The Unruly Chaperon

Chapter One

‘Uncle Roger, let me be quite certain I have understood you correctly.’ Lady Winter stood in the drawing room of her uncle’s house, Broughton Place, carefully drawing off her York tan gloves, having dutifully kissed Lord Pemberton on the cheek.

‘Aunt Pemberton wrote to me, asking me to come and stay with her during her approaching confinement, but now you tell me she wishes me to act as chaperon to Milly. At some house party.’ Lady Winter’s tone did not suggest that she viewed this disposal of her time at all charitably.

Tall and elegant in her rich brown, twill carriage dress, nothing in her dignified air or posture called to mind the rather gawky and shy Miss Matilda Arnold who had married Viscount Winter some seven years earlier. Her uncle, however, saw no difference.

‘Now, see here, Miss—’ Lord Pemberton began to bluster.

Lady Winter broke in. ‘Surely Aunt Casterfield was chaperoning Milly this past Season? What has become of her? I should have thought that you would regard her as far more suitable than my poor self.’

The unarguable truth of this last remark did little to placate Lord Pemberton. He swelled dangerously. ‘Now, see here…’

‘Some fearsome scandal has made her unwillingly, or unfit, to continue her duties, perchance?’ mused Lady Winter hopefully. ‘Or have Milly’s suitors shocked her so much that she must retire from the lists?’

‘Her mother-in-law!’ snapped Lord Pemberton, plainly goaded beyond endurance.

Lady Winter raised incredulous eyebrows. ‘Old Lady Casterfield has caused a scandal? Goodness me! How very shocking. Do you know, at eighty-eight, I should have thought she would be more up to snuff.’

‘She’s dying!’ Lord Pemberton ground out.

Lady Winter affected surprise. ‘Dying? There’s nothing scandalous in that.’

Lord Pemberton practically had a seizure. ‘My sister,’ he snarled, ‘very properly feels that, in such a situation, her mother-in-law’s claim rates more highly than Milly’s.’

Lady Winter gave this due consideration, and finally pronounced, ‘Very proper indeed. But I still don’t see quite where I come into your calculations. And, if I do, why I was not even consulted.’

Teeth audibly grinding, Lord Pemberton began. ‘Your aunts and I do not see that it makes the least difference to you, where you are—’

His undutiful niece interrupted in tones of calm indifference, ‘Very likely not, sir. But I am not to blame for your lack of percipience. You tell me that you have committed me to attend a house party, as Milly’s chaperon, without even the courtesy of asking me?’

Lord Pemberton glared at her and attempted to assert his authority. ‘You’re our niece and ward, miss, and you’ll do your duty!’

Lady Winter smiled sweetly. ‘I fear you are mistaken sir. I’m no longer your ward, but rather Jonathan’s widow. And my duty is to our daughter. Furthermore I am five and twenty and my own mistress. While naturally I have every sympathy for Aunt Casterfield’s dilemma, so far as I am concerned the decision as to whether or not I attend this house party is entirely mine. And at the moment I am not at all inclined to do so.’ She smiled even more sweetly. ‘No doubt you will inform me of the venue, the hostess, and what arrangements have been made for my daughter, in your own good time so that I may make a final decision. Now I am weary and should like to retire for a rest before dinner. You may tell me all about it later.’

She dropped her uncle a slight curtsy and glided from the room, leaving a stunned and furious peer behind her. Lord Pemberton had seen little of his niece in the years since her marriage. Lady Pemberton had seen even less. Very much occupied with her own lyings-in, she took little notice of a niece that she actively disliked, and had not even attended on Lady Winter when her only child, Anthea, was born.

Having presented her husband with a son first, Lady Pemberton had safely dismissed the birth of the Honourable Anthea Cavendish as a matter of little consequence.

‘How like that undutiful girl to have a daughter first,’ had been her comment when the news arrived and she gave it no more thought, beyond directing her eldest daughter, Miss Amelia, to write to her cousin and say as little as was proper.

Lord Pemberton fumed and fulminated on his misfortune in having been forced to house such a girl as he poured himself a generous tot of brandy. Here was Amelia set to make the catch of the year—of the decade! And Miss Matilda—humph, Lady Winter—thought she could overset all their plans. Not a doubt but what widowhood had gone to her head. So she thought she could ride roughshod over them all, did she? Not while he had breath in his body!

He paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, recalling all the means he had used in the past to enforce his intransigent niece’s obedience. Grimly he pondered. He’d even brought her to heel over her marriage to Viscount Winter. The same methods should work now.

Lady Winter, holding on to the rags of her dignity and temper with difficulty, ascended the main staircase of her ancestral home and headed straight for the best spare bedchamber. Not unsurprisingly she discovered it to be innocent of her own baggage and that of her daughter. She smiled, consideringly, and tugged at the bell pull imperiously.

Five minutes later the startled housekeeper came in. ‘What in the…oh! It’s you, Miss Tilda!’

Lady Winter nodded and said, ‘That’s right, Mrs Penny. Has my luggage not yet been brought up?’ Bright interest sheathed this artless question.

Mrs Penny blinked. ‘Well, of course it has, Miss Tilda!’ She encountered a haughty gaze and amended, ‘My…my lady. The mistress gave orders that it was to be put in Miss Amelia’s room, like always.’

Feigning innocence, Lady Winter stared in well-simulated astonishment, a mobile brow rising in haughty inquiry. ‘And what use do you imagine Miss Amelia has for my belongings? Have them brought here, if you please. And precisely where is Miss Anthea?’

Floored by this defiance from one who had never said so much as boo to a goose, let alone defied her aunt, Mrs Penny opened and closed her mouth several times. ‘Miss Anthea is in the nursery…with…with the other children.’

Lady Winter seemed to consider that. ‘Oh. Visiting her cousins. Very well. But she may sleep here in the dressing room. Please see to all that, Mrs Penny. And I should very much like a cup of tea. Thank you.’

Somehow Mrs Penny found herself outside the door without quite knowing how she had got there. She shook her head in amazement. Marriage had certainly changed Miss Tilda, that it had!

As soon as the door shut behind Mrs Penny, Lady Winter, née Matilda Arnold, sank into a chair and breathed a sigh of relief. Really, this business of being assertive and sticking up for herself was exhausting. It was fun, though. Never had she imagined just how put out her uncle would be. Let alone poor Penny! Still, it wasn’t over. She had yet to encounter her aunt.

She set her jaw mulishly. She was damned if she was going to run in their harness ever again. Certainly not for any plot to catch Amelia a rich husband. No, she would stay to assist her aunt, or if, as seemed likely, that affecting plea for support had been merely a ploy to lure her into their net, she could always leave for Leicestershire tomorrow. Well, maybe the day after, since the horses needed resting.

Her luggage and Anthea’s arrived within fifteen minutes along with her maid, Sarah.

Barely had the door closed behind the footman who had brought the trunks than Sarah shot an amused glance at her mistress. ‘I take it ye’re set on puttin’ ’em all on end, milady?’

Tilda simply grinned and said, ‘Why not? Being polite and submissive never worked, so…’

The door opened again and a slender child of five, clutching a doll, came in.

‘Mama, am I to sleep in the nursery? Great-Aunt Pemberton says that I must be there at all times and that I must sleep with Cousin Maria.’ Worried hazel-brown eyes pleaded for a stay of execution.

Tilda laughed and held out her arms. ‘You will need to be in the nursery with the other children when I cannot be with you, but you are to sleep in the dressing room here.’

A relieved sigh broke from Anthea. She flew across the room and hugged her mother. ‘Oh, good. Cousin Maria wanted to have Susan in her bed!’

‘And what did you say to that?’ asked Tilda, dropping a kiss on the brown curls so like her own. She cast a warning glance at Sarah.

Later. She didn’t want Anthea caught up in the bitterness between herself and the Pembertons.

‘I said she couldn’t, and came to find you,’ said Anthea, snuggling closer.

‘Good girl,’ said Tilda. ‘Let’s unpack and get everything sorted out, then we can have a story before you go back to the nursery for supper. I’ll come up and put you to bed between courses.’

By the time she went down to dinner, Tilda had her plan of action worked out. It was simple, guaranteed to be effective, and, most importantly, would infuriate her family. She smiled into the looking glass and observed the stranger there with relief.

She had changed. Beyond colouring, there was little resemblance between the gangling, dowdy girl of seven years ago and the elegant matron who gazed back at her. Of course she was still far too tall, but at least she no longer tripped over her own shadow. Instead of the very plain scraped-back styles her aunt had insisted on for her, glossy brown curls were piled high on her head and confident golden brown eyes stared from under delicately arched brows.

She might not be a beauty, but she had improved. She had filled out for one thing, so the gown of deep green satin clung and shifted against her generous, yet slender curves in a most satisfactory way. It was cut quite discreetly over her bosom, but she could not think it at all a suitable gown for the chaperon of a young girl.

A fact which Lady Pemberton was at pains to point out the moment she set foot in the drawing room.

Resplendent in puce satin, she stared in outrage at the elegant creation swathing her niece’s graceful figure. ‘Good heavens, girl! That’s not the sort of gown a chaperon wears!’

Tilda stepped back mentally to make way for Lady Winter, who raised one eyebrow, the same one that had annihilated Mrs Penny, and said languidly, ‘No, it’s not. How clever of you to notice. Good evening, ma’am. I trust you are well. My uncle said you were resting when I arrived so I didn’t disturb you.’

Ignoring this greeting, Lady Pemberton said, ‘And I understand you’ve set yourself up in the best spare bedchamber. Well, you may stay there for the night, but in the morning you must move back to your cousin’s chamber. The guest chamber is for our guests!’

Lady Winter disposed herself gracefully in a bergère. ‘Really? I had no idea that you were planning to entertain so close to your confinement, ma’am.’ She cast a surprised glance at her aunt’s very swollen belly. And smiled gently. ‘You know, I cannot think that Amelia will welcome both her cousins in her room.’

Lady Pemberton frowned. ‘What is this nonsense? Your daughter, Matilda, may stay in the nursery where she belongs. I’ll have no spoiling.’

More than a hint of steel crept into Lady Winter’s voice. ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I will order Anthea’s life as I see fit. Naturally she will be with the other children during the day, but she is used to being within call of me at night.’

At this inopportune moment his lordship came in. Lady Pemberton enlisted his support at once.

‘My lord! I must insist! Here is your niece, quite the grand lady! She has the insolence to insist on the best spare chamber!’

Her spouse immediately bent a threatening glare upon his niece and unleashed a hectoring tirade that would have reduced Miss Matilda Arnold to tearful obedience seven years earlier. He raged at her impudence, her undutiful behaviour, her ingratitude and finally said, ‘You’ll go the same way as your mother! Mark my words!’

Lady Winter sat back and listened with no more than bright-eyed interest. Even his final taunt failed to bring a blush to her cheeks. She commented merely, ‘In that case, I’m stunned that you consider me a suitable chaperon for Amelia. If you’ve thought better of it, I’ll remove my polluting presence from Broughton Place as soon as my horses are rested.’ A faint smile curved her lips. ‘In the meantime, I shall remain where I am.’

Lord Pemberton pulled up short and stared in disbelief. He was prevented from any further explosions by the entrance of his eldest daughter, Amelia, and his eldest son, Thomas.

A glance was enough to inform anyone that the pair were brother and sister. Both had dark curly hair and the bright blue eyes that in Lady Pemberton had faded somewhat. But whereas Amelia had inherited her mother’s petite daintiness, Tom had favoured his father’s height.

Turning to greet her cousins, Tilda thought that the years had not reneged on the early promise of beauty Amelia had shown. The rippling dark curls and vivid blue eyes were as startling as ever. Her figure was perfection. Small, yet beautifully proportioned, with just that hint of fragility that so many gentlemen seemed to appreciate.

For an instant she felt a gangling, awkward girl again, constantly being compared unfavourably with her far prettier cousin. But the stunned look of admiration on Tom’s face as he surged forward to greet her swept all her nerves aside.

‘Tilda!’ He took her in a bear hug. ‘I swear I wouldn’t have recognised you!’ He held her away at arm’s length. ‘You look famously. That green suits you. They’d better not send you to chaperon Milly. His Grace might decide he prefers you!’

A delighted chuckle broke from her. One that very few besides her daughter and eldest cousin had ever heard. ‘Oh, Tom! What a Banbury story! As though anyone would prefer me to Milly.’ She turned to Amelia and said sincerely, ‘You look lovely, Milly. I need not ask how you go on!’

Amelia sniffed and said, ‘I really prefer to be called Amelia now that I am out and grown up. Milly sounds so childish!’

‘Oh stubble it, Milly,’ recommended Tom with brotherly candour. ‘Why, here’s Tilda, looking as fine as five pence, a Viscountess to boot, and she don’t fuss about her name!’

He turned back to his cousin. ‘Tell me. Are those capital bays in the stables yours? And the grey mare?’

Tilda nodded, a faint twinkle in her eyes. ‘Oh, yes. But I fear Frosty won’t be quite up to your weight!’

Tom sighed. ‘More’s the pity, but those bays! Complete to a shade!’

The boyish longing in his tones made her smile. ‘If you wish and my uncle permits, they may be harnessed to a phaeton or curricle tomorrow and you may try their paces.’ She paused and added meaningfully, ‘Once I am persuaded that you can handle them!’

Tom blushed and grinned self-deprecatingly, but his father stared. ‘And pray tell, who is to make the decision as to whether Tom is able to handle this pair?’

Calm hazel eyes met his glare. ‘I thought I made that clear, sir. I will.’

‘Not in any carriage of mine, you won’t!’ pronounced Lord Pemberton awfully. ‘Damned if I’ll have a chit of a girl overturning my sporting carriages! You’ll let Tom try those horses and there’s an end of it.’

Tom flushed scarlet and shot an apologetic look at Tilda as though expecting to see her wilting under his father’s fire.

She raised her brows and said bluntly, ‘I’m afraid not, sir. They are my horses, and, since I’ve had no opportunity to see Tom drive since he overturned me in a mere gig eight years ago, I must decline to allow him to drive them alone until I am sure he is able to handle them.’

‘Good God!’ Lady Pemberton was scandalised. ‘Do you set yourself up to know better than your uncle?’

‘No, ma’am,’ responded Tilda. ‘But I certainly know my own horses better than he does. I will risk neither their knees nor Tom’s neck. And do tell me, what does one have to do to be offered a drink?’

Tom laughed and said, ‘You’ve done it, Tilda. What can I offer you? Ratafia?’

She shuddered artistically. ‘No, I thank you. Jonathan was very particular in educating me. I would prefer Madeira.’

Pemberton’s frown was darkling. ‘In my day, a young woman—’

Mocking hazel eyes tilted up at him. ‘Dear sir, don’t say that. Why, anyone would imagine you were old enough…to…well, to be my husband!’

A stunned silence greeted this pointed reference to the fact that the late Lord Winter had been some thirty-five years his eighteen-year-old bride’s senior. It was broken by Lady Pemberton.

She bridled and said, ‘You were lucky to receive that offer!’

‘I’m sure I was,’ agreed Lady Winter pensively. ‘Now, tell me all about Amelia’s season. Your second season, is it not, Amelia? My! And not yet betrothed? Why, I was snapped up after merely half a season. Was I not, ma’am? Dear Jonathan positively beating a track to the door. Ah, thank you, Tom.’ She directed a charming smile at her cousin and sipped the Madeira thoughtfully.

Amelia drew an angry breath. ‘I see how it is. You’re jealous because I’m prettier. Because I have received more offers than you—’

She was gently interrupted. ‘Not at all, Amelia. You are to be felicitated. And how many offers have you received?’

Before Lady Pemberton could frown her into silence, Amelia blurted out, ‘Four! Five if you count his Grace!’

‘Four!’ Lady Winter smiled. ‘You are indeed fortunate to have your choice. And here was I, thinking that the men in London must be blind that you are still unwed. You see, I thought it was imperative to accept the first offer in order that money might be hoarded for the next girl’s come-out.’

‘Oh, but that was Lord Walmisley!’ protested Amelia. ‘He is far too old. Why, he must be forty if he’s a day!’

‘Forty!’ marvelled Lady Winter. ‘That is quite an age. Dear me, I’m surprised poor Jonathan managed the walk back down the aisle.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘Let alone the wedding night.’

Shrieking silence followed this, to be broken by Lady Winter who appeared to have lunched on shrapnel.

‘And may one know which Duke Amelia has on a string?’ inquired Lady Winter in dulcet tones. ‘I collect it is a Duke that she has in her sights, and not a widowed Archbishop. You did say his Grace, did you not, Tom?’

Her dazed cousin nodded. ‘Er, yes. St Ormond.’

There was an infinitesimal pause. ‘Dear me,’ said Lady Winter brightly. ‘That is quite a conquest. Well worth passing over poor old Walmisley for. And just think; his Grace cannot be a day over six and thirty.’

At this point Providence took pity on Lord and Lady Pemberton by permitting their butler to announce dinner.

Dinner was not a success. Lord Pemberton’s attempts to bring his niece to a sense of her iniquities were thoroughly hampered by the presence of the servants, while Lady Winter’s barbed tongue appeared to run on wheels. She said nothing indiscreet, but it was plain that she was taking the greatest pleasure in mercilessly baiting her uncle and aunt.

By the time the ladies withdrew, Lady Pemberton was stiff with fury. Barely had the drawing room door closed behind them than she launched into a comprehensive condemnation of Tilda’s manners and style.

Lady Winter sat back and listened with seeming attention. Only at the end, when Lady Pemberton paused to gauge the effect of her attack, did she speak. And then rather absent-mindedly.

‘I do beg your pardon, ma’am. My mind was wandering. Could you repeat that? Oh, not all of it,’ as Lady Pemberton gasped in disbelief. ‘Perish the thought! Just the last little bit. You know, the bit about my not being fit to chaperon anyone. That did command my attention.’

Milly’s gasp of amazement at her cousin’s temerity was interrupted by the timely entrance of her father and brother.

His lordship came straight to the point. Directing a threatening frown at his niece, he said, ‘I hope you have come to your senses and realise that your place is to do as you are told and abide by our judgement.’

‘But of course, sir,’ said Lady Winter with a mocking smile. ‘My aunt has just informed me that I am unfit to chaperon anyone. I am more than happy to abide by that judgement.’

For a moment it seemed likely that Pemberton would fall victim to an apoplectic fit. His eyes bulged and his face went an unbecoming shade of purple.

Lady Winter took advantage of his momentary incapacity to press her advantage. She spoke in a soft, but deadly, tone. ‘You see, my lord, I am no longer a chit of a girl, dependent upon you for anything. Frankly, I neither desire nor need your goodwill. Unbeknownst to yourselves, you set me free by forcing my marriage to Jonathan. I am an independently wealthy woman and I can do as I damn well please.’

She paused for breath and continued in a chilly voice, ‘I came, not because you ordered it, but because I felt that the request made for my assistance during my aunt’s lying-in was perfectly reasonable, and that I ought not, as a woman, refuse…And—’ her voice shook slightly ‘—because I thought that you might at long last have discovered some slight affection for me. But I will not submit to being bullied or manipulated. If that is how you mean to go on, then Anthea and I will be leaving almost immediately.’

Lord Pemberton gave a scornful bark of laughter. ‘Wealthy! You may choose to think your jointure wealth, but I can assure you that it will not go far if you continue to waste the ready on your back the way you must be.’ His eyes raked the green satin gown, the expensive reticule and dainty satin slippers.

Lady Winter stared back incredulously. ‘You really didn’t know? You paid so little attention to the man you married me to, that you knew nothing of his capacity to support me?’

Her uncle shrugged. ‘Everyone knew that Winter’s estates were well enough. But you can’t tell me that after providing for his daughter, he was able to leave you much. And tied up against your possible remarriage, no doubt.’ His tone suggested that he saw such an eventuality as exceedingly remote.

Genuine amusement crept into Lady Winter’s mocking smile, which deepened as she spoke. ‘You really shouldn’t let appearances blind you, sir. Despite the lack of ostentatious display to impress people whose opinion he couldn’t have cared less about, Jonathan was extremely wealthy. That little jaunt to India in his youth was rather profitable, apparently, and quite independent of the title and estate, of course. He left half of it to me, whether or not I remarry.’

Tom was the first to recover his breath. ‘Is this true, Tilda? You’re not bamming us?’ His voice held sincere, unalloyed delight.

She nodded.

‘You’re a wealthy widow?’

She nodded again, still with that faintly mocking smile lifting the corner of her delicately cut mouth. ‘Shockingly wealthy, Tom.’

Savagely, Lord Pemberton broke in. ‘No doubt you’ll run through it in no time!’

She shook her head. ‘Oh, no. Jonathan made quite sure I learnt how to manage my investments. And, until I am thirty-five, his heir is my principal trustee. He considered it…likely, shall we say…that he would predecease me. He always took his responsibilities very seriously. I am entirely capable of looking after myself.’

Her next shot was deadly. ‘So, you see, asking me to chaperon Amelia is not at all a good idea. After all, even had my looks not improved slightly in seven years, I am now wealthy enough to give the most exacting of men a case of…selective blindness…to go with their…er…selective deafness, you know.’

Lady Pemberton gritted her teeth. Audibly. ‘Then you intend to remarry?’

Lady Winter put her head on one side. A considering look crept into the golden eyes. ‘I suppose I might. But really, I don’t see the need.’ One dark brow lifted suggestively. ‘After all, the possibilities as a widow are far more appealing!’

‘Why, you little slut!’ exploded Lady Pemberton.

Milly blinked.

That dark brow arched even further. ‘My dear ma’am, whatever can you mean? After all, there is not the slightest need for me to tie myself up in matrimony, depriving some poor girl of a husband. Besides, I like being my own mistress.’ She smiled cheerfully, apparently impervious to the atmosphere of scandalised resentment. ‘Anyway, enough of all this. I am a trifle fagged and will go up now. Goodnight.’

She left the field littered with dead and dying. Four pairs of eyes watched her go—two full of furious resentment, one of dazed wonder…and one laden with confusion.

Oddly enough, her signal victory over her family did not occupy Tilda’s thoughts for long. She checked on Anthea, soundly asleep in the dressing room, Susan clutched possessively to her breast. After bestowing a tender kiss on each, she wandered back to her bedchamber, stripped off her gown and slipped into a silken nightgown and peignoir. She wriggled her shoulders appreciatively against the soft material. After years of wearing sensible, warm nightgowns of voluminous and unattractive aspect to appease her husband’s fear of her contracting a chill, it was enormous fun to wear something frivolous and daring. Something that made her feel like a seductive hussy. Even if there was no one else to appreciate it. A state of affairs that she fully intended to maintain.

She tugged the bell and waited. Some ten minutes later Sarah came in.

‘Here y’are, m’lady,’ Sarah frowned. ‘Lor’, if I haven’t told ye over an’ over! I’m supposed to help you undress!’ Bustling forward, she swept up the discarded gown and shook it out lovingly.

‘Oh, stop that, Sarah!’ said Tilda. ‘For heaven’s sake, you know I can manage for myself. Just tell me what they’re saying in the servants’ hall.’

Sarah sat down uninvited on