Diamond in the Rough Page 4

  No amount of arguing from Reginald had been enough to dissuade Charles from deciding his only hope lay in acquiring an American heiress. Charles was convinced those heiresses were dripping in money their industrious fathers had made, and he was only too willing to accept that money—no matter that he would have to marry an American in the process.

  The problem with that decision, though, was that Charles was susceptible to pretty faces and could very well forget he needed a vast fortune if a particularly pretty face struck his fancy.

  Reginald’s father, having promised Charles’s father on his deathbed that he would look after Charles to the best of his abilities, had convinced Reginald that he’d have to accompany his cousin to America to make certain the heiress Charles set his sights on truly possessed an impressive fortune. His father also wanted Reginald to convince Charles to choose a lady in possession of at least a semblance of proper decorum. That meant that Miss Poppy Garrison, no matter her pretty face, was probably not going to be an appropriate choice for Charles, although Miss Tooker, on the other hand, might be.

  “There,” Miss Garrison suddenly exclaimed, straightening as she shoved her tiara, which she only just seemed to realize was slipping over her forehead, back into place. “No need to revisit the retiring room now, however . . .” Miss Garrison shook out the folds of her skirt right before she began striding toward the chair that was closest to where she’d stumbled, bending down and looking under that chair before she straightened and moved on to the next chair.

  “What are you doing now?” Miss Tooker asked, raising a hand to a lily-white throat that was encircled with a diamond choker.

  “I’m looking for what tripped me up,” Miss Garrison said right before she suddenly dropped to all fours, shimmied underneath a small table covered in fine linen, then shimmied her way out again, brandishing a cane. “Aha,” she declared, getting to her feet and holding out the cane. “Here’s the culprit, although why someone left it behind is a mystery since people usually don’t neglect to remember to take their canes with them when they quit a room.”

  Miss Tooker stepped closer to Miss Garrison and frowned. “There’s no mystery here, Miss Garrison,” she began. “That looks like Mr. Phalen’s cane. He’s a dear elderly man who often misplaces his cane.” She turned and nodded to an older gentleman sitting in a chair a few feet away, his chin resting on his chest, taking a bit of a snooze. “I’m sure he’d be mortified to learn his cane was responsible for your accident.”

  As Miss Garrison glanced to Mr. Phalen, her lips curved for all of a second, but then her brows drew together when she returned her attention to Miss Tooker. “Bit odd that his cane got so far away from him, don’t you think?”

  “Why would you find that odd?”

  Miss Garrison darted another look to Mr. Phalen. “I find it odd that you don’t find it odd, what with how feeble Mr. Phalen appears to be. But to spell it out for you, what do you think the chances are that someone purposefully used his cane to trip me?”

  Miss Tooker blinked. “I would think that’s slim to none because I don’t know anyone who’d purposefully trip anyone since that would be quite beyond the pale.” She shot a glance to Charles, smiled a lovely smile at him, then took the cane from Miss Garrison. “However, unlikely intrigues aside, I do believe you were in the midst of becoming introduced to Lord Lonsdale. Allow me to return this to Mr. Phalen for you so that Mrs. Kruger may proceed.” Sending Charles one last smile, Miss Tooker glided away as Mrs. Kruger launched into another formal introduction, one Miss Garrison had completely missed the first time around, although given the circumstances, he could understand that particular lapse.

  What Reginald was having difficulty understanding, though, was her blatant disregard for expected behavior, because after she’d recovered from her fall, instead of being sufficiently mortified, she had gone about readjusting her bustle as if it were an everyday occurrence for a lady to adjust her feminine accessories in the presence of numerous gentlemen.

  He’d grown up in a household that demanded the strictest adherence to the rules of decorum, and while some might call him snobbish, Reginald was of the firm belief that always maintaining the proprieties was exactly what separated true ladies and gentlemen from the masses.

  Gentlemen, of which he considered himself to be a member, were expected to follow certain requirements ranging from being well-versed in matters of politics, estate business, and classical literature, to treating ladies as delicate objects with tender feelings that must never be injured.

  Ladies, on the other hand, were expected to be proficient in all the feminine arts, such as music, needlepoint, and penning charming letters to their many correspondents. They were also expected to dress with style, glide across a room, and certainly never draw attention to themselves through theatrical mishaps or a brazen disregard for the tried-and-true rules of decorum.

  He was rapidly concluding that Miss Poppy Garrison was severely lacking when it came to the basics of true femininity, which meant she was not remotely suitable to become a candidate for Charles’s interest, let alone become a candidate for the role of countess.

  “. . . great honor to present Lord Lonsdale,” Mrs. Kruger was saying, drawing Reginald’s attention. “Lord Lonsdale, this is Mrs. George Van Rensselaer and her lovely granddaughter, Miss Poppy Garrison, who I do believe I mentioned has only very recently come to the city.”

  As Charles stepped forward to take Mrs. Van Rensselaer’s hand and place the expected kiss upon it, Reginald braced himself when Charles turned his attention to Miss Garrison. To his surprise, however, after Charles kissed her hand, she sent him a pretty smile and dipped into a curtsy, although she didn’t dip very low to the ground, but that might have been because it looked as if her bustle were beginning to shift again. After she straightened and retrieved her hand from Charles, she turned to Reginald.

  “And you are, of course, Mr. Blackburn, unless I’m mistaken and you’re actually a member of the aristocracy as well, in which case I’ll apologize in advance for not using your proper title, such as Your Grace or Your Majesty,” she said before Mrs. Kruger could introduce the two of them properly.

  Reginald chanced a glance at Charles, who was smiling indulgently at Miss Garrison as if she’d just said something incredibly witty instead of showing herself to be woefully unfamiliar with the intricacies of British aristocracy. Summoning up a smile, Reginald took a step toward Mrs. Van Rensselaer and took her hand even as he nodded to Miss Garrison. “I’m afraid I’m a mere Mr. Blackburn, although it would be delightful to have people address me as Your Majesty.” He placed a kiss on Mrs. Van Rensselaer’s hand, then turned to Miss Garrison, who was watching him with a great deal of curiosity in her vivid blue eyes.

  “Are there many people who go by the title of Your Majesty in Britain?” she asked as he took her hand and kissed it.

  “Only the queen at the moment.”

  Miss Garrison’s eyes began to twinkle. “Which explains why you’d be delighted if people addressed you as such. But tell me, even though you’re not in possession of a title, do you have any of those lofty ancestral estates I’ve heard so much about—ones that have a ghoul in the dungeon and a ghost in the attic?”

  Unable to help but wonder if the brash young lady standing before him was attempting to decipher if he was a gentleman of means or not—or a gentleman worth pursuing if she had her sights on gracing the hallways of an English estate as its mistress—Reginald took a second to consider his answer.

  Being the second son of a duke, he lived in many lofty ancestral estates throughout the year, but he didn’t actually own any of those homes—all of them were entailed and would go to his older brother someday. Because of that, and because he certainly didn’t want to encourage Miss Garrison in any way if she did have him in her sights, he didn’t have a single qualm about what came out of his mouth next. “I’m afraid I don’t own a single ancestral estate, Miss Garrison.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.
I was hoping to question you further on—”

  “Whether I’ve traveled to America to secure myself a bride because my ancestral estates are in need of shoring up?” he finished for her, earning a wrinkle of a nose in return.

  “Of course not,” Miss Garrison surprised him by saying. “I wanted to ask you whether or not you feel ghosts really exist or if you’d seen any floating around. Since you just admitted you don’t own an ancestral estate, I assume you wouldn’t have much knowledge about ancestral ghosts, which is why I’m disappointed.” She frowned. “I’m curious, though, as to why you thought I was about to question you on a subject that even I, having only recently arrived in town, know is quite beyond the pale—broaching the topic of marrying for money.”

  An unexpected wave of heat began traveling up Reginald’s neck. “Forgive me, Miss Garrison. That was beyond the pale for me to say.”

  Miss Garrison inclined her head. “Apology accepted, and forgive me if you find what I’m going to ask next offensive as well, but since you broached the topic . . . have you come to America to secure an heiress?”

  Glancing around, Reginald found that while he’d been speaking with Miss Garrison, a crowd of young ladies had begun pressing closer, anticipation on their faces as they waited for his response.

  He suppressed a groan even as he realized there was nothing left to do now except make it perfectly clear he was not in the market for an heiress, although how he was going to do that without offending any of them, which would then reflect poorly on Charles, was beyond him.

  “So you are here to find yourself an heiress,” Miss Garrison proclaimed, drawing his immediate attention along with a good deal of annoyance.

  “No I’m not,” he argued. “But since you seem to be a most determined sort, allow me to expand on exactly what I’m doing here.” He nodded to Charles. “I’ve come to America as Lord Lonsdale’s traveling companion. But more importantly, I’m here to advise him on any important decisions he may need to make.”

  Miss Garrison’s eyes narrowed. “Decisions that revolve around eligible young ladies who may be interested in procuring his . . . affections?”

  “Indeed.”

  Chapter 4

  The moment that bit of ridiculousness left his mouth, Reginald wanted to call it back. Glancing to Charles, he found his cousin looking at him as if he’d lost his mind, and frankly, he couldn’t say he blamed the man. Horror immediately chugged through his veins as reality set in about what he’d just been responsible for doing.

  He’d not had any intention of letting New York society learn he was aiding Charles in his quest for a bride, but something about the manner in which Miss Poppy Garrison had been questioning him had apparently caused him to speak impulsively, uncharacteristically so, and disclose information that might now have him becoming in much demand with the heiresses who wanted to garner Charles’s affections.

  The reason he’d originally decided to introduce himself as Mr. Blackburn instead of Lord Blackburn, second son of a duke, was because he’d not wanted to draw attention away from his cousin. Now, however, he was certain to garner more than his fair share of notice, but at least that notice would be given because young ladies were interested in earning Charles’s favor, not because they were interested in pursuing him.

  Wincing when he realized that the young ladies who’d been inching his way were now smiling and fluttering their lashes, he sent them a nod before he turned back to Miss Garrison. She was not fluttering her lashes at him, but was instead watching him closely with what seemed to be an entire storm brewing in her unusual eyes.

  “What a daunting task you’ve set for yourself, Mr. Blackburn,” she began coolly. “Proclaiming yourself the gatekeeper for Lord Lonsdale’s affections will assuredly be trying, although, given your arrogant and unpleasant nature, I’m—ouch.” She stopped talking and looked at her grandmother. “Did you just pinch me?”

  Mrs. Van Rensselaer arched a brow. “Don’t be absurd.” She turned a smile on Charles. “How are you finding the weather in New York, Lord Lonsdale?”

  Charles returned the smile, relief flickering through his eyes. “It’s lovely, Mrs. Van Rensselaer, although I’ve been given to understand that it’s been unusually warm in New York for this time of year—not that I’m complaining about that, mind you.”

  “And will you be staying through the holidays to enjoy the Season when it truly begins in earnest, and by that I mean after the first Patriarch Ball in January?” Mrs. Van Rensselaer asked.

  Charles’s smile faltered ever so slightly. “I’m hoping to return to London before Christmas.”

  Miss Garrison shot Reginald a significant look. “That’s not going to give you much time to advise him, and if I were offering my friend advice, I’d suggest he resist the urge to hurry through a process that’s going to affect him for the rest of his life, and—” Miss Garrison stopped talking, sent her grandmother a glare, then began rubbing her arm, quite as if she’d just suffered another pinch.

  Clearly seeking a distraction from the topic at hand, Charles turned to Mrs. Kruger, who seemed to have been rendered speechless again. “I’ve just noticed that guests are moving toward the staircase, which must signify dinner is about to be served. Shall we begin making our way downstairs? I understand you and I are to make a grand entrance when all the guests have been seated, but I would hazard a guess that Mr. McAllister is waiting for us downstairs to make certain it goes off without a hitch.” With that, Charles took Mrs. Kruger’s arm and hurried away, leaving Reginald behind.

  “And wasn’t that just an illuminating conversation?” Miss Beatrix Waterbury, a young lady Reginald had met at the beginning of the evening, commented as she stepped up to join them, beaming an impish smile all around.

  “I’m not certain I’d go so far as to claim it was illuminating,” a nervous-looking man said as stepped up to join them. “Poor Lord Lonsdale all but fled from you, Miss Garrison, which will certainly be remarked upon often tonight.”

  “I thought you went off to find the name of your dinner partner, Mr. Middleton,” Mrs. Van Rensselaer barked at the man, who Reginald only then realized was the poor soul who’d been partnered with Miss Garrison for the disastrous Gypsy Quadrille.

  “That’s why I’m back. I discovered that my partner for dinner is—”

  “Do not tell me Mr. McAllister paired you up with Poppy again.”

  Mr. Middleton raked a hand through his hair. “He . . . ah . . . well . . .”

  “How marvelous that we’ll get to share the meal together,” Poppy interrupted. “I was hoping you’d be chosen for me.”

  “I wasn’t given your name, Miss Garrison,” Mr. Middleton said in a rush. “I’m here to take Miss Waterbury down to dinner.”

  “Wonderful,” Miss Waterbury exclaimed as she took the arm Mr. Middleton suddenly thrust out to her. “I don’t believe we’ve ever had an opportunity to dine together, which means we’ll have much to discuss over the courses.”

  Mr. Middleton immediately looked wary. “What do you normally enjoy discussing over the courses?”

  Miss Waterbury patted his arm. “Oh, the usual social intrigues . . . or perhaps we’ll forgo the tried-and-true topics of conversation and delve into something meaningful, such as the plight of the suffragists or what new inventions have shown up in the city of late.”

  “I’m more of a tried-and-true conversationalist,” Mr. Middleton muttered.

  “Of course you are,” Miss Waterbury said with another pat to Mr. Middleton’s arm before she turned a smile on Poppy. “Care to share a table with Mr. Middleton and me after you find your escort?”

  “How kind of you to invite me. Of course I’ll join you,” Poppy said, even though her grandmother seemed to be trying to catch her eye as she shook her head ever so discreetly. “But speaking of my escort, I wonder if he’s gotten lost since he’s not shown up to claim me.”

  Reginald cleared his throat. “He’s not lost, Miss Garrison.”

  “H
ow do you know?”

  He was not encouraged when her eyes began flashing again. “Because I’ve been given the supreme honor of escorting you to dine this evening. Do forgive me for not mentioning that sooner. I fear I allowed other matters to distract me.”

  “Why would Mr. McAllister ask you to dine with me?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. “Is he unaware that you’ve apparently been tasked with the daunting feat of vetting ladies for that oh-so-desirous position of Lady Lonsdale, a position for which I’m undoubtedly not qualified?”

  “I never specifically claimed to be vetting ladies for Lord Lonsdale. If you’ll recall, I said I was here to offer him my advice.”

  “It’s the same thing,” she shot back.

  Having nothing of worth to say to that because Miss Garrison had just voiced a most valid point, Reginald settled for offering her his arm, which she took, albeit reluctantly. He then offered his other arm to Mrs. Van Rensselaer, which she didn’t hesitate to accept.

  “I overheard Mr. McAllister telling Miss Tooker that Lord Lonsdale asked to have Mr. Blackburn seated next to you at dinner,” Mr. Middleton said as he and Miss Waterbury fell into step beside them.

  Miss Garrison stopped walking. “Why would he have done that?”

  “Because you’ve obviously caught his eye,” Mrs. Van Rensselaer said, satisfaction in her voice.

  “I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Viola,” Miss Garrison said with a wave of a gloved hand, which sent her bracelets jingling. “Mr. Blackburn will most assuredly be taking notes as we dine, jotting down all of the many faux pas I’m sure to commit, which will effectively take me out of the running as a potential heiress for Lord Lonsdale.” She smiled rather grimly. “However, since it’s highly unlikely Mr. McAllister will allow a change in seating assignments, we’ll simply need to make the best of the matter, although to be clear”—she pinned Reginald under a stormy gaze—“I’m not happy about this. Not happy about this at all.”