Her voice admirably calm, Cam said, only a hint of a sneer, “Papa, this change you speak of, everything sounds the same to me, at least where ladies are concerned.”
Whit wasn’t stupid, he got his brain together and said, “My pet, I must get you home and smooth all the ruffled feathers. Ryder, Alex, I will see you both this evening.”
Alex imagined the carriage ride home with Lord Whitsonby would be very interesting what with the father trying to convince his daughter to fall into line. But would he push all that hard? Alex had seen the pride of the father for his daughter, but would his lordship defend her to his new wife? He’d simply never considered a lady involving herself in business. Fact was, though, he’d always taken Sophie’s counsel for granted, and Jayne’s too of course, hadn’t even thought to question it because of their sex. Both of them were highly intelligent and competent. Without them Brandon House would be vastly different, and not for the better. He remembered the virulent fever he’d caught that had swept through Upper Slaughter. Both Jayne and Sophie had nursed him,spent hours with him, saved him, not the ancient local doctor who’d wanted to bleed him. It made him wonder what Ryder would say to Camilla Rohman if he were her father.
He remembered clearly at Oxford it was never questioned that males were the superior sex, that their rules, their pronouncements, ran the world. Of course a man was expected to marry eventually to produce children and have as many mistresses as he could afford, with discretion, of course, since he was a gentleman. But if men did allow women to involve themselves in business, what would happen to children and to households without the wife to oversee them? It made his brain ache to think of it.
As Alex rode in a hackney beside Ryder to Portman Square and the Sherbrooke townhouse, he knew to his bones Camilla Rohman was a force to be reckoned with, like Sophie and Jayne. He wondered if her father would give her business lessons on the sly.
CHAPTER 7
Whitsonby Home
Ormond Square
Tuesday
Whit watched his wife, Averil, Lady Whitsonby, pace his study, a room unchanged since he’d assumed the title when he was twenty-five. Averil rarely visited his study because he knew she found it ridiculously old-fashioned, but of course she’d never say that aloud since she knew it was a product of his first wife’s taste. He’d accidentally heard her true opinion when she’d showed the room to a friend not realizing he was seated by the fireplace in a high-backed chair facing the fireplace. “Just look, Imogene—Egyptian clawed feet on the sofa and scrolled arms on every chair, all ridiculous shapes and colors, so awfully foreign, ah, but what can I do? My dear husband claims to like it.” She’d laughed. “But maybe not for much longer. After all, the past is the past.”
He’d allowed her free rein in their bedchamber. He still found it disconcerting to walk into the room to see a series of gilded mirrors set like a line of soldiers at her eye level along two walls against silk wallpaper with endless scenes ofshepherdesses and sheep, so many sheep. He always saw his neck, which he admitted, gave him the opportunity to adjust his neckcloth.
He and Cam had arrived home only ten minutes before. Averil had taken one look at Camilla, then ignored her and asked in a very sweet voice if his lordship would please accompany her to their bedchamber. Even if he’d been blind and deaf, Whit would have known she was angry. Her walk was stiff, her hands fists at her sides. Because he was a man, he couldn’t simply allow his wife to dictate to him, particularly in the servants’ hearing, and so he told his wife he would speak to her in ten minutes in his study. He then turned to Cam and tried to make his voice commanding. “Go to your bedchamber, we will speak later.”
Cam smiled up at him and said low, “Bonne chance, Papa.”
Of course he knew he needed all the good luck God would see fit to bestow on him. When he strolled—a slow stroll—into his study ten minutes later, it was to see Averil eyeing the rendering of the first train in England, the locomotion #1 built by George and Robert Stephenson in 1825. Ah, he clearly remembered his excitement. Next to it was a drawing of Euston Station built but four years before, with the line running from Birmingham to London. Next to that one, his favorite, the Deptford Train Station built in 1836, providing the first passenger service. He’d been a vital part of both projects and was justifiably proud. Then there was the portrait of his first wife, Tansia, painted after Camilla’s birth centered over the fireplace. She’d been dead now for many years, dying in childbed with their small son. It didn’t hurt to think about her anymore, or the babe. But still, whenever he walked into his study, he still automatically looked at her portrait, her beautiful laughing face, and even though he’d remarried, his memories remained strong. Magical Tansia.
Averil whirled to face him. “She’s a disobedient bitch, Whit! You always give in to her, always. Look at this latest fiasco—she disobeyed you, blatantly. The girl is a termagant, a disgrace. You must lock her in her room, for at least a week. You must teach her to do what she’s told. And then you must send her to Bath. Of course she has to come back for her sister’s wedding, but afterward, the next day, she will leave again.”
Whit watched her take a single breath, a very deep breath, and knew to his bones she wasn’t done, she was just winding up. A stray thought popped into his head—could he write a ditty about oil and water and which would win in a contest? He thought of how funny a song Cam would write—
His wife’s furious voice brought him back. “She’s an embarrassment to both me and her poor sister. My sweet Eliza, always admired for her lovely smile and lovely disposition, must always apologize to other ladies and gentlemen for her behavior.” Averil gave a delicate shudder. “Her most recent embarrassment, as you very well know, was just last Tuesday at the Biddlefords’ musicale when she struck poor young Teddy Jewel in the jaw. All the ladies were appalled.”
He did indeed know since she’d reminded him at least three times. Whit couldn’t help it, he grinned, said without thinking, “It was rather amusing, really. Cam has an excellent right hook. How I wish I’d seen her clip him and—” He stopped in his tracks because he wasn’t stupid. He cleared his throat, hoping it was over, but alas, Averil burst out, “It was not amusing. I was mortified as was Eliza. Imagine, a supposed young lady creating such a scene and the young gentleman hadn’t really done anything at all offensive and it was Camilla’s fault in any case. She shouldn’t have gone out with him onto the balcony to supposedly see the full moon—”
Whit said, “Younggentleman? Jewel isn’t young, he’s thirty years old if he’s a day, and he tried to slide his ungloved hand down her gown. What should she have done? Unfasten her corset to give him better purchase? And he followed her outside, Averil. The incident would have gone unremarked ifhe hadn’t spilled everything to his mother when she questioned him about his bruised jaw. Then he lied, told her how Camilla Rohman had punched him for no reason at all.”
“Come, Whit, no one believes the absurd reason she claims made her strike him. It is patent nonsense. Camilla made that up to try to defend her actions, to excuse her hitting him. Teddy is a gentleman. If he was perhaps too enthusiastic, it is only because he expects to marry her, however unlikely that seems to me.”
Of course Teddy Jewel wanted to marry her, her dowry was splendid and Teddy was in need of money, always. He said, “Teddy doesn’t have a chin. A thirty-year-old man shouldn’t be called Teddy. That name’s for a spaniel or a four-year-old. It’s as bad as Eliza calling her future husband Winnie rather than by his name, Winstead; Winnie sounds like a demned horse being called to come eat his oats.”
Averil marched right up to him and stuck out her lovely sculpted, rounded chin. “Whit, listen to me, it makes no matter if Teddy’s chin isn’t exactly what one would prefer. Ah, not all gentlemen can be as handsome as you, my dear.” She shrugged. “Come now, your daughter could close her eyes.”
Whit wondered—did Averil close her eyes? No, he was a fine figure of a man, albeit not quite as spry as he’d been at Teddy Jewel’s age, the idiot.
Another breath, this one deeper, longer, perhaps her tirade had run its course. She stepped even closer, smiled up into his eyes as she pressed in her arms to push up her breasts, made her offering.
And she had him.
He was staring at her beautiful plump breasts, so enticingly displayed, right there. He wanted to lick her breasts, press his face against the incredible white soft flesh. She wanted him; he could tell by her quickened breathing. Surely her diatribe was done.
He was wrong.
CHAPTER 8
Her breasts in full bloom, his attention firmly riveted, Averil lightly laid her hand on his shoulder, even managed to soften her voice. “My love, to be honest, until Teddy Jewel showed an interest in Camilla, I despaired of her wedding at all despite her very impressive dowry. She is off-putting. Teddy Jewel is a gift from God. Well, if not Teddy, of course there is Pilcher Gayson in Bath. He’s a possibility. According to your sister, he is much taken with her. She could choose which gentleman she preferred once she understands from you what she is expected to do.”
“She is only nineteen, Averil. She’s had only one Season. I happen to agree with her that there are no gentlemen hanging about who are worthy of her. If they find her off-putting, as you say, then she finds them equally unacceptable. I believe she said of Lord Steven, Plaxen’s son, that he was a dead bore whose only interest was in his waistcoat buttons.” He paused. “She’ll be presented to the queen next month.”
