Daring Lords and Ladies

by Emily Murdoch

  “Woolgathering, Miss Lovelace?” a brittle voice broke through her thoughts.

  Angel flushed as she looked up into the countenance of a frowning earl. “I beg your pardon, Lord Townsend. I was simply enjoying the park’s splendor on a spring day.”

  “You should always carry a parasol, Miss Lovelace,” Lady Townsend warned. “We would not wish to see you become too brown from the sun.”

  Angel doubted the woman’s sincerity. She was certain the ton would celebrate any flaw Angel sported. She despised the British standard for unblemished purity. White pasty skin. Virginal white gowns. Proper manners, which hid prejudice and censure. A bland lifestyle wrapped in formality. She missed her American friends and her home in the picturesque Virginia mountains, and she missed riding at break neck speed across her father’s land.

  “I am grateful for the suggestion, ma’am, and honored by your attention.” The carriage nudged forward, and Angel prepared to greet the baron’s next acquaintance. “What a crazy tradition!” she observed. “Would it not be wonderful to give the horses their heads?”

  “A proper gentleman would never place his cattle in danger,” Arden said in chastisement.

  Angel stiffened. His tone increased her often-quick ire. The baron’s first thought was of his team. Should he not think of the park goers or of her position in the high backed gig if safety was his true concern?

  “I never suggested you turn your team free. I simply made the observation it would be a pleasant experience to feel the wind upon one’s cheeks.”

  “Acting such would age a woman,” he said with another scowl.

  Angel considered arguing, but she stifled her words. It was useless to think she might find a mate who spoke to her soul. Dutifully, she apologized. This was her first outing with Arden, and she would not leave the man with a poor impression of her manners. She ignored his declaration, and instead focused on the families enjoying the park. I wish for family, she thought. Children and a husband, who knows pleasure in me and in my devotion. A marriage where love rules our reason.

  In resignation of what may never be, Angel turned her head and watched a tall figure toss a ball to a boy hefting a cricket bat. Even from a distance, she could tell the gentleman cut a fine figure. It was brazen of her to study one man when riding out with another; yet, she could not turn her gaze. Without realizing the reason, she extended her gloved hand in his direction, as if she wished to turn him toward her so she might look upon his features. It was the oddest sensations, and Angel swallowed hard against the rising constriction in her chest.

  * * *

  Huntington McLaughlin, Marquess of Malvern, ignored the continual line of carriages tooling its way along the lane leading to and from the Serpentine, as well as the Society mamas, who attempted to catch his attention. He never understood the ton’s desire to be on display. In fact, Hunt could not recall the last time he suffered a drive through the park during the fashionable hour. Today, he had brought Logan and Lucas, his sister’s twins, to the park. Earlier, he had spent what felt like hours pacifying his father’s high dudgeon regarding Hunt’s refusal of Lord Sandahl’s virginal daughter, Lady Mathild.

  “I want nothing of an innocent,” he declared.

  If his father forced him to marry, Hunt would consider a widow, but no green girl straight from the schoolroom. He wished for a woman to place her love for him above all others—a woman who shared his passions for life and adventure and learning.

  “What is amiss, Uncle Hunt?” Logan called as he took a few practice swings.

  Hunt escorted his nephews to the park to remove them from Henrietta’s way. His twin sister was heavy with another child, and with Lord Stoke away on governmental business, Hunt promised to see to the twins’ safety, while permitting the boys to expend some of their unbridled energy.

  “Nothing,” he mumbled, but he brought his forearm across his eyes to block the sun. Despite standing in an open field and surrounded by many of Society’s best, his loins tightened. From the long equipage line, he watched a slow-moving carriage turning toward Rotten Row. A golden-haired beauty clung to the gig’s side, the wisps of her hair alive with light, and she turned in the seat to stare at him. Too young, his mind argued, but his body reacted nonetheless. He hardened, and although he knew it a foolish act, as the distance between them was too far apart to distinguish each other’s features, he lowered his arm so she might look upon him. “Bloody hell,” he mumbled as the gig moved away.

  “Come on, Uncle Hunt,” Logan encouraged.

  Hunt withdrew his eyes from the departing carriage, but not before he spotted what he thought was the woman reaching out to him. It was like nothing he had ever experienced, and the movement set his body on alert.

  “Right away,” he said with little conviction. With the girl no longer in sight, Hunt turned to the seven-year-olds. “Are you prepared?” He tossed the ball in the air to catch it again.

  “It will be a fiver,” Logan bragged.

  Hunt laughed at his nephew’s puffed-out chest. “No boasting until after you produce.” Yet, while he tossed the ball to Logan, Hunt thought only of the pleasure of greeting the unknown girl with an embrace she would never forget.

  * * *

  Angel pranced in a teasing manner. “Are you frightened to toss the ball to me?”

  He smiled in deviousness. “Your confidence exceeds your ability.”

  His words taunted her, but she knew he would treat her gently. So, when he wound up as if to burn her with his bowler, Angel anticipated the easy loft. He did not disappoint her. The ball sailed within her reach, and Angel smacked it with the bat, sending it buzzing past his ear.

  With a burst of pure joy, she ran to touch the post with her bat as he scrambled for the ball to tag her out. As they both raced toward the home post, he caught her about the waist and swung her around in a circle.

  “No fair!” she protested between gasps of delight.

  He placed her before him. “I have no sense of fair play where you are concerned.” His thumb caressed her bottom lip. “You are mine,” he whispered. “You deserve to be more than a mere baroness.”

  * * *

  Angel assumed her seat beside the baron in the Arden family box. After last night’s dream, she had considered canceling her evening plans. Never before had her secret lover made such a bold statement, and it shook Angel’s composure. Yet, realizing the unfairness to Arden, as well as to her father, she met her obligations.

  Nevertheless, the dream remained clearly in her memory. She reminded her weary heart she had promised her extended family to deal honorably with her suitors, and so she smiled at the man of whom she had already tired.

  “Have you attended the theater previously, Miss Lovelace?” Lady Wickersham asked as she waited for her husband to assist her with her wrap.

  “Quite often, your ladyship.”

  “I am certain it could not be of the same quality,” the baron’s sister declared. The Wickershams had commented on the lack of proper roads, religion, and refinement in the Americas. “How often must you have encountered a savage!” the woman exclaimed from nowhere. “Daily, I imagine.”

  “Never once,” Angel corrected, but the trio ignored her protests. Their snickers spoke volumes as to their honest opinion of the Lovelace fortune, and Angel bit the inside of her jaw to prevent the retort resting upon her lips.

  “Have you traveled to the Americas, my lord?” she asked the newly-minted Lord Wickersham.

  “Heavens, no!” he snapped. “Why would I care to place myself in such a hostile society?”

  She wondered if Lord Wickersham held any notice of how patronizing he sounded. With hope, Angel sought the baron’s attention to intercede, but her supposed suitor turned his notice to the lower levels. Angel followed his gaze. The baron’s eyes fell upon a dark-haired buxom beauty. Immediately, Angel recalled observing the same woman near the park’s gate yesterday afternoon. The woman had dropped a curtsey as the baron’s gig exited the park. Coin
cidence?

  Suddenly, it became quite clear what bothered Angel about yesterday’s excursion. Other than when he introduced her to his acquaintances, Arden never spoke to her except to instruct or to criticize. In the ninety-minutes’ outing, the baron generally ignored her. And the same had occurred thus far this evening. He disregarded her in the carriage, spending his time discussing politics with his brother-in-marriage. Did Arden despise being around her? He required her dowry, but the baron seemed under the delusion he owed her nothing in return. She had shared her expectations with him, but Lord Arden gave her request no care.

  Irritated by his attitude, she whispered in the baron’s ear. “Do you find the lady interesting, sir?”

  Arden turned his head to glare at her. “We are not yet betrothed, Miss Lovelace, but you show tendencies for jealousy,” he hissed. “Should I be flattered?”

  “You should be courting my favor. It is my hand you seek,” she returned. Angel refused to look away. If Arden thought to have a biddable wife, he should look elsewhere.

  Arden’s cheeks flushed. “I will treat you with respect, Miss Lovelace, but I will not dance attendance on your every whim.”

  “I see,” she said guardedly. With great care, she turned to the stage and began silently to count to one hundred. The pause would provide her time to make a decision. At length, turning to her party, Angel set her mouth in a straight line. “If you will pardon me, Lord Arden, I shall step to the ladies’ retiring room.”

  “Shall I accompany you, Miss Lovelace?” Lady Wickersham asked as she adjusted her seat to address the stage.

  Angel kept her voice calm. “That shan’t be necessary, Viscountess. I noted a smudge on my gown, which I should address. Enjoy the opening aria.”

  The baron did not think to honor her by rising when she exited his box. Angel had never experienced such decided censure. When did Arden’s intent change? Does he mean to teach me a lesson prior to my accepting his plight? If so, the baron erred. Reaching the main entrance, she motioned to a footman.

  “Might you assist me?”

  “Certainly, miss.”

  “I am not feeling well. Would you hail a respectable hack to see me to St. James Street?”

  The man bowed. “Immediately, miss.” He turned toward the nearest exit. Within moments, the footman reappeared. “Your ride awaits, miss.” He escorted her to the carriage.

  She slipped a coin into his hand. “One more task,” she whispered. “Please inform Lady Wickersham I developed a headache. Her ladyship keeps her brother Lord Arden company.”

  “As you wish, miss.” With that, he steadied her step into the public coach. As the hack rolled from the curb, Angel looked back to determine if Arden followed. Instead of the baron’s angry countenance, on the corner stoop, she espied the same gentleman who played cricket in the park the previous day. She recognized him from his stance and by the way her breathing hitched tighter. He assisted a very enceinte woman, who clung to his arm. Two sons and another on the way. With a deep sigh of regret at her loss, she refocused her attentions on London’s busy streets. She was without a suitor once again. Lord Arden would be furious for she had ended their courtship with a dramatic period of finality.

  * * *

  Hunt turned his head to survey the traffic, but his gaze locked on the hackney and the woman climbing into it. His arm tensed. It is she, he thought.

  “Someone you know?” his sister asked as her gaze followed his.

  “No,” he murmured.

  Henrietta tightened her hold on his arm. “The girl? The one with the golden blonde hair?”

  Hunt could not remove his eyes from the hack. “Saw the lady yesterday when I escorted your boys to the park. At least, I think she is the same one.” His voice trailed off as the hack pulled away from the curb.

  Henrietta’s too sharp eyes followed the departing coach. “Who do you suppose she is?”

  Hunt returned his attention to his sister. “Obviously no one of any consequence. Otherwise, what would the lady be doing in a public coach and alone at this time of the evening?”

  “Is she pretty?” Etta’s expression lit with an interest Hunt recognized as his sister’s meddlesome ways.

  He rolled his eyes heavenward. “First, I only saw the lady from a distance,” he cautioned. “She likely has bad teeth and crossed eyes.” His sister chuckled. He sighed. “Moreover, I am in no humor to entertain a girl. If I share my time with a lady, I want one who can hold an intelligent conversation.”

  “Is that what Alexandra Dandridge provides, Hunt? Intelligent conversation?”

  He heard the disappointment, which laced his twin’s tone. “As a genteel lady, you should know nothing of the likes of Miss Dandridge,” Hunt warned.

  “Every well-bred English woman knows of women such as Miss Dandridge. We just rarely speak of them,” his sister asserted.

  Hunt swallowed his amusement. “Miss Dandridge was never known for intellectual repartee.”

  “Was?” Etta jumped on the past tense verb.

  “Was,” Hunt confirmed. “I released Zan several days prior.”

  Henrietta intertwined their fingers as he escorted her across the busy street. “I cannot say I am sorry to hear it, Hunt. I know Papa’s schemes are tiresome, but you do require someone with whom you may share your life. It is a sin against nature for you to have no children of your own. You are the perfect uncle.”

  “Most certainly.” He grinned. “I spoil my nephews and then send them home for their parents to discipline.” They stepped from the way of the late arriving theatergoers. “I know my duty, Etta. I am well aware of my responsibility to the dukedom.”

  * * *

  He stepped upon the stage, and Angel’s heart raced. The audience quieted, and everyone leaned forward in anticipation. Like the other spectators, she slid to the edge of her seat and waited for the opera’s opening notes. Without ever hearing him sing, Angel knew he would be a compelling baritone, one to mesmerize every female in the theater.

  As he opened his mouth for the first phrases, he made a slow advance to the stage’s edge and then down the side steps beyond the imaginary fourth wall of the stage. She knew he was coming for her: His gaze remained locked upon her countenance. It was as if she could feel the heat of his breath upon her cheek. As his voice rose to fill every corner of the house, he reached for her, and Angel placed her hand in his.

  Chapter Two

  By design, Hunt sought his coachman. “What did you discover?” he pressed.

  Both he and Etch scanned the area for those who would make Hunt’s business theirs. Even so, the mews held no secrets beyond his.

  Etch’s eyes darted to the still open door. “I followed the viscount as ye’ve instructed, sir. The gentleman met with one of the two men always lurking outside yer Town house. I couldn’t edge close enough to git the gist of their conversation, but the viscounty weren’t too happy with what the other man had to say. He’d grabbed the one spying on yer house and gave him a good shake.”

  Hunt’s jaw tightened. He did not understand how his position with the Home Office brought danger to his door. He was nothing more than an overvalued messenger, not one of the special agents scouring England for those practicing treason. Evidently, he had, by accident, stumbled into a bee’s hive, and it would be necessary for him to discover, or should he say rediscover, what tidbit of information earned him his newfound enemies. Furthermore, he had yet to uncover what role Lord Newsome played in the chaos. From what he knew of Newsome, the man was nothing more than a bumbling fool. Certainly, Hunt held several of the viscount’s notes, but that particular fact was no reason for Newsome to set his men upon Hunt’s household. After all, gambling debts were common among gentlemen. Even Lady Mathild had taken note of the viscount’s tomblike glares when Hunt succumbed to his father’s maneuverings and stood up with the girl at Lady Mayleigh’s ball. And then there was the matter of the break in at his Town house, one where nothing appeared to be missing, but one in which h
is study had been turned upon its head.

  “Keep our men at both my father’s home and at Lord Stoke’s. I want no harm to come to my family.”

  * * *

  Angel rose early and dashed a formal note off to Lord Arden to end their agreement. Then she made a dutiful explanation to her father. Her confession brought dissatisfaction to her father’s features, but he said little upon the subject.

  “Was I in error, Papa?” she asked as her father prepared himself a plate from the items upon the sidebar.

  He waited until the servants withdrew before he answered. “Angelica, you know how much I admire your independence, but the ton will not appreciate that particular exacting quality from a lady of style. You abandoned your escort to face censorious questions. Moreover, you commandeered a public conveyance, and alone, I might add. You offended the principles by which these people operate, and likely some may shun you.”

  Angel’s shoulders slumped. “I never meant to offend.”

  “I know you possess a kind heart, child.”

  Although the idea offended her sensibility, she respectfully asked, “Should I attempt a reconciliation with the baron?”

  Her father frowned. “That is no longer an option. Lord Arden’s pride will not permit the man’s forgiveness. In fact, I suspect your name is being bantered about White’s and Brooks.”

  Angelica stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “In London, it is quite common for so-called gentlemen to place bets on the drop of a hat. Your discouraging Arden’s plight will generate a wager or two regarding whom you might accept in his stead.”

  Her temper rose. “What right do complete strangers have to gamble on my life?”

  Her father shot a warning glance toward the servants’ door to ensure no one listened in. “They do not,” he said in a hush. “But it will not prevent their doing so.”

  “How do I stop them?” she hissed.