The King's Doll Page 6

  “I say, mam'selle, you must promise me several dances for the Duke's Ball! Three, at least? You can do the English dances, can you not?” he asked, suddenly alarmed at the idea of standing up with a stumbling girl.

  Tiri, who was both amused and slightly scornful of this foppish visitor, smiled artlessly. “After a fashion, good sir! But I am sure you can teach me!"

  Visions of stumbling around the floor and disrupting the ordered sequences of the dances flashed through Lord Bertram's head, and he wished heartily that he had never been dragooned into this embarrassing situation.

  He was rescued by Lady Letitia, who missed very little of what went on in her drawing room. “Of course she can dance, Bertram! She and her mother have been habituées of the French Court, where dancing and such frivolities are of paramount importance!"

  This set-down effectively silenced conversation for a moment, and then into the breach stepped Lady Bridget who asked maliciously, “I suppose the dear Duke has provided you both with funds for costumes while you are his mama's guests?"

  “On the contrary,” said Tiri firmly, “we came prepared with costumes from the finest modistes of Paris. I am sure you would know of them, since you are wearing a dress which was very much à la mode in Paris—several years ago."

  Into the silence which followed this statement, Tiri added gently, “We fund ourselves, miss."

  Very shortly after this, the guests took their leave, and the Duchess, looking put out, was opening her mouth to give Tiri a thundering set-down when the butler announced Sir Hilary Conray. Lady Letitia's glance sharpened as she beheld the effect this name had upon her house guests. She told Fallow to show the gentleman in at once.

  Three pairs of eyes faced Sir Hilary as he entered the gloomy drawing room. His poor little Dani was looking at him as though he were a knight in armor, come to rescue her from a dragon. The formidable dowager who rose to greet him qualified perfectly for the menacing role, beginning to bullock him before he had finished paying his addresses to the ladies.

  “Are you a friend of my guests, sir? I think I have not met you in Society."

  “I have been much abroad,” admitted Sir Hilary, with a charming smile which had absolutely no effect upon the Duchess, whatever it may have done for Dani, over whose hand he was bowing at the moment. “I was recruited by William Pitt to be sure these ladies reached London safely,” he said pleasantly. “It is important that King Louis's ambassadors of good will be comfortably settled in England.” Then, apropos of nothing, he added, “Princess Mary was delighted to meet a new friend.” And he bestowed an approving smile upon Tiri.

  Daunted but not defeated, Lady Letitia tried to probe further into her visitor's antecedents and pedigree. He fended off her prying so adroitly that Dani and Tiri cast admiring looks in his direction, although Tiri thought his evasive skills betokened a misspent youth.

  “I have never heard of Conray,” snapped the frustrated Duchess at length.

  “It is a minor title,” Hilary admitted. “I am a younger son—the third, in fact, and must make do with the small estate."

  When his hostess would have asked him his father's name, he affected not to hear her and begged Dani and Tiri to save him at least one dance at the Duke's Ball, “I well know,” he admitted with a humorous look, “that I have no hope of more time with so popular a pair as the de Granvilles will be!” After this graceful tribute, he rose and took his departure in due form, leaving a fuming Lady Letitia to quiz the women about him.

  She had no luck in that department, either, for Dani and Tiri, grateful for a friend and partisan in this bleak fortress, nimbly avoided the direct questions and went into panegyrics over Sir Hilary's competence, kindness, and good style. They excused themselves as quickly as possible, “in order to see what we can do about costumes for the Duke's Ball. We must depend upon the clothes we brought from France, you know,” Dani added, her expression hinting that she was well aware that the Duchess had preempted the funds provided for the guests’ comfort.

  Since this was exactly the case, Lady Letitia was forced to let her unwelcome house guests go to their suite without further harassment.

  As a matter of fact, the Frenchwomen were facing a problem greater than Dani had admitted. Their clothing was elegant and strikingly beautiful, but there was only so much of it in the two trunks. Their immediate concern was that Tiri did not have another white dress for the Duke's Ball. Her maman had not felt it necessary for her to appear always in white, since she had not yet been formally introduced to Louis's Queen and probably never would be. Both mother and daughter had been noted, even in that style-conscious Court, as dressing in elegance and good taste, and although they were sometimes innovative, they were never bold or in poor style. As a result, Tiri would be forced to wear a second time the dress she had worn for her Presentation—or wear a color.

  Dani fretted. “I wish I had had the opportunity to discuss this with Hilary! He is knowledgeable, that one! He could tell us if it is a faux pas for a young girl to wear a soft pastel at her first ball!"

  “But who is to know it is my first ball?” asked Tiri, with logic. She held up a delicate amber silk, bound close beneath the bosom with russet velvet ribbons—a softly flowing garment which flattered her girlish slenderness. The color made a glowing complement to her lovely hair. “No powder, Maman, do you think? After all, much must be permitted a little French girl!"

  “Not so much of that little girl,” teased Dani. “We are trying to get you settled with a suitable parti."

  Tiri looked suddenly lost and irresolute. “Are we, Maman? Do you think it will be possible? Sometimes my courage fails a little!"

  “As would anyone's, in this horrid cavern!” her mother comforted her gently. "Toujours l'audace, ma poupée dorée!"

  Tiri, feeling one thousand years old, smiled reassuringly back at her naive, volatile little maman. She must not permit herself to give way to despair. Mariages de convenance were arranged every day, in France as well as in England. Only the woman usually had more than an ancient name to offer! Perhaps some jumped-up nouveau riche would be willing to accept a bride who could bring him nothing but a flawless lineage? Would any such upstart be found in the Duke's circle? She doubted it.

  Her doubt was not relieved by remarks made by the Duchess at the dinner table that evening. The meal was tasteless. Were there no great chefs in England? Or was their hostess too penny-pinching to hire one? For some reason, the Duchess was more gracious than usual. She spoke at some length of the elegant company to be expected at her son's ball.

  “No one would think of refusing an invitation from Daral,” she announced complacently. “It would not matter who was the guest to be honored!"

  This less than subtle thrust received its due reward. Dani had the fierce protectiveness of a female tiger where Tiri was concerned. “They will all be eager to see His Grace's imposing new home,” she agreed. “Have you seen it yet, ma'am?"

  That was taking the battle into the enemy's territory, since it was common knowledge that the Duke had not yet invited his mother to see the new Lansdale House.

  Really, raged the Duchess, these French hangers-on are unbearable! She would deflate their pretensions in some manner! “Lady Bridget, who will be a guest, is my son's fiancée,” she announced with more venom than accuracy. She cast a meaningful glance at Tiri. “I would not have your daughter get her hopes up without cause,” she smiled.

  “Tiri? Oh, you need fear nothing in that quarter, ma'am!” Dani said cheerfully. “Your son and my daughter are hard put to be civil to one another!” She matched smile for smile. “Tiri is, of course, accustomed to the—ah—greater civility of manner of the French aristocracy. We both find the English plain-speaking—ah—interesting."

  After this clincher, talk was restricted to a bare minimum, chiefly the Duchess singing Lady Bridget's praises. It was with almost unseemly eagerness that the Frenchwomen craved permission to retire. “No matter how comfortless these rooms are,” Dani sig
hed, sinking onto her bed, “they are preferable to another hour spent in That Woman's company!"

  “Do you think—the Duke and Lady Bridget?...” asked Tiri, looking anywhere but at her maman.

  Dani frowned. “Have you a tendre in that direction, child? I fear such a campaign would prove difficult. Not impossible, of course!” she amended swiftly, with a glance at the forlorn little face before her.

  Tiri changed her stance immediately. “I would not consider an offer from His Grace!” she protested too vehemently.

  “There would be advantages,” argued her maman. “You would never be bored."

  Tiri, rather surprised at the feature her mother had selected to persuade her, was forced to agree. She might be infuriated, yes; even desolated by the nobleman's set-downs and snubs; but she would never be bored. She prepared for bed silently.

  Her maman refrained from talking. Let the child make up her own mind. It was not an easy road which Tiri must travel.

  CHAPTER 7

  On the morning of the day of the Duke's Grand Ball, flowers and gifts began to arrive for Dani and Tiri. One particularly lovely basket of deep red roses bore Sir Hilary's card; his name was also on a pretty basket of white violets for Tiri. For a time, the dark hallway resembled a flower stall, crowded with boxes, baskets and posies.

  The Duke, rather surprisingly, had sent flowers and a dainty gift to each of his mother's house guests. Dani's gift was a splendid pair of sapphire earrings which almost matched her eyes. Tiri, scrutinizing them jealously, made haste to open her own small velvet box. It contained a gold link bracelet, set with sapphires.

  “He bought the set,” remarked Tiri, unforgivably, “and then divided it between us."

  Dani made no reply, but her silence was so accusing that Tiri ran to her and hugged her remorsefully. “Forgive me, maman!" she begged. “I was jealous!"

  This open avowal of her daughter's hopeless affection for the Duke softened her mother's attitude. “It is not like you to speak so, ma petite," she acknowledged. “Sometimes it hurts very much, this amour, does it not?"

  They fell to admiring one another's gifts, of which there were several besides the Duke's sapphires. Lord Bertram had sent a rather ugly enameled box for Tiri. “His mama probably chose it,” commented Dani, and Tiri chuckled reprehensibly.

  It seemed that the Duke was sending a carriage to pick up the three ladies from Mall House and bring them betimes to his own home. “We shall have to form the receiving line,” the Duchess instructed them needlessly. Dani let the remark pass, and they were soon receiving the careful attention of His Grace's excellent butler and footmen. The Duke greeted them cordially, very much the master of his own house. He praised Dani's appearance, but while his intent scrutiny lost no detail of Tiri's turn-out, he made no comment.

  His mama was not so reticent. Now that it was too late for the guests to remedy the matter, she took spiteful pleasure in calling to her son's notice that the Frenchwomen had not powdered their hair.

  The Duke shrugged. “They may well set a new style,” was all he said.

  His mama sniffed incredulously, but already the butler was ushering in the first of the evening's guests. For over an hour, all four in the receiving line were too busy to talk privately. Tiri began to relax, in spite of the press of newcomers to be greeted and introduced. She had attended a number of State Receptions at Versailles, and was no stranger to polite modes of behavior. In fact she caught Dani's approving eye more than once, as she made some pleasant response to a challenge or a question, and even the Duke was wearing an easier expression. Of course! thought the girl with a surge of compassion, it is his first time to entertain in his new home! And it's a good thing Dani and I are here, she decided. His mama is a detriment to any host!

  In fact Lady Letitia was growing increasingly acerb to her son's guests. Perhaps her feet hurt her, Tiri thought, trying to be charitable. It was with considerable relief that they welcomed the Royal Party in proper form, and were thereafter released to go to mingle with the guests. A cousin of the Duke's on his father's side had acted as host in the ballroom until the arrival of the King, Queen, and Prince of Wales freed His Grace to attend the Royals to that spacious and lovely room. As Prinny led off the first dance with his hostess, Lady Letitia, and the Duke spent the time conversing with the King and Queen, who elected not to dance, the rest of the guests quickly took the floor with every evidence of enjoyment.

  Although the King and Queen departed shortly, the party had already been judged a tremendous success. In fact, it was, as Lady Jersey sighed, not only a squeeze but a hurricane!, which was felt, by all who heard her, to be the supreme accolade.

  Tiri was not happy. She was flattered, courted, asked to dance every dance by a round half-dozen gallants—none of whom was His Grace. She had observed him partnering Dani, and Lady Bridget, and Lady Jersey, and she did not know how many more lovely queens of London Society, but he did not come near her. A certain amount of what she felt to be justified resentment was beginning to give her eyes a dazzling glitter, when Lord Bertram approached her. Since another dance was just starting, and still her recalcitrant host had shown no awareness of her presence, Tiri accepted the unpleasant lordling's urgent offer. As they swung onto the polished floor, the man sighed with obvious relief.

  “Ah, there, Mam'selle! You were bamming me when you pretended you could not dance English dances!"

  “They are much the same as French,” said Tiri too brightly. “It depends upon one's partner how much pleasure one receives."

  Bertram, obviously set up by what he interpreted as a compliment to his terpsichorean skills, twirled her around so widely that they nearly collided with another couple.

  After fifteen minutes of this, Tiri knew that she would have to sit down or risk falling. Bertram danced as though he were on the hunting field—a bruising rider. “Can we go on the balcony for a breath of air?” Tiri gasped. “It is really becoming very warm, is it not?"

  It was becoming warm. The light of thousands of candles and the press of hundreds of active bodies raised the temperature of even this vast room above a comfortable level. Bertram, however, took the girl's request as a hint for a closer encounter, and suggested very glibly that the Duke's gardeners had done a remarkable job landscaping his gardens at very short notice. So indeed it proved, as fairy lights gleamed in the branches of myriad potted trees and shrubs, and the neatly raked white graveled walks tempted one to explore.

  They had hardly got out of sight of the mansion when Bertram caught Tiri's arm and swung her around against his chest. Alas for his amatory hopes! He swung her so hard (and she was so unsuspecting that she put up no resistance) that Tiri's nose struck with smashing force against Bertram's protruding ribs—chicken-breasted, his papa had always called him. To the girl's horror, blood began to flow from her nose.

  Bending over to save her dress, she commanded, “Give me your handkerchief, Bertram! You have caused my nose to bleed with your roughness!"

  The horrified dandy thrust a rather inadequate kerchief into the girl's hand. Mumbling that he would go to get help for her, he hastened away toward the mansion.

  It was his misfortune—and Tiri's—that the Duke, who had been more conscious of the little French girl than she imagined, should have observed Lord Bertram's guiltily furtive reentry to the ballroom. Moving quickly and quietly to his side, the Duke swept Bertram back onto the terrace from which he had just come.

  “Where is Mademoiselle de Granville?” he asked coldly.

  After some initial stammering, Lord Bertram was understood to say that he had left her in the gardens, enjoying the fresh air, at her request.

  “You should have known better than to take her away from the ballroom in the first place,” shaped His Grace. “Do you wish to compromise her reputation?"

  Lord Bertram wilted visibly in the Duke's iron grip. Since the culprit appeared to have nothing to say for himself, the Duke released him and strode out into the garden.

  V
ery shortly he observed a slight figure standing in the shadow of a tree, a handkerchief pressed against her face. Weeping, is she? he thought callously. I warned her of the need to be circumspect, but of course she knew better—having come from Paris, where ladies have different ideas! He went quickly up to her and pulled the handkerchief quite firmly from her face.

  “I have come to escort you back inside,” he began, “and we must only hope you have not caused a—"and then he paused.

  It was not tears but blood which was flowing down the pale lovely face below his, whose expression at this moment was changing from forlorn to infuriated. The cause? The dark flow had splattered down over the white bosom and onto the delicate bodice.

  "Imbécile!" wailed Tiri. “You have ruined my dress! I have been carefully trying to stem the flow until that idiot of a Bertram got back here with help!"

  “You would have had a long wait,” said the Duke, unfeelingly. “The idiot Bertram is dancing with his sister—neither of whom can be said to have an ounce of compassion.” He offered his own large, spotless handkerchief. “Try this,” he advised, not unkindly. Placing it against her face, and speaking through its folds with some difficulty, Tiri groaned, “Now what am I to do? I cannot go back into the ballroom with blood splattered upon my garments! And I do not have anything to change into! You must get me into a closed carriage and then make my excuses to Maman and your mother."