The Game of Love (The Love Trilogy, #2)

by Edith Layton

  “Another soliloquy about your size,” Julian sighed.

  “Easy for you to say,” Arden commented wisely as he held the door open for his friend. “Only place yourself in my large boots for a moment,” he lectured as they trudged up the stairs. “You, my exquisite friend, can go about unshaven and in tatters, and I’ll lay odds that seeing you brought so low, females would sigh and cluck their tongues and offer you a bowlful of soup and a soft spot in their hearts, or a warmer one in their beds. But seeing me in like case, they’d shriek and call the watch. No,” he said, pausing with uplifted finger in mid-step on the stair, before his friend could stop laughing to reply, “there’s no justice. Clear your plate and you’re admired for your hearty appetite. I’d be called a glutton. You may lose your temper with any man. I must be sure I control mine with every man or be named a bully, and heaven help me if I so much as raise my voice to a female. You dance, I caper…you wade, I wallow…you sing, I bellow—and in the unlikelihood that all goes wrong in your beautiful life,” he added, growing oddly serious for a moment, “unable to bear it, you may manfully weep, or grieve. While if I should chance to drop a tear, I’d be said to blubber. No,” he said as they reached their landing, and he recollected himself, and so added with a mocking grin again, “a large man has large problems, my friend.”

  “And he makes sure that his friend does too. What’s brought this about?” Julian asked lightly, though he looked hard at the strong, grave face before him.

  “The same thing that’s made you drink everything that can be poured in a glass tonight, in case you thought I hadn’t noticed,” Arden said, as Julian started and then flushed like a boy at the truth and the perception of it. “Boredom and thoughts of the future. Go to bed, lad. If we’re lucky, Boney will catch a boat from St. Helena by morning and we’ll have some sport. If not, we might well yet have to sail south until our hats melt, or else wed some luckless ladies and make our own diversion.”

  This time Julian clapped Arden on the shoulder, but then paused and asked, “Ah, yes, speaking of luckless. Young Lord Waite, the boy that brought us here—you’ve returned his deed to him?”

  “Aye, but there’s something I couldn’t like about the lad. He’s too grateful. He’d have wagged his tail if he’d had one.” “Not all noblemen are monsters of conceit like me,” the viscount answered, his unseen smile apparent in his voice. “No indeed,” Arden agreed without a pause, “but I’ll wager we’ll see him begging again. He’s got the look of a man used to being beaten.”

  “I hadn’t thought so,” Julian answered thoughtfully, “but then, I wouldn’t doubt it. You’re seldom wrong.”

  “Such praise! You’re after my new cravat, I suppose. But you shan’t have it. Good night, Julian,” Arden said, and on a laugh, they parted.

  But Julian found his bed hard that night, and harder still the thought that he’d have been able to sleep if he’d drunk enough, and hardest yet the realization that there’d been a time when he’d blown out his lamp and it had been a race to see whether the light or he would go out first as he sank to his pillow, and so far as he knew, he’d always won. But that had been when he’d looked forward to his future as he had to each new morning. Now he’d won each of the goals he’d set then, from making a fortune, to making Arden his new fast friend. And yet still he hadn’t discovered the most elusive one—his true desire, whatever it was. He’d only his usual and petty ones and, he thought in self-disgust, turning on a bed that wouldn’t be a restful place tonight, no matter how he writhed to seek a comfortable spot, those easy desires were usually satisfied with ease.

  It must be, he scowled to himself as he turned yet again, that the facile attraction of his face and form spoke truly of the inconsequential man he was beneath, because it was hard to complain when he knew how very much he enjoyed the sport they provided him, however inconsequential it was. Because whatever else his turns of luck, simple satisfactions, at least the warm and eager and perfumed kinds, had always fallen to him with ease.

  He’d discovered he’d never really loved one female so much as he’d wanted to love any one of them, and sometimes beguiled himself into believing he did. But sport was never love, and so he grew discomforted now without his best diversion, with or without the illusion of love. But he knew he’d only to wait. Whenever there’d been a gap in his life, a woman had happened along to fill it in. Lazy, he chided himself. Lucky, he realized. But it was so, and so never vanity to know it, any more than it was pride to know that the sun would rise in the morning.

  Those thoughts made his repose no easier, and he barely restrained himself from throwing aside his resolve and waking Roxanne Cobb. He quelled that foolhardiness only by reminding himself wearily that the morning, like the future he was too jaded and discouraged to seek, would, as all simple things did, eventually come to him again without any effort on his part. The thought brought no great joy, but it did eventually bring sleep.

  Arden Lyons settled in his bed and locked his hands beneath his head and stared up at the ceiling. He regretted for a moment that he’d not sought out his mistress after all. But, being the sort of man he was, lately he’d got to wondering at all the wrong moments if he was bringing her anything in return, and that had begun to ruin the best of her efforts for him. It might be that her time was up. Which meant, he thought, on the humor that was never far from him, that there were even better reasons than boredom for his seeking a wife now.

  He usually had a mistress in keeping; sensual pleasure was a requirement of his life. With all his jests, he accepted that he was a man of large appetites, and yet precisely because he liked women very well he’d never cared for the idea of using anonymous females each time he desired one. He accepted desire, and permitted himself to think of companionship, but was never such a fool as to seek love; he was a realist, after all.

  To court sleep, he tried to force himself to give up thinking of that entire enchanting gender, from the mercenary mistress he’d forfeited this night to the ladies of the morning—the baron’s dark and scornful daughter and the Deemses’ little golden beauty.

  Just before he fell asleep at last, he mused that once he’d forgotten that one need, it really wasn’t so unpleasant to be alone and celibate after all. Because it had the virtue of being novel, and the advantage, unlike all the other uncomfortable conditions of his life—his size, his past, and his probable future—of being eminently correctable.

  4

  It wasn’t so bad, after all. The carriage was crowded, of course. Cecily and her mama sat side by side, and though Cecily took up little room, her mama made up for the deficiency, so Francesca had to draw herself up into a knot and try to wedge herself into the seat beside them.

  But at least that giant of a man, Mr. Lyons, sat safely away, although opposite her. The amused look in his knowing eyes showed that he was well aware, even sympathetic, to her discomfort. Well, he would be, she thought uncharitably, from having to do the same all his life, and she tried not to meet his eye. His sympathy meant nothing to her anyway, she decided as she sat stiffly across from him in what she believed was becoming a medical-textbook case of body-cramp. The additional irony of it was that he was used to folding himself up, and so there was a world of room for Roxanne Cobb on the seat beside him. She, because she was not only a widow but also a woman of dubious morality, could sit beside a single gentleman with not a hint of discomfort, mental or physical. It might well have been that she’d have preferred to be squashed in as well, if it were to be between Mr. Lyons and his constant companion. But the glorious-looking viscount was riding outside on the high bench with the driver. From the moment they’d driven away he’d said he preferred to ride thus—“for old times’ sake,” he’d added on a grin to Mr. Lyons—and though she’d pouted prettily, Roxanne couldn’t object in any other way. For it was a clear day in early spring, and though chill, it wasn’t inclement, certainly not anything that ought to discourage a hardy young man.

  But it might have been worse, F
rancesca thought, and withal, it wasn’t too bad. Because apart from the understanding glance she’d gotten from him, Mr. Lyons ignored her entirely, and set about entertaining Roxanne Cobb and Mrs. Deems, and therefore Cecily as well. For Cee-cee seldom ventured a word, and only hung on everyone else’s conversation, coloring or giggling charmingly whenever appropriate or whenever she saw that the others were responding so. It was clear that if a fellow wished to speak to her he had to do so through her mama, and so it looked rather strange, because for all the world it appeared that the suave Mr. Lyons was courting Mrs. Deems. That, of course, amused Francesca enormously, and quite took her mind off her increasingly physical discomfort.

  “And so naturally,” Mr. Lyons was saying in his deep, smooth voice, “hearing the rumors of angry citizens looking for him, Napoleon forced the unhappy young officer to exchange clothes with him. But when they had to stop at the village square, he heard the crowd chanting, ‘Let us see the emperor, let us see the great man.’

  “‘See? What are you saying, foolish persons? They still adore me,’ he told his advisers angrily, and began to step out of the coach, smiling and waving. They didn’t recognize him, of course, and continued to call, ‘Let him out to show his face.’ Before he could protest that they, lucky people, were indeed seeing their emperor himself, one shouted, ‘and here’s rope to hang him high enough so that those in the back can see him clearly too!’ and they all cheered even louder.

  “Then, they say, he grew quite white and said in a squeak, ‘But no, l’empereur got off at the last stop…ah…to use the convenience. Good day.’”

  Francesca had to suppress her smiles, for really, the rogue told a tale very well, not only changing his voice for each character but also giving Napoleon such a nasal, nasty, accented squeak that one could swear he became a small frightened ex-emperor himself. Roxanne laughed outright, Mrs. Deems chuckled richly, and seeing that, Cecily smiled enchantingly.

  “You’re a complete hand, sir,” Mrs. Deems congratulated him. “I never heard a better tale. One might almost think one was there, I vow, don’t you think, Cee-cee?”

  “Oh, yes,” Cecily said shyly, and Mr. Lyons smiled down at her until she colored up like a little rose.

  Francesca decided that if she actually became sick and cast up her accounts she could always blame it on the motion of the coach, and not the motives and movements of its occupants. A glance toward Roxanne showed her that the pretty widow shared her sentiments exactly, but her next action, which was to tip Francesca a long, slow, unsubtle, and conspiratorial wink, frightened her into immobility. It was all very well for Roxie to show her amusement, Francesca thought, looking away and taking a deep breath to regain her poise. She, after all, didn’t have to earn her keep by remaining impassive in the face of idiocy. She only had to flirt and wink and display herself to strange gentlemen every night in order to distract them from a foolish old man’s poor game of cards.

  Oh, it was a bad old world, after all, Francesca thought bitterly, wishing she could ask the coachman to set her down so that she might walk off into the countryside and have done with the entire lot of them. But then fortunately they reached their destination, so she could rise and take the cramps from her limbs and her thoughts.

  But they didn’t get to stroll as she wanted to. They’d come to an interesting-looking small city on the outskirts of Paris that she’d have loved to explore, one with cobbled and narrow streets and a great gray, grim cathedral with gargoyles frowning down from every high and ornate crag of it, and on the whole, it looked cleaner than Paris itself. But Cee-cee took cold easily, Mrs. Deems warned, and from the way Mr. Lyons took alarm and then immediately swept them all before him into the inn, one would have thought he would have picked Cecily up and carried her bodily into it, given the least encouragement. Actually, Francesca noted narrowly, he was being given the most encouragement even as things stood.

  Mrs. Deems smiled and tittered and positively glowed at everything he said and at every admiring glance he cast toward her young daughter. It was true that Cecily looked uncommonly well; when her fox-trimmed pelisse was removed, it could be seen that she wore a warm wool gown of oyster white to complement her golden hair, and all her blushes added a counterpoint of color, as did her blue eyes—that is, when she looked up from where she seemed to be forever studying her small white slippers. She’d a neat figure for such a little girl, with sweet round breasts above a curving waist and hip, and, at that, Francesca realized, it was a wonder that Mr. Lyons never seemed to note those entrancing features, nor send one warm or lingering look toward them. Because if he did, she thought wryly, with the way Mrs. Deems was carrying on, it wouldn’t be amusing in the least. The mere thought of it reminded her of a forbidden picture she’d once seen that had found its way into a schoolbook because it was done by some Dutch master, before the headmistress spied it and tore it out, for it had been an ugly but masterful representation of a procuress, a young girl, and a prospective client.

  But Mr. Lyons did nothing that any gentleman would not have done for a matron and a pretty child, and he did that charmingly. This in itself struck Francesca as passing strange, for she’d have sworn he appreciated women for far more earthy reasons; the look in his eye when they’d been alone that once had assured her of that. Of course, he’d not even glance to her now, she decided with an odd twinge of sadness for an insult not received, since, as a widow, she was clad in black—shapeless black because she was a proper one, and rusty black because, whatever else she pretended to be, she was undeniably a poor one. When her father had decreed her instant wedding and even faster widowhood, she’d owned no black, because young girls didn’t. And they neither of them could afford good black gowns, because they hadn’t the funds between them for anything but secondhand goods, and badly fitting ones at that. Roxanne, of course, had protested she wasn’t the same size, which was true enough, though Francesca suspected it was even truer that she wouldn’t have given up a hard-earned handkerchief for nothing. But she seldom wore black anyhow, Francesca sighed, seeing the petite blond widow as pert as a robin in her fashionable red frock, gathering up her skirts to sit, and dimpling up her cheeks as the viscount held a chair for her as she did so.

  “But come, Mrs. Devlin, have a seat,” Mr. Lyons’ deep voice said near her shoulder, causing her to jump, for the last time she’d looked, he’d been playing courtier with the Deemses. How a man that size could move so stealthily amazed her, as, shaken and silent, she sat in the chair he drew out for her.

  “And don’t sulk,” he said unexpectedly on a breath in her ear as she did so, “because that deep blue mood you’re in doesn’t suit you, and don’t covet thy neighbor’s frock either, for neither does that envious pea-green. But pink, I should think, would, and your papa says you’ll be out of your strict mourning within weeks. I can hardly wait to see the transformation,” he added on a smile as innocent as if he’d only just mentioned some commonplace pleasantry before he returned to sit between the two Deems ladies for luncheon.

  She could only hope red suited her, she decided, for that was the color she was sure she turned in her rage at him. She sat and fulminated all through the luncheon over those things she could have said in reply—if she weren’t an oppressed servant, if she were a lady, and if, she had to admit eventually, she’d only thought of them in time. Consumed as she was with frustrated bile, she could scarcely reply to the viscount’s pleasant commentaries, which pleased Roxanne as much as it must have puzzled that blond gentleman. For he sat between herself and Roxanne, and his friend, just across the table from him, was so occupied with addressing conversation to Cecily on his right, only to hear the expected replies from her mama on his left, that the novelty of it alone must have been what was engrossing him to the point that he didn’t speak to anyone else at the table. Or so Francesca thought, as he glanced toward her again, as he did every so often, as if to verify his own amusement at it, before she quickly looked away, as she did each time.

  Bu
t then she couldn’t help looking back again, and so she couldn’t avoid seeing his every gesture. She focused so completely on her host that she also didn’t miss one word of his charming and witty, thoroughly inconsequential conversation. She shamelessly eavesdropped, though in truth she wondered if it really was eavesdropping when a chaperone listened closely to everything being said to her charge. And acknowledged guiltily that it had nothing to do with her charge, but only an aching desire to score something, if only in her own spiteful interior commentary, over the presumptuous, duplicitous Mr. Lyons.

  “Now, then,” that gentleman said at last, looking up to the rest of the table as he finished the last of his tart, “that was a first-rate meal, perhaps too much of one. I believe we ought to have some exercise now, or at least I ought, or I’ll have to hire on two extra horses for the coach in order to get myself safely home.”

  Mrs. Deems immediately began to exclaim about how she liked a man with a hearty appetite, as the viscount, with an unholy look of vast amusement, said dryly, “See, my dear Arden? The way to the lady’s heart is through your stomach, after all.”