears that his new coat, delivered just last week from no less a tailor than the great Weston, had indeed received a wetting.

  The other passenger in the luxurious carriage had been observing this pained pantomime through a pair of uncommonly fine grey eyes into which a smile had crept. “You seem a trifle overanxious about a slight wetting, John,” she commented in an attractively low-pitched voice with a hint of amusement colouring its tones.

  “Well, we are nearly there, I believe. I would not wish to present an off appearance when meeting your friend and her family for the first time.” The gentl
eman did not look up as he continued to apply his handkerchief to the damp patches on his shoulders, and this ineffectual blotting action, or perhaps some slight awkwardness in his manner, deepened the lady’s amusement.

  “Then I must be grateful, I collect, that the inclement weather and your burning desire to present a point-device appearance at Monteith Hall have combined to give me the pleasure of your company for the last few miles of our journey.”

  This uncomplaining remark, uttered with sweet seriousness, brought the man’s head around to face his companion for the first time since entering the chaise. An answering gleam enlivened his bright-blue eyes though all he said, and that mildly, was, “Now, Lucy.”

  Ignoring this weak rebuttal, the lady continued, warming to her grievance, “And to think that I dispensed with the services of a maid on the trip in the mistaken belief that I was to have my brother’s company. Was ever a person more basely deceived than I? Even Addie’s chatter would have been preferable to two days of rocking and lurching solitude.”

  The insensitive creature sitting at his ease across from her was apparently too calloused to be even minimally affected by this piteous tale. “Now, Lucy,” he reiterated in the same mild tone, “you know you insisted on sending Addie to the shore for a rest because she can’t seem to shake that lingering cough. There was never a question of taking her with you. And there was never any question of my riding inside either.” The smile in his eyes spread to his lips. “You know I get queasy after a half-hour in a closed carriage.”

  The lady’s lips quirked in response, but she permitted a sigh to escape them. “You never were a good subject for teasing, John. You never give one the satisfaction of seeing you rise to the bait, and you’re always the first to laugh at yourself. Totally unaccommodating.”

  At this ludicrous complaint, her companion burst into laughter and was joined by his sister an instant later. The smile lingered as the man asked sympathetically, “Tired, love?”