Page 29 of Lady Beast's Bridegroom
Vivienne wanted a white pony. No, a black one. Or perhaps one that was white and brown, with a dark mane and tail. Rose agreed that all of these colors were nice, but she had once seen a bay pony with a cream mane and tail so long they dragged on the ground, and if Peter would buy her one exactly the same, she would never ask for anything else as long as she lived.
The discussion continued during their walk in Hyde Park, with the specifications becoming more and more detailed. Finally, Peter assured the girls that, while he would certainly look for ponies such as those they described, he’d be shopping for horses that matched each of his sister’s personalities. “Both of them will be sweet and full of fun,” he promised, and the girls were satisfied. He was a very patient man, Arial mused. It was too late to guard her heart, when his every word and action were so endearing.
The little family did not meet anyone they knew, but even so, they were the object of so much attention that Arial wondered if the Weatheralls’ tongues had been flapping at both ends. She told herself once again that it didn’t bother her; indeed, the attention seemed to be fascinated rather than horrified, and was far less intimidating than she’d expected.
She thought her companions oblivious to the rude staring until Peter whispered in her ear, asking her how she was bearing up. Rose slipped a hand into the crook of her elbow. Viv responded with a cold stare of her own to one particularly rude gentleman who had put his glass up to his eye in order to have a better look. “My governess always tells me it is rude to stare,” she commented, loudly.
Miss Pettigrew, instead of correcting the girl, replied equally loudly, “Quite right,” and sent the gentleman a glare of her own.
Arial appreciated their support but begged them to stop. “It is better just to ignore people,” she told them.
“Yes,” said Miss Pettigrew, her indignation making her voice loud enough to carry. “Let us show we are better bred than they are.”
It did rather take the shine off the afternoon, but Arial supposed she was going to have to get used to it. She was determined not to allow her insecurities and fears to keep her from sharing the sights of London with the two girls and her new husband.
They were on their way out of the park when a fashionable barouche pulled up in front of them, and the occupant called out, “Arial!”
It was Margaret Denning, Countess Charmain, a neighbor from home. Like Arial, she was both an orphan and the daughter of an earl. Unlike Arial, hers was one of those rare titles passed down in the female line. Even more than Arial’s wealth, Margaret’s ability to pass a title to her son attracted suitors, most of them (according to Margaret) impossible.
Still, she claimed to enjoy the social round that her mother’s sister, who lived with her, insisted upon.
“Lady Ransome, I suppose I should say. This must be your husband. I saw the notice in the newspaper and couldn’t be more pleased. Will you not introduce me?” She gazed at Peter’s sisters with open curiosity.
“Lady Charmain, may I present my husband, Viscount Ransome, and his sisters, Vivienne and Rosalind Ransome. My sisters now,” she added, gleefully.
“Good for you,” said Lady Charmain. “A husband and two sisters in one fell swoop. Very efficient. You must excuseme, Lord Ransome. I find that being blunt saves a lot of misunderstanding.”
Peter bowed. “A friend of my wife’s is a friend of mine,” he said.
“Nicely spoken,” she approved. “I have yet to make up my mind about you, Lord Ransome. But if you are good to my friend, I shall love you like a sister.”
Well. That was being blunt with a vengeance.
“I’m on notice then,” said Peter, and sent Arial that special smile that made her warm in her private places.
Chapter Eleven
Richards was veryefficient. The visiting cards arrived the next day. Arial and Peter decided they would spend a morning at home, make some afternoon calls, then Peter would go on to Tattersalls while Clara and Arial investigated pianos and music teachers.
After another blissful night with Arial in his arms, Peter was sitting in the drawing room with the newspaper, Arial across from him making some sort of a list. He could not remember when he last felt so contented.
Then someone banged on the front door. “Who could it be?” he commented. “John, perhaps? It is too early for callers.”
The voice imperiously demanding entrance dispelled that notion. Peter’s contentment fractured. He knew that voice. “I will not stand on ceremony,” it declaimed. “After all, we are family.”
The nerve of the woman.
The speaker sailed into the drawing room, already complaining. “Beau! How could even you leave me to learn of your marriage through someone else’s letter?” Her daughters trailed in her wake.
Peter’s training as a gentleman brought him to his feet. Manners applied even to harridans such as the dowager Lady Ransome.
“I have never been more astonished than when Mary-Louise Weatherall wrote to tell me she had been at your wedding. And when she told me the name of your bride! An earl’s daughter, to be sure, but one nobody knows, and only a distant relative to the current earl. Still, she is rich, so that is a benefit, to be sure. You will now be able—”
“Hush your tongue, Madam.” The abrupt command stopped the she-devil in mid-flow.
Peter turned to Arial, almost too angry to speak. But when his eyes met her laughing one, he suddenly saw how ridiculous his stepmother was. His equanimity restored, he said, “Lady Ransome, may I have your leave to present to you my father’s widow, the Dowager Lady Ransome. Also, her two daughters, Miss Turner,” he nodded towards Pauline, “and Miss Laura Turner.”
“Good day,” Arial responded, inclining her head graciously, very much the earl’s daughter.
