A Most Improper Proposal. Molly Ann Wishlade

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      The elderly gentleman took Lady Watson’s hand and bowed low, brushing his withered lips against her fingers. He reminded Isabella of a balding old crow in his black jacket and breeches, with his bony legs clearly outlined in their silk stockings. At any moment she could imagine him stretching out his arms like wings and strutting around the room, bobbing his head backwards and forwards in the funny way crows do.

      ‘I am very well, Lady Watson, and all the better for seeing you.’

      Lord Howden leered as he turned to Isabella and openly eyed the low neckline of her gown. She flickered her eyes over the dome of his head where his sparse hair had been greasily combed from one ear to the other in a futile attempt to conceal his expanding scalp.

      She bobbed a curtsey and he took her hand, then leant over and kissed it more sloppily than he had Lady Watson’s. Isabella fought the urge to pull her hand away and frowned with dismay at the damp patch his kiss had left on her silk glove. She yearned to wipe it against her dress to rid herself of his drool but such behaviour would not be proper or comely.

      ‘You must save me a dance later on, Miss Adams.’ His wolfish grin seemed all the more sinister because of the missing teeth and the foul stench of his breath. That smell would now be clinging to her glove.

      ‘Of course, Lord Howden. It would be an honour.’ That I dream not of…

      ‘So lovely,’ he muttered, then turned and walked away, lifting his right leg slightly as he unabashedly adjusted his manhood.

      ‘An honour, dear?’ Lady Watson smiled.

      ‘I am afraid not, Lady Watson.’ Isabella shook her head. ‘I have tried to show the gentleman good manners…’ She wondered if it would be awful of her to confess her thoughts, but Lady Watson was not easily shocked. ‘However, I cannot bear to dance with him for he whispers the most awful things into my ear, then claims that it is his age and that his mind wanders.’

      Lady Watson laughed. ‘Yes, dear, like his hands. Lord Howden has not altered in the sixty years during which I have been of his acquaintance. Outliving three younger wives and dallying with countless mistresses has done nothing to dull his ardour. I thought that he would fall head first into your gown the way he was leaning over to peer down your neckline.’

      ‘Lady Watson!’

      Despite her shock, Isabella laughed, for the old lady’s wicked humour was most infectious.

      As they approached a circle of ladies, Isabella felt her laughter die in her throat. Lady Watson coughed and the nearest two turned and quickly assessed the new arrivals, evaluating hair, clothing and jewellery in one sweeping glance.

      ‘Lady Watson.’ Lady Herridge bowed her head in acknowledgment. ‘And the lovely Miss Adams.’ Though the lady smiled, her tone was icy and her pale-blue eyes were hard as flint.

      ‘Well, ladies…’ Lady Watson addressed the small circle of women in their colourful evening gowns and headwear. They reminded Isabella of a picture she’d once seen in a book about parrots in a jungle. ‘May I ask what you were discussing?’

      ‘My dear Lady Watson’ – Lady Herridge drew herself up to her full height and paused for effect – ‘we were discussing the latest arrival in London.’

      The ladies tittered and fussed and Isabella glanced quickly from one hard face to another. There was much flickering of fans and exchanging of knowing smiles.

      What did they know? She felt her vulnerability once more, as the unswallowable lump rose in her throat and began to choke her. Was it someone from her past? Was there a chance that her former shame would be resurrected and bandied about this season as well? Her head began to ache and she felt certain that her knees would give way.

      Lady Watson applied a gentle pressure to her hand, squeezing it just a fraction in the crook of her elbow.

      ‘The latest arrival.’ Lady Watson stared hard at Lady Herridge. ‘And whom might that be? The Duke of Wellington, mayhap?’ She smiled broadly at her suggestion, well aware that the snobbery of this club had kept that honourable gentleman from entering its social circle.

      ‘Oh, no, Lady Watson!’ Lady Herridge announced triumphantly. ‘Someone far more interesting. At least, someone you will find far more interesting.’

      Lady Watson shook out her golden fan with its decorative yellow feathers and raised it to her face.

      ‘Pray tell me the name of our new arrival, Lady Herridge.’ Lady Watson’s voice was calm but Isabella sensed her tension. It made her long to stand between the two ladies in order to block out the mocking face of Lady Herridge. She wanted to whisk her saviour away from this gladiators’ arena because she feared what knowledge Lady Herridge was about to impart, but she forced herself to stand still and silent and to imitate the unflinching dignity that Lady Watson displayed.

      ‘None other than…’ Lady Herridge sniffed and her companions giggled behind their fans. ‘Lord… James Crawford.’

      Isabella heard the collective intake of breath and waited as it was held. But if the colourful vultures expected to feast upon the remains of a devastated Lady Watson, then they were as disappointed as the hyenas at their edges, because the lady showed no sign of weakness or surprise. Instead, she smiled, as if already privy to the information.

      ‘Oh, I say, Lady Herridge, that is no news to me; I thought you spoke of another.’ She chuckled. ‘Of course I am aware of my nephew’s return. And, I believe, he will make an appearance here this evening.’

      Lady Herridge frowned.

      ‘You knew of his return?’

      ‘Of course, Lady Herridge.’ With a proud nod of her head, Lady Watson smiled at the circle of disappointed women, then turned on her heel, practically dragging Isabella behind her.

      As soon as they had escaped to the coolness of the hallway, Lady Watson peered around to check that they were alone, then leant against the wall and fanned her face furiously.

      ‘Lady Watson?’ Isabella’s stomach churned and her hands shook as she reached out to still the lady’s fluttering hands. ‘What is it? Why did that disturb you so?’

      Lady Watson was silent for a moment then she turned her moist grey eyes to Isabella and held her gaze. Isabella watched as a tear escaped and ran down the withered cheek, leaving a pale trail through the pink circle of rouge.

      ‘Because, dear girl, I knew nothing of his return. He has not contacted me to inform me that he is here in London, nor to make arrangements to see me before we meet up in society.’

      Isabella’s heartbeat quickened as she registered the insult to Lady Watson and a slow anger began to burn in her belly at the poor manners of the man she had yet to meet. But her desire to comfort the old lady dominated.

      ‘Well, perhaps he has not had time, Lady Watson, or perhaps…’

      ‘Perhaps, nothing,’ the old lady shook her head. ‘It is clear that my dearest nephew, once the light of my life and my pride and joy, has not yet forgiven me. He still blames me, perhaps he even hates me. I have not set eyes on him in five long years and I had hoped that time would help him to heal, but for him to slight me in this way СКАЧАТЬ