Lessons in Love (The Regency Intrigue Series Book 3)

by M C Beaton

  “Don’t struggle,” he said loudly, holding her tightly against him. “We will be in calm water soon.”

  She subsided weakly against him, turned toward him, her hot face buried in his chest. The confused jumble of feelings in her body settled slowly down to one of languorous sweetness and peace. The heavy barge slid around a long bend of the river into smooth water. Tall trees on either side sheltered the party from the wind. Lucinda still lay heavily against him.

  People were beginning to move about. The marquess knew that their odd embrace would soon occasion comment and put her gently away from him. She sat with her head bowed, her face shadowed by the brim of her hat. Then she fumbled behind her, trying to find her stole. It had fallen onto the deck. He picked it up and arranged it about her shoulders and then spread the ends of it over her lap. It was a rich, heavy stole made of rose velvet and embroidered with silver filigree.

  One end of the stole covered her gloved hand. He slid his hand across and took her own in a firm clasp. No one would notice that they were holding hands because of the covering of the stole.

  For one moment her eyes flashed and her face flamed. She gave a slight tug at his hand, which imprisoned hers so tightly. But his black eyes looked searchingly down into her own and her gaze fell before his, and she sat still and quiet. Gentlemen began to approach to flirt with her and to pay her compliments. She answered them woodenly, the marquess glared at them haughtily, and one by one they all went away again, leaving the two figures of Lucinda and the Marquess of Sunningburgh sitting side by side. It was assumed that the odd couple had quarreled, for they did not exchange a word.

  Both were lost in a world created by the simple touch of one gloved hand holding another gloved hand. At one point the marquess thought with some surprise that a man was supposed to experience raptures like this when he was naked and in bed with a woman, not simply by holding her gloved hand. And Lucinda sat in a rosy glow, finally refusing to let her mind think anything at all.

  Everything was now very green. Green trees and bushes, heavy with foliage, crowded the banks and turned the narrow stretch of the river green as well. There were no flowers here, no splashes of color on either side to relieve the luxuriant green of the leaves and the slow-moving green water of the River Thames.

  At the stern of the boat, the countess stood looking down at the water. Alexander, the butler, stood beside her. He was growing more and more impatient. What was she waiting for? They seemed to have been standing there in silence for an age.

  “My lady,” he ventured. “You said you would give me the money.”

  The old countess leaned on her cane. Green silk ribbons fluttered gaily from the top of it. She let out a long sigh.

  “What is that in the water?” she demanded sharply. “Look! There!”

  Alexander leaned over. “I cannot see anything, my lady,” he said.

  “It’s something trailing in the wake of the boat,” said the countess excitedly. “Something gold and silver.”

  Momentarily excited by curiosity, the butler leaned farther over the edge. There was no rail on this flat piece at the side of the stern. Underneath them, the oars plied rhythmically, hypnotically, dipping and rising in the hands of the unseen rowers, sending out splashes of green and gold water.

  The countess edged back behind Alexander. She looked around quickly. Some young buck was balancing champagne glasses, one on top of the other, on his nose. Everyone was looking at him and cheering encouragement.

  She raised her cane and drove it, with all the strength of a temporary burst of madness, straight into the butler’s back. With an anguished cry, he toppled over into the water and disappeared. She wrenched at the drawstrings of her reticule. Pound notes fluttered out from the boat, dancing along in the breeze created by the movement and then landing like huge exotic butterflies on the green water.

  “Help! I can’t swim!” spluttered Alexander, his voice already made faint by the distance as the boat plowed steadily ahead.

  “Help!” screamed the countess, her shrill voice drowning out the voice of the drowning butler. People came running.

  “Grandmama!” cried Lucinda, returning to this planet and snatching her hand away from the marquess.

  She ran toward the stern of the boat, followed by the marquess. When they reached her, the countess was already surrounded by a small crowd. As they came up to her, she cried, “Oh, Lucinda, my child, Alexander attacked me. He snatched my reticule. I had a hundred pounds in it. I never carry guineas. So heavy. And—and … he overbalanced and struck out for the shore.”

  Lord Barnstable, who had also arrived in time to hear this, exclaimed, “Who is this Alexander?”

  “My butler!”

  “I’ll stop the barge and send the men back to look for him,” said Lord Barnstable.

  “No,” said the countess firmly. “It would ruin the day. He will be far away by the time we reach the point where he fell overboard. He did not get any money, but he tore at the opening of my bag and it all spilled out.”

  It was at last decided to report Alexander to the authorities. Everyone agreed that the Countess of Lemmington was a remarkable old lady. She rallied amazingly. She called for wine and music and even flirted with Lord Barnstable.

  Lucinda was plagued with a feeling of unease. She could not help wondering why Alexander, so stately and correct, should do such a silly thing for one hundred pounds.

  The dramatic event had interrupted her idyll. She could not now believe she had allowed the marquess to hold her hand for so long. She was inclined to shrink from him, but his manner was so formal and correct toward her for the rest of the day that by the time they set sail in the evening after several hours of drinking and dancing on the lawns of Lord Barnstable’s mansion, she was half sure she had imagined the whole thing.

  Darkness had fallen, and sleepy and intoxicated people lay about on the carpeted decks, chatting idly in the soft glow of oil lamps. Lucinda wandered off into the darkness to be alone, to think about her forthcoming wedding.

  She had been mistaken in her love for Sir Percival. He was not only a fop, but he had evinced signs that he might prove to be a bully as well.

  But there was nothing she could do about it. She had made the best of her life with a drunken, bullying father. She must make the best of her future life tied to Sir Percival. Women were slaves, married or unmarried. Freedom for women was an illusion. All they could pray for was an indifferent husband who preferred his club to his home.

  A soft touch on her shoulder made her turn around. Although it was very dark, there was a faint metallic sheen on the water, as if the River Thames had trapped some of the light of the sunny day. She saw the strong planes of the marquess’s face and the glint of his black eyes.

  “We must talk, Lady Lucinda,” he said quietly. “You must not go ahead with this marriage.”

  “Why not, my lord?”

  “Because we have fallen in love.”

  She stood, looking up at him, amazed. This could not be love, this sickening yearning. Surely love was a quiet flowering, a content.

  “What is love?” she asked faintly, so faintly that he had to bend his dark head to hear her.

  “It is a perpetual longing for someone that gets into your blood. That someone lives inside your head, haunting you, filling your soul with dreams—dreams that could well turn to tragedy were they never to be fulfilled,” he replied, his voice made husky by emotion.

  Thoughts piled one on top of the other in Lucinda’s head. Sir Percival … her promise to him … all of the presents and arrangements … Grandmama … all those whispering, sticky, crawlly voices of the doxies … a man like the marquess would expect a response as passionate and as wholehearted as his own would be.

  Terror seized her by the throat. All at once it was not the Marquess of Sunningburgh standing before her but her gross and bullying father.

  “Leave me alone!” she cried. “I do not know what you are talking about. I do not know. I love
Sir Percival with all my heart. For pity’s sake, leave me alone.”

  Tears poured down her cheeks, glinting silver in the moonlight.

  He felt as humiliated as he had been all those years before when he had been forced to sign those betrothal papers. She had led him on, had let him hold her hand, had sent him soft glances, and now she had repulsed him.

  He turned and walked away toward the lights and music, leaving her standing alone with the tears glinting on her cheeks and the rising moon striking fire from the diamond brooch she wore at her breast.

  Chapter Seven

  In the short time before her wedding, Lucinda felt as isolated from the world as she had done when her father had been alive.

  As she went for correct drives with Sir Percival, as she received callers, she felt a busy, carefree London was going on somewhere out there oblivious of her very existence.

  She had not seen the Marquess of Sunningburgh since Lord Barnstable’s fête. At first, she had rehearsed how she would behave should she see him again, at the opera, say, or in the park, but at neither places did she see even a glimpse of his dark head. Mr. Flanders was very much in evidence, mostly squiring a pretty little girl, but he did not go near Lucinda, so she didn’t know whether the marquess was still in town or had gone back to the country.

  London continued to celebrate the victory over Napoleon. There were military parades on warm evenings. In Rotten Row or in Kensington Gardens at the fashionable hour, hundreds of beautiful horses passed and repassed, carrying behind them or on their backs a whole world of silk and lace, smart bonnets and curving top hats. Musical parties were all the rage, and it was a Season when the whole of the top ten thousand seemed to revolve to the strains of the waltz. Glittering jewels and smiling, evasive faces passed and repassed before Lucinda’s tired eyes as Sir Percival indefatigably squired her to rout and ball.

  And then, all at once, it was her wedding morn. Lord Lemmington, her uncle, was to give her away. He was a thin, stooped man, ascetic and fastidious. It was incredible to think that Giles, Earl of Sotheran, had been his brother.

  Lucinda was wearing a white satin gown trimmed with lace. Around the high waist of the gown was a belt of diamonds. She had insisted on wearing a veil, although her aunt, Lady Lemmington, had protested that it was a sadly antiquated fashion. Her veil was of the finest lace worked in a design of violets. Little silk violets made a coronet for her head, a real amethyst ornamenting the center of each flower. She had also refused to wear the heel-less slippers that were all the rage, choosing instead a pair of white satin shoes with louis heels. She felt that a little extra height might give her confidence.

  It was another remorselessly sunny day. The old countess was resplendent in a panniered gown of pink watered silk, with pink and silver ribbons decorating her tall cane. A frivolous little straw hat, the kind the Macaronis used to wear, was perched saucily on her white wig.

  The Dowager Countess of Lemmington no longer sat awake at nights brooding about murder. She found by dint of telling herself that Giles had fallen to his death because he had been drunk, that Gotobed had been a figment of her imagination, and that Alexander had never existed, she could contrive to enjoy Lucinda’s happiness. For the countess was sure her granddaughter was happy. She privately thought Sir Percival a poor sort of man, but he appeared kind and attentive to Lucinda, and kind and attentive husbands were hard to find. It was a pity he was not blessed with more money, but then Lucinda was so rich that she had more than enough to keep several husbands, let alone one young fribble.

  The wedding was to take place in a dark church in the Strand. It was not fashionable, like St. George’s, Hanover Square, but the old countess had been married there herself and considered it highly suitable for a quiet wedding.

  When Lucinda entered on Lord Lemmington’s arm, she noticed bleakly that Sir Percival’s side of the church was not very full. His relations appeared to consist of a bevy of elderly ladies who smelled strongly of camphor, as if they had been brought out of mothballs for the occasion.

  On her own side of the church were aunts, uncles, nieces, and cousins, many of whom she had never seen before. She assumed all those people were related to her because Lady Lemmington had said only relatives had been invited and had spurned Lucinda’s tentative suggestion that Mr. Venables should receive an invitation.

  Sir Percival heard the organ beginning to play and knew that Lucinda was approaching up the aisle. His brideman, a club acquaintance, the Honorable Patrick Lock, swayed slightly beside him in all the glory of a pink satin coat. Sir Percival hated that coat. It was too showy and fine for a quiet wedding. He himself was more soberly dressed than usual in the stiff black coat he reserved for funerals. But soon it would be over and Lucinda’s money would be his to command. Lucinda’s lawyers had struck him a nasty blow when they had demanded a marriage settlement of five thousand guineas, but he had found the moneylenders only too eager to oblige him. His prospects were good.

  He did not turn to look at Lucinda as she came and stood beside him. He was admittedly glad that she was so very beautiful, but it was her money that was of prime importance.

  Lucinda stood, feeling trapped. She did not know it, but if the Marquess of Sunningburgh had made any further efforts to pursue her, then she might have canceled this marriage. His description of love echoed in her brain. Had he meant it? If he had meant it, then why had he been so easily rebuffed? Large tears glittered in her eyes and she was glad of the veil that hid her face.

  The dean of St. Botolph’s was droning on through the beginning of the marriage ceremony in the voice of one who has intoned the same words time out of number and has forgotten their meaning.

  He was saying that marriage was not to be taken lightly “or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts …” His voice came and went in Lucinda’s brain…. “It was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication …”

  Well, this was one marriage free from lusts or passion, thought Lucinda. Get it over with quickly, she silently urged the dean. Let it be over soon.

  Then she realized the reverend had raised his voice and was looking around the dim church. “Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”

  This is the moment, thought Lucinda wildly, when young Lochinvar should ride out of the west, when some knight at arms should rescue me from the consequences of my own folly. But it is too late.

  “I can show just cause,” said a loud, clear voice.

  Sir Percival leaped in the air like a startled rabbit.

  Lucinda stayed calmly where she was without turning. She thought she had imagined the interruption.

  But there was a shocked mumbling and rustling in the church and then the sound of firm, booted steps up the aisle.

  “This marriage cannot take place,” said a voice that Lucinda now recognized as that of the Marquess of Sunningburgh.

  The-Reverend Hereward Bright-Palfrey looked surprised and delighted. Nothing very out of the way or strange had enlivened his days for quite a long time. He had taken an instant dislike to Sir Percival Magnus. He looked approvingly at the tall, handsome figure of the marquess.

  “Dear me,” he said, trying to sound as distressed as possible, but inwardly as gleeful as a schoolboy presented with an unexpected disruption in the tedium of lessons. “I suggest, sir, that you and the wedding party follow me to the vestry where this matter may be discussed.”

  The marquess turned and summoned a dried-up, little elderly gentleman from behind a pillar. Then, without looking at Lucinda, he followed the dean to the vestry.

  Lucinda’s bridesmaid, a cousin Lucinda had met for the first time at the wedding rehearsal, felt the whole situation was being taken too calmly by all parties, so she screamed and fell to the ground and went into strong hysterics.

  The rest of the wedding party stepped around her and made their way t
o the vestry. Sir Percival was too stunned and, like his brideman, was suffering from the effects of having drunk a great many bottles of wine the night before.

  Lucinda had already led too dramatic a life to cry or to faint. She put back her veil and looked at the marquess with interest, amazed that she felt so calm, not knowing she was suffering from a mixture of shock combined with relief.

  The Marquess of Sunningburgh waited until the Dowager Countess of Lemmington was seated on the only comfortable chair in the vestry. Then he began.

  “This,” he said, indicating the elderly gentleman beside him, “is Mr. Poulett of Poulett, Humphries, Jackson, and Poulett, a firm of solicitors in Baxtable. He will confirm that Lady Lucinda was betrothed to me some nine years ago.”

  The Reverend Bright-Palfrey looked at Lucinda with bright-eyed interest. “Is this true?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Lucinda. “But the Marquess of Sunningburgh said he would not hold me to such a ridiculous agreement.”

  “Nor shall he,” said the countess. “My lawyers will soon make a rubbish of any papers Lucinda may have signed.”

  “I am afraid it will be difficult to break this betrothal, if at all,” said the lawyer. “You see, there is a codicil. If Lady Lucinda Esmond does not marry the Marquess of Sunningburgh, then she must remain a spinster, or such lands and money she has inherited from her father will go to Mr. Henry Webster.”

  “Webster!” exclaimed Lord Lemmington. “But he’s such a distant connection. He can hardly be called a relation. He used to come toadying round Giles and encouraging him in the worst behavior, but nothing has been heard of him this age. Do you remember him, Lucinda? He must be in his forties by now.”

  Lucinda shook her head. She could remember many coarse, loud-voiced men who had encouraged her father to drink deep and to get up to various unmentionable romps with the members of the Fashionable Impure who had frequented Partletts.

  The enormity of what was happening to him finally struck Sir Percival like a hammer blow. He thought of his bills and the duns waiting for settlement. “You cannot do this!” he screamed. “I shall sue for breach of promise.”