“Now you’re the one wallowing in recrimination,” William said, the lightness in his voice forced. “You had the right of it, my lord. He’s gone and undeserving of our remembrance.” He cleared his throat. “Lanora told me dwelling on him permits him to live on, and he’s not worthy of that honor.”
Robert turned to his son-in-law and assayed a smile. “She’s correct, of course.”
“She generally is,” William said dryly. “Same time tomorrow, my lord?”
“Indeed.” Robert nodded. “Foils tomorrow?” They’d been getting rather reckless with the rapiers. “And no hidden knives.”
William’s grin returned in force. “You never know when you’ll encounter a hidden knife.”
Robert shook his head. “I suppose not.” He started across the inlaid floor, scuffed with boot marks, waving William away when he would have followed. “I can see myself out. You’ll likely want to practice a bit now, if you plan to best me tomorrow.”
William’s chuckle followed Robert down the hall. His boots were soundless on the thick carpet, though the occasional floorboard creaked beneath his weight. As he walked, Lady Cecilia resurfaced in his thoughts. She was likely nearby. She’d forgone the Westlock London home, coming to live with William and Lanora in William’s townhouse. As far as Robert knew, the old marquess’s dwelling stood empty and shuttered.
Not worldly, then, the lady. Still, she possessed a keen mind, unlike the bulk of twittering ninnies he’d partnered at the ball. He would have to remember to ask Dame Parson for admission to her library, which she was unlikely to refuse him. He pictured Lady Cecilia’s fine, spritely features brightening with a smile as he offered her access to Dame Parson’s collection of medical texts. Yes, definitely pretty enough to stir a man, and more likely to provide interesting conversation than any other woman he’d met.
Footfalls came along the corridor toward him. Curious if his thoughts had summoned Lady Cecilia, he made the turn to find Miss Birkchester, accompanied by William’s foundling, a street urchin named Dodger. The pang of disappointment that jolted through Robert was disturbing. He shrugged it from his thoughts. “Miss Birkchester. Dodger.”
“My lord.” Miss Birkchester halted and dropped a curtsey.
Dodger bowed but remained silent. He rarely spoke to Robert. Only watched him with bright, assessing eyes.
“I believe Lanora is resting,” Miss Birkchester offered as Robert bridged the distance between them.
“I’m on my way out,” he said. “Lord Westlock and I have been sparing.”
Miss Birkchester wrinkled her nose. “Ah, yes, my lord, I can tell.”
Beside her, Dodger clamped his hands over his mouth, but his eyes danced.
Robert’s brows shot up. Was she saying he smelled? “Yes, well, I’m on my way home now to change.”
“A wise decision, my lord,” Miss Birkchester said.
Robert eyed her. What had he been thinking, leaving his daughter to the influence of Miss Birkchester? No wonder Lanora had grown into… Well, grown into a wise, independent, forethinking woman who’d selected the one man in England Robert considered worthy of her.
He was pleased he’d restored Miss Birkchester’s family holdings to her. He only hoped she could find a gentleman who could stand up to her. “Miss Birkchester, perhaps you could help me with one question before I remove my fragrant self?”
A giggle squeezed through Dodger’s fingers.
“I can do my best, my lord.”
“Do you happen to know where Lady Cecilia will be when next she plans an evening out?”
Miss Birkchester’s eyes went wide. “We go to the opera tonight, my lord. I believe you have a box. We shall be in Lord William’s.”
“Thank you.” He gave them each a nod and moved around them. He was aware of their gazes on his back as he resumed his walk toward the door. No doubt, they would run straight to Lanora. Soon enough, he would know if his daughter approved of his tentative plan.
Robert used the ride to his London house to compose a list of Lady Cecilia’s traits and analyzed them for suitability to his purpose. First and foremost was her obviously agile mind. A woman of such sense would be easier to be around, and ready to accept a loveless union. Second, he could recall both her name and her delicate features, and conjure at will an image of her bright blue eyes under white-blonde locks.
Until Dame Parson’s ball, he hadn’t realized the necessity of finding a woman whose name and face could lodge successfully in his memory. The young women of London, with their pastel garb, yellow curls and talk of the weather, had dismayingly merged into an unwieldy mass in his brain. When had they all become so similar, and how was any gentleman to choose one from the lot? Not that he’d have to, if Lady Cecilia proved amiable.
Robert, pleasantly occupied with his thoughts of Cecilia, neared his townhouse to find a carriage with the Everly emblem awaiting him. He drew alongside and stilled his mount. He banged on the roof, ignoring the gaping driver and footman. “What is it, Everly? Come to count the silver?”
The somewhat faded curtain yanked back. Missus Everly’s gray and brown streaked curls poked out. “Oh dear, Lord Robert, what must you think of us?” Her blue eyes shone with worry.
Robert stifled a curse. Not Everly, but his mother. He dismounted. One of his groomsmen appeared to take the reins. “Missus Everly. I beg your pardon.” What did she want? Had Everly told her about the incident in the library?
“Oh no, it is I who must beg pardon, lurking outside your door. I wanted only a moment of your time.”
“Would you care to come in?” Robert offered, knowing it was expected of him. Belatedly, he realized Everly might still be in the carriage. He wanted that reprobate in his home less than a bevy of Napoleon’s finest.
Missus Everly shook her head. “I wouldn’t put you to the trouble, my lord.” She let out a beleaguered sigh. “My son admitted the incident in Dame Parson’s library. I came to assess the extent of this further damage to your regard for him and to offer, as proof he is reforming, that he should go to Lady Cecilia and apologize.”
Robert shook his head. He was sure the last thing Cecilia wished was more time with Everly. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Are you certain, my lord? I wish Edmond to make any necessary amends. It’s obvious you hold the lady in special regard.” The blue eyes that watched him through the carriage window were keen with interest.
“Special regard?” So, her true purpose was to ascertain how his plan to beget an heir was commencing. “I can’t imagine where you stumbled on that notion.”
“I observed the two of you dancing. It was clear from your expressions.”
“I do not mean to gainsay you, madam, but you’re mistaken.” Robert felt the safer course was to keep Missus Everly guessing. Harmless as the round face framed in the carriage window seemed, she would undoubtedly relay his words to her son.
Missus Everly smiled benignly. “You, of course, know your own council, my lord, but I assure you the lady was quite engaged. All could see the affection that shone in her eyes.”
Robert frowned. Cecilia’s eyes had been bright. Lively. Always on his. He recalled her touch as their hands met during the dance, or on his sleeve. Her fingers had lingered, but he’d thought her in need of assurance. He could have misinterpreted. Even if she hadn’t been abroad, she was no blushing young woman, but a widow. Could she have meant more by the innocent gestures than he’d realized?
Far from pleased, Robert was dismayed. He did not wish a wife who sought his heart. He’d given it once. He would not make the mistake again. “I daresay the lady simply delighted in the occasion. She’s long been distant from the London season, and has only recently come out of mourning.”
Missus Everly offered a warm smile. “Well, I suppose time shall tell, and I won’t ask for any more of yours today, my lord, except to make one more offer of Edmond’s apology, unless you prefer to keep all other gentlemen away from the lady?”
Ro
bert shrugged to hide that her jab had hit its mark. Why not let Everly apologize? It wouldn’t change his opinion of the man, but if it pleased his beleaguered mother and helped put to rest any conjecture about him and Lady Cecilia, there could be little harm. Best someplace public, though. He didn’t wish Everly in Lanora’s home any more than in his. “The lady will be at the opera this evening. He may apologize to her there. You both have my permission to use the Solworth box.”
“Why, thank you, my lord,” Missus Everly said with enough genuine pleasure to stir a pang of guilt. “I should love to take in the opera. Will you be in attendance?”
“I will not.” The regret in his tone was for playing his hand too soon, not the missed performance. This very moment, Lanora and Miss Birkchester were likely plotting out a union between him and Lady Cecilia. One he now must set aside until he discovered if the lady held too great an affection for him.
“What a shame. I daresay you must be preparing for your final lecture,” Missus Everly said. “There will be time, of course, for opera after that.”
“There is that,” Robert said, though in truth his closing remarks were long since planned. “And I thank you for the reminder. If you’ll excuse me?”
“Oh yes, of course. Dear me, here I told you I should like very little of your time, and I’ve kept you chattering on the curb for ages.”
“It’s been my pleasure. Enjoy the opera.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Robert stepped back. The curtain slid closed across the carriage window. There was a dull thunking within and Missus Everly’s driver flicked the reins. Robert watched the conveyance depart, unease churning in his gut.
Did Lady Cecilia hold affection for him? If she did, it would be rather… unfortunate. Yes, truly so. He’d been growing fond of the idea of having her as his bride.
Well, when he didn’t appear at the opera, and Everly did in his stead, that would quell any notion on Cecilia’s part that Robert cared. That she would expect him at the opera, he had little doubt. Miss Birkchester didn’t seem the sort to keep his inquiry secret. If Lady Cecilia did not wish to claim his heart, she wouldn’t be displeased. He nodded. A test, of sorts, and a message, should she choose to see it. All he must do was wait and learn how she received his coded correspondence.
Chapter Eight
Cecilia sat at the very edge of her seat in the vast-seeming opera house. Everywhere the world was gilded, bright and glittering. Every surface adorned to perfection. She’d never beheld such a sight, even in the dead marquess’s ostentatious London home.
And the people. The room teemed with them. Ladies and gentlemen, who wore every conceivable color, milled about, talking and laughing with gaiety. They spread across the floor, a dizzying distance below the Westlock family box. They marched in successive tiers up the walls, above, below, left and right. Why, one might come to the opera simply to see the throng, regardless of the performance.
As she peered about, it soon became obvious that some did. Opera glasses were employed, though the lights were up and the cast not on stage. Once she grew accustomed to the sheer volume of humanity present, Cecilia also realized many of those opera glasses were turned her way. She slid back in her seat, deeper into the shadow that slanted across the box.
“They’re all looking at us,” she whispered to Grace, employing a low tone even though she could likely shout and go unheard.
“No, they’re staring at the Dowager Marchioness of Westlock. I may as well be a cushion on this chair.”
Cecilia pursed her lips. She didn’t want to be stared at. “How long will everyone watch me like this when I go out, do you think?”
Grace took her gaze from a box across from them, and nearer the stage. She shrugged. “I daresay until you wed. You’re mysterious, titled, young and very wealthy.” She offered a wry smile. “And don’t forget, beautiful. You’re that, too.”
Cecilia’s face suffused with so much heat, she doubted she looked beautiful in that moment. At least a pink face wouldn’t clash with her lavender gown. She smoothed the stiff fabric over her knees. A glance showed Grace again scrutinizing the same empty box. “What is so interesting over there?”
“Nothing, yet,” Grace murmured. “Only, I thought…” Her voice trailed off as the curtain at the back of the box stirred. She drew in a sharp breath. “Them?” she gasped.
Cecilia smiled in happy recognition as Missus Everly came to the front of the box to sit. Her smile faltered when Edmond Everly entered behind her. Cecilia firmed her smile, not wishing Grace to notice. Grace frowned fixedly at the box. Cecilia hadn’t told her zealous chaperone about Mister Everly’s part in the library incident. She’d only confessed to having wandered off to see the books. That lesser crime had gotten her quite enough of a reprimand.
“I will have to have a word with Lord Robert about this,” Grace muttered.
“Lord Robert?” Cecilia’s brow wrinkled. “Oh, is that the Solworth box? How kind of him to let his relations use it.”
Grace snorted. “I don’t know how they weaseled their way in, but I shall demand he cast them back out.”
Cecilia rolled her eyes toward the elaborate gilded plaster ceiling. Even if she and Mister Everly had ended up in a misunderstanding, which she still regretted not sorting out with words, Missus Everly was very kind and deserved a chance to take in the opera. “It isn’t as if he’s invited them to reside with him. It’s only an opera box.”
“Yes, but he was supposed to come, not them.” Grace crossed her arms over her chest, her exhale an annoyed huff.
Cecilia gasped. “You’re in love with Lord Robert?”
Grace’s head whipped around to reveal a shocked expression. “I most certainly am not. The man’s old enough to be--” She broke off, then cleared her throat. “He’s a very worthy gentleman, of course, but I most certainly am not fond of him in that way.”
“Oh.” Cecilia shrugged in the face of Grace’s vehemence. “I don’t know why you should expect him, regardless. He never goes anywhere public but to give his lectures. I was shocked to find him at Dame Parson’s ball.” She tipped her head to the side. “I think he doesn’t wish to make friends in London as he plans to return to Egypt once he meets his grandchild.”
“That’s true,” Grace spoke the syllables slowly, as if evaluating them. “He does plan to go back, doesn’t he? Ergo, if he married, his wife would have to leave England, as well.”
Cecilia took in the many eyes turned her way and suppressed a sigh. What a lucky thing, to truly leave England, as she’d pretended to have done, and be away from all those eyes. The remainder of Grace’s meaning cut through that happy vision. “Marry?” Cecilia had thought him unwilling to remarry. “Why should he?”
Grace shrugged. “Lanora said he might. That’s why he went to Dame Parson’s ball.”
To choose a wife. And Cecilia had inadvertently interfered with his efforts. His kindness in seeking her for Grace, and then dancing a set with each of them, magnified. He’d forgone his own purpose to see to their happiness.
What a wonderful set it had been. Lord Robert was as skilled a dancer as his physique suggested and his footwear portended. Light on his feet, even in Hessians, and with a piercing green gaze that didn’t wander. For the brief set, he’d made Cecilia feel as if she were the only woman in the ballroom. Perhaps the only one in all the world. His gaze had been somehow both more and less than Mister Everly’s. Lord Robert’s, punctuated by his easy talk of ancient Greek theories of anatomy, had lacked even a hint of the hunger she’d read in Mister Everly.
Why did she only inspire Mister Everly’s sort of look from, well, that sort of man? Couldn’t a man worth having want her? It almost seemed as if attraction to her was the first sign a gentleman was a cad. She sighed.
“What?” Grace asked.
She turned to take in Grace’s look of concern. “Shh. The performance is beginning,” Cecilia replied, relieved for the excuse.
Grace’s eyes narrowed,
but she turned her attention toward the stage.
Servants ghosted about, offering to put out candles. A hush fell over the assemblage. Soon, the stage seemed to glow, though many boxes were still lighted. Cecilia, their candles extinguished, relaxed in the darkness, aware of the lifted weight of constant scrutiny.
The musicians struck a trilling cord. Three gentlemen took the stage. Cecilia was aware of the general chatter of the assemblage, more subdued than before, but ongoing. In the box to her right, four ladies cheerfully played cards. The crowd still milled about, ladies and gentlemen more flirtatious in the half-lit hall.
Then, the performers began to sing. All else fell away before the glory of their voices. Cecilia moved to the rail again, even though the position returned her to the light. The interweaving of instrument and voice was at first so beautiful, she forgot she knew Italian. Forgot to distinguish meaning from song.
This was the sort of wonderment she’d been denied by the marquess’s cruelty. She hadn’t danced except to practice. She hadn’t experienced the glory of opera. He’d taken those things from her. Two women took the stage, their voices reaching toward the stars, and Cecilia even forgot about the marquess.
The first act drew to a close. The music ceased. Candles were relit. Speculative eyes turned toward Cecilia once more. Many, perhaps, hadn’t left. New among them, though, were the Everlys. Missus Everly gave a little wave. Cecilia waved back, aware of Grace’s frown. Missus Everly turned to her son, speaking. Everly shot Cecilia a grimace and stood. He offered his mother his arm.
“Is that the son? The man who will be duke after Lord Robert?” Grace asked.
Cecilia nodded. “Yes, Mister Edmond Everly.”
“I don’t care for him, either. Why did you wave? They’re undoubtedly on their way here.”
“Oh.” Cecilia hadn’t realized they might come around the theatre. She found she didn’t wish to converse with Mister Everly. She was repulsed by him, for presuming to touch her. Mingled with that was shame that she’d assaulted him rather than turn to reason. It dismayed her how quickly she’d become violent. She’d never been that way before. “What can we do?”
Seduction Regency Style Page 23
