by Lynn Kerstan
Midafternoon, another messenger arrived. Clare had agreed to meet with him again, tomorrow morning at eleven, and would await his carriage at the Hothouse. After her signature, Flo appended a postscript: Behave yourself!
He nearly shouted for joy. Tomorrow! He would see her again tomorrow. Immediately he wrote a letter of instructions to Mrs. Beaks, the housekeeper at Clouds, and spent the rest of the afternoon selecting books to take with him.
He suspected there were no books at Clouds, and Clare liked to read. It was oddly pleasant, choosing a small library for her, guessing what she would enjoy. He wound up picking his own favorites, thinking how relaxing it would be to have her read to him in her low, husky voice.
Tomorrow she would be his. With his own fingers he’d undo her buttons. Take down her long hair.
But first he had to dispel her first impression of him and convince her to stay.
“SORRY TO KEEP you waiting.” Robert Lacey swung into the carriage, grinning at Bryn’s impatient expression. “Brummell here couldn’t tie a knot.”
Claude Howitt settled beside Lacey, placid as always. “I’m no hand with a cravat. Hate the damn things.”
Bryn tapped the overhead panel with his cane to signal the driver. “I suppose you have an explanation for this outrage, Lace. Why are we wasting a perfectly good evening at a bloody ball?”
“No escape,” Lacey said in a mournful voice. “And don’t think I didn’t try. Isabella put the screws to me.”
Bryn chuckled. Isabella had covered her brother’s tracks during a notably wild childhood, being possessed of a bedroom with a window that could be accessed by means of a large tree for predawn sneaking home. She’d been calling in favors ever since. “What stake has the fair Dizzy in a ton ball? And what did you mean by Frog Wetherford? The marquess has a beak like a toucan.”
“Frau, fool. Frau Wetherford. German, don’t you know. She’s bringing out a chit tonight, and Izzy likes the girl. Said I was to show up and dance with her or else.”
“We’re going to a bloody come-out? You might have warned me.”
“You wouldn’t have come,” Lacey said amiably. “Snagging you for this party has put me in Izzy’s good books for a change. She is hellbent to see that Elizabeth Landry makes a splash tonight.”
“Landry? You can’t mean the baron’s whelp. Why the devil would Wetherford sponsor a girl of no breeding?”
Lacey chuckled. “Wetherford is the only man in England stupid enough to owe money to Giles Landry. I expect Izzy arranged the deal. Frau Wetherford likes to play hostess, Elizabeth is treated to a grand ball, and Landry doesn’t get his hands on cash he’d gamble away. Smart woman, Izzy. She’s fond of Elizabeth and says the chit is nothing like her father. You are expected to dance with her.”
“The hell I will,” Bryn said crossly.
Claude spoke up. “You could be wrong, Lace. Giles Landry is so deep in River Tick that nothing can save him. Perhaps he is trying to secure his daughter’s future before he’s clapped in Newgate.”
“Claude, you’d make excuses for Attila the Hun.” Lacey crossed his arms behind his head. “Landry plans to sell her off. A rich son-in-law is his last chance to stay out of prison.”
Bryn nodded. “But what does Izzy expect you to do about it? Surely not marry the girl. Your income wouldn’t dredge a minnow out of River Tick.”
He laughed. “I am by way of a decoy. Or maybe a lure. I dance with Elizabeth, and first thing you know she has that cachet only the attention of London’s best-looking bachelor can provide. One can only imagine her success if London’s richest—”
“Forget it.” In his present mood, Bryn didn’t think he ought to come within touching range of female flesh. “I’ll make my bow for Izzy’s sake, but no more than that.”
“Well, I’m going to dance with her,” Claude said staunchly. “Can’t be easy, standing there all by herself like she’s up for auction. What’s worse, only a rich old deviant would pay a fortune to have her.”
Bryn went cold.
“Unless she becomes the fashion,” Lacey pointed out. “And that’s where we come in. We’ll stay an hour or two, Bryn. Then we’ll have a late supper at Watier’s and you can head out for Clouds. How is Marita these days? Still a wild woman?”
“She’s gone. Took herself where—let me see if I can translate this for polite company—where all the men are hung like stallions and she doesn’t have to ride the same one every night.”
“That filly was born to run,” Lacey said with a laugh. “Is she back at the Hothouse? I wouldn’t mind a steeplechase.”
“As I understand it, Marita will be playing corridas in the south of Spain. And I’ve bad news for you, coxcomb. The estimable Florette is going out to pasture. She has retired.”
“What?” Lacey sat up. “She’s closing shop? What the hell are we going to do? More to the point, what are you going to do?”
“Find someone else, I suppose. Any suggestions? You’re on terms with every madam from here to Bayswater.”
“There is only one Florette. Damn. I’m going there tonight and talk her out of it.”
“Flo can’t afford to retire,” Claude put in. “Lost a bundle on the ’Change.”
“Did she?” The Earl regarded him with interest. Claude did not patronize the Hothouse or any other establishment, but he had his finger on much of importance in London. “I wouldn’t put it past her to bait me, just to watch me squirm.”
“That must be it.” Lacey whooshed in relief. “She wanted to see your reaction when she threatened to cut off your supply of vir—”
Bryn’s cane hit his knee.
“Ow!” Lacey scowled at him. “I need that leg for dancing.”
Shrugging, Bryn fixed his gaze on Claude. “Use all your mysterious sources and see what you can find out. By the way, what if I want to trace someone’s background? Family and all that?”
“A Bow Street Runner, I expect. Want me to put you on to a good ’un?”
“Do that. Talk to my secretary first thing tomorrow.”
Lacey leaned forward, still rubbing his knee. “Trouble, Bryn?”
“What do you think? Florette is, as she so chipperly put it, throwing me back on the streets. Meantime, I’m in a coach with the two most boring individuals of my acquaintance, on my way to a schoolgirl’s first ball.” He raised his cane in a salute as the coach pulled up behind a long line of carriages, two blocks from the Wetherford mansion. “Cheers, gentlemen. Let’s get out and walk.”
FEW THINGS, BRYN thought as he edged his way down the receiving line, were as dampening to lust as the stench of a crowd in a closed ballroom. He made straight for the terrace and fresh air.
He’d been there several minutes before realizing he wasn’t alone. Concealed behind a potted tree, huddled on a marble bench, a small shape was trying to make itself invisible. “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said. “Did you wish to be alone?”
“I rather wished to breathe.” A young girl with dark hair, small and slender in her white dress, moved gracefully toward him.
He bowed, hoping she would leave him to his solitude. “Are you enjoying yourself this evening?”
“I must be,” she said lightly. “This is my come-out ball.”
The top of her head scarcely reached his shoulder. A pretty girl, he thought, smiling at her. “Then you must be Miss Landry. Iz—Isabella’s friend.”
“Yes, I am Beth Landry. And Lady Isabella has been most kind. I cannot think why, since she scarcely knows me. We became acquainted by accident at the British Museum.”
“Elgin marbles?” Bryn guessed.
Her laugh was delicious. “How did you know?”
He lifted her white-gloved hand and brushed his lips across her fingers. “At the moment, Isabella is obsessed with Greek antiquities. It won’t last. Within a month she’ll be on another tear. I have known Isabella since she was in pigtails, so perhaps we need not be formally introduced. I am Caradoc.”
“Oh.
” She looked a bit flustered. “I have heard much about you.”
“Believe little that you hear, Miss Landry, in ton ballrooms. And less if you hear it from eccentric widows with more impertinence than sense. Isabella does not confine herself to tormenting family, but stretches her claws to encompass the innocent friends of her brother.”
“Innocent,” Miss Landry said with suspicious demureness, “was not the first word that came to mind when you introduced yourself.”
He grinned. The chit had spark. Not so timid as he’d first thought, when he saw her clutching her arms around her chest on that bench like a lost little girl. He regarded her with more interest. “If this is your debut, Miss Landry, why are you not dancing?”
She gestured to the card dangling from her wrist. “I expect I shall not be missed for the next hour or two.”
He didn’t have to look to know the card was empty. “As a matter of fact, I know of two gentlemen scouring the ballroom, their toes positively itching to dance with you.”
She giggled.
Bryn despised giggling women, but for some reason this one didn’t irritate him. “Would you allow me to partner you before you are besieged with offers? I have no taste for country dances, though. Do you waltz?”
“I know how, but—”
“Of course. This is your debut, and the despotic dowagers have not granted permission. Come, let us beard them together. I have a sudden uncontrollable urge to waltz.”
LADY JERSEY, WITH a lifted eyebrow and vast curiosity, nodded approval before speeding away to share the news with her cronies. The Earl of Caradoc, who rarely attended balls and never danced, had fixed his interest on the Landry chit.
Bryn was fully aware of the gossip and slanted glances as he led Elizabeth to Lacey and Claude. Each leapt hungrily for her dance card, and several other men added their names. By the time he swept her onto the parquet floor, her card was nearly filled and her eyes were shining.
Her inexperience was obvious from the first steps, but she was graceful and yielding. “You are lighter than dandelion fluff,” he said.
Elizabeth gazed up at him happily. “Until now I’ve waltzed only with my dance master, who is even shorter than I and rather fat.”
To his surprise, Bryn enjoyed the dance and her company. She chatted engagingly about Isabella and school, treating him, he began to discern, much like an older brother. Older than that. Like an uncle. To his relief, and somewhat to his pique, she didn’t seem to consider him a potential suitor.
An idea hit suddenly, and he stumbled. Tightening his hand on her small waist to cover the misstep, he swept her into an elaborate series of whirls that left her breathless.
When the waltz came to an end, Elizabeth thanked him politely, clearly unaware of the signal honor he’d done her. A moment later, he was forgot completely as Lacey stepped forward to claim her hand. Women were invariably dazzled by the viscount’s startling good looks and the twinkle in his eye.
Bryn seized a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and leaned against a marble pillar. Why not marry the girl? As Florette had taken care to remind him, it was past time he found a wife and produced an heir. Elizabeth was pretty, certainly innocent, and he could give her a better life than she was likely to have otherwise. Few men in this room could afford to bail out her reprobate father, and fewer still would marry into that family.
Bryn scowled at his champagne flute. A busy day, my boy, he thought sourly. After some twenty years on the town, he’d nearly despaired of finding the perfect mistress, let alone a tolerable wife. Today he’d met both, assuming either would have him. And the fact was, neither woman was in a position to refuse should he make an offer, proper or otherwise. Money was a wonderful thing. It could buy almost anything.
But Miss Landry would have to wait. By dancing with her, he had propelled her into fashion. Now she’d have a chance to make a desirable match. If she did not, he would give more thought to the matter.
More immediately, he wanted Clare. Until she was permanently installed as his mistress, he could not propose to anyone. Marriage was a business arrangement, and a prospective bride had every right to know the terms. His were fairly simple, and certainly reasonable. The Countess of Caradoc would bear his name, remain faithful until she produced an heir, and tolerate his mistress with good grace.
Things would be different, of course, if he’d ever met a woman he could love. But Elizabeth Landry was only the second female to arouse even the slightest thought of matrimony, and he knew instinctively that he could never share with her the encompassing, passionate love he craved. Naturally he would be kind to her. Already he liked her. If she found no one else, perhaps he’d marry her.
And perhaps he was an arrogant, overweening, selfish buffoon.
He downed the last of his champagne. Yes, it had been a busy day. He’d met a potential wife, an irresistible mistress, and a part of himself he wasn’t altogether glad to have been introduced to. The man who looked at Clare Easton’s body in a mirror. The man who bought women because there was no woman, not one he wanted, to give herself freely.
Most of the women in the ballroom would come to his bed if he beckoned. Most of the men would join him at any pursuit, just to be in company with the Earl of Caradoc. But in that pressing crowd, his ears pounding with voices and music, he felt very much alone.
5
Bryn arrived at Clouds an hour before Clare was due to appear.
There was no trace of the shambles Marita had produced with her dramatic exit. The last time he was in this parlor, he stood ankle deep in shattered glass and broken pottery. A wild woman, Marita. He would not miss her, even in bed.
Mrs. Beales offered him a mug of coffee, which he refused. Even after a sleepless night, he felt too jittery for stimulants of any sort. She regarded him appraisingly through narrowed eyes, chuckled when he growled at her, and vanished into the kitchen.
Maude Beales knew all his moods. She’d served him twelve years in this house, named Clouds by the first of his mistresses to live here. Angela had asked that all the ceilings be painted sky blue and adorned with fluffy clouds. They had long since been painted over to fit the taste of her successors, but the house retained its name.
At his instruction, the young footman unloaded the books from the coach and arranged them on a window seat. The small house boasted not a single bookshelf. Bryn decided to line one wall of the parlor with shelves and make sure they were filled. Considering the amount of time he spent here, it was amazing he’d never thought of it before. But then, he was never at Clouds to read.
Shortly before eleven, Mrs. Beales directed the footman to place a large tray on a table in front of the sofa. Bryn saw all his favorites: cream-filled cakes, slim finger sandwiches of rare roast beef, peach tarts, and a large pot of steaming coffee. Best of all, a plate of shortbread. He took a handful of small squares and chewed with pleasure while examining the furniture, planning strategy.
Clare would be placed on the sofa, directly in front of the table. He would settle to her right, in the winged chair. No, that was too far away. He directed the footman to move the chair closer, then to the left, then directly opposite the tray. Mrs. Beales stood with her arms folded, a smile quirking her thin lips.
Damn but he was nervous, and he didn’t need her smug face to tell him so. “Get out,” he said. “You too, Cassidy. Go shopping or something. Come back in … two hours.”
“Charley, you have two hours to get into trouble,” said Mrs. Beales with amiable nonchalance. “I shall be in the kitchen, milord. Do call if you need me.”
He eyed her balefully as Charles Cassidy made his escape. “I will introduce you to Miss Easton when and if necessary, Maude. Don’t come wandering in here with some excuse about warming the coffee.”
“As you wish, milord.” From the door, Mrs. Beales turned and gazed at him down a sharply pointed nose. “Don’t take her upstairs.”
“Out!” When she was gone he began to prowl the salon, checking hi
s watch every few seconds. Did the woman think he planned to consummate this arrangement immediately? Within two hours? Not a chance. Clare had yet to agree to anything beyond another meeting, and even if she accepted his offer he would not rush her to bed in the middle of the day.
Tonight, with wine and candlelight and slow seduction, he would draw her willingly into his arms.
The palms of his hands were damp with sweat. He’d not felt this apprehensive since the night he huddled under a leaking tent in the pouring rain, just outside a flyspeck on the map called Waterloo.
At precisely eleven o’clock, the knocker sounded and Bryn hurried to open the door. Once again Clare was swathed in veils, wearing the same blue dress as before. They stood awkwardly for a moment, and then he backed up to let her enter, unable to summon even a casual welcome.
Offering his arm, he led her to the parlor and gestured to the sofa. She sat, gracefully, and removed her hat, placing it beside her.
His memory had not failed him. She was regal as a princess, demure as a nun—quietly, enchantingly beautiful. He mustered a smile. “Thank you for coming, Miss Easton. I was afraid you would not.”
“Indeed?” Her head tilted. “I rather thought you expected it.”
“Not after the way I behaved yesterday.” He regarded her moodily. “If I apologize, will you forgive me?”
“If?”
“Very well,” he said, shifting on his feet. “I was a boor and a snob.”
“Not at all,” she responded in a cool voice.
He understood exactly. He’d been much worse. “Shall I grovel?” he asked, heat rising to his ears. “Offer my cheek for you to smack?” Take off my clothes, he thought, and let you stare at me the way I stared at you? The notion was wonderfully exciting.
“I would like some coffee,” she said, pouring herself a cup. “And you?”
He shook his head and lowered himself onto the chair across from her, so tense that a muscle in his left calf cramped painfully. Longing to shake it out, he stretched his legs across the Axminster carpet, determined to appear at ease. “Miss Easton—Clare—I know this is impossible, but could we pretend we’d never met before? I very much want to start over, without the events of yesterday looming between us.”
