Instead she decided this was as good a time as any to broach the subject of Susanna’s deepening feelings for Lord Mandeville. She couldn’t let him continue to encourage her, albeit unintentionally, suspecting as she did that he wouldn’t marry her.
“My lord, you must allow me to ask you a most indelicate question.” It must be done, for Susanna’s own good, but that did not quell the guilty pangs Lucy felt at betraying her dear friend’s confidence.
“Indelicate?” His mouth curved into a smirk and he raised one brow suggestively.
“Yes.” She paused, gathering her courage. “About Susanna Rosemoor.”
“What about Miss Susanna?” Lord Mandeville cast her a sidelong glance as they walked.
She took a deep breath. “Is there any chance at all that you would consider her?”
“Consider her? I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
Lucy swallowed hard. “For your bride, I meant.”
His mouth curled into a frown. “No, of course not. I like her well enough, but no, she won’t do. Why do you ask?”
“Because, my lord, I’m afraid she thinks herself in love with you.”
“In love with me?” he asked incredulously. “Why would you think such a thing?”
“I have very good reason,” Lucy answered. “Susanna said so herself.”
“But...” he sputtered, “but she is only a girl.”
“She is but two years younger than I am, my lord.”
“Yes, well, then you are practically a girl yourself.” He stopped and turned to face her. She colored at his appraising stare. “Are you really so young?” he asked, his brow furrowed.
“Not so young for a debutante. I’m nearly one and twenty.”
“You must think me an old man, then. Does she know I am not looking for a bride?”
“Of course not, and I hope you are not insinuating she consider—”
“Good God!” His face blanched. “Of course not.”
“I’m sorry.” Lucy flushed in embarrassment. “I misunderstood. But of course I haven’t told her that. However would I say I came to know such an intimate detail?”
“You could always tell her I told you so when I last attempted to ravish you,” he said with a wicked grin, his fingers lightly stroking her palm. “It would be fairly close to the truth, after all.”
“That isn’t funny,” Lucy said, suppressing a smile. Dear Lord, what was the man doing to her? His touch was sending shivers of pleasure up her spine.
“I know it isn’t,” he said solemnly, but he laughed anyway.
In spite of herself, Lucy could not help but join in. It felt comfortable, walking and laughing with him.
She returned her thoughts to Susanna’s plight and grew serious once more. “I’m only telling you this so you may try to spare her tender feelings. She takes any attention from you—any whatsoever—as encouragement, you see.”
He slowly shook his head. “I confess, I never even imagined—”
“I assumed as much when she told me what you said to her last night at the ball.”
“I don’t even remember what I said to her last night, but I assume I didn’t ask her to marry me.” He smiled mischievously. “Did I?”
“No, nothing like that, but she was encouraged just the same.”
“And what of you, Miss Abbington? Do you take my attentions as encouragement, too?” His tone was light, playful.
“Don’t be silly,” she replied, sounding considerably more sure of herself than she felt. “I’m much more sensible than that. Besides, for every measure of encouragement you toss my way, you eventually take it back tenfold, don’t you? I believe you take great pleasure in it.”
He stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face her. “Is that really how you see it?” He reached up to stroke her burning cheek, his eyes blazing with a ferocious intensity that took her breath away. “You think I take pleasure in hurting you?”
Lucy could only stand there, confused, blinking repeatedly. “I...I don’t know what to think, my lord.” Her heart sped up, racing like a horse in full gallop.
The sight of a familiar figure, strolling languidly toward them, caught her eye. “Look,” she said, “isn’t that Lord Thomas Sinclair?” She expelled her breath, relieved to put an end to this uncomfortable conversation.
“Sinclair?” He dropped her hand turned to look. “Damn,” he muttered.
“Mandeville,” the man called out.
“Sinclair,” Lord Mandeville returned curtly.
“Good day,” Lucy said, acknowledging him with a polite nod.
“Good afternoon, Miss Abbington,” he replied, removing his hat and dropping into an exaggerated bow. “What a delight to see you out enjoying the fair weather. If I might say so, you look positively radiant today. I do hope you will be at home later, as I planned to call.” He winked and looked to Lord Mandeville with a grin before turning back to Lucy. “Since you so graciously gave me permission to do so, of course.”
She felt the muscles in the marquess’ arm tense beneath her fingers. She released him and fidgeted with her gloves, wishing a hole would open up in the ground and swallow her.
“Yes, I shall be receiving callers later,” she finally said. “In fact, I really should be getting back to Rosemoor House now.” She offered him a weak smile. “If you will excuse us, Lord Thomas. Perhaps I will see you later.”
“Of course, Miss Abbington. No doubt you will see me later. Good day, then.” He tipped his hat. “Mandeville,” he added with a nod.
Henry spat out the man’s name, his hands balled into fists by his side.
Lucy could not help but notice the brittle tension between the men. “I suppose you are acquainted with Sinclair, then?” she asked, once they were out of the man’s earshot.
“Yes, we went to Eton and Oxford together,” he said through gritted teeth. “The bloody reprobate.” He looked practically murderous and she could barely keep pace with his quickened gait. “You should stay away from Sinclair, you know. Have the Rosemoors not instructed you so?”
“Perhaps.” What was it Lady Rosemoor had said just that morning? That he was ‘inappropriate’? “But he seems quite charming,” she murmured falsely, sneaking a look at his face from beneath her lashes. Was he jealous, she wondered? Never in her entire life had she stirred jealousy in a man, and certainly not a man as handsome and virile as Lord Mandeville. It was a heady feeling. She allowed herself to revel in it for a brief moment.
“I’m sure,” he said, his voice gravelly, “that you would have no resistance if you wished yourself to be Lady Thomas Sinclair.”
“Lady Thomas Sinclair? Why ever would I wish that?”
“His father is a duke, a very influential man. Their ancestral estate in Kent is palatial. Of course it all goes to Thomas’ eldest brother Simon, but I’m sure there will be sufficient crumbs for Thomas.”
“And do you suppose he would be interested in having an animal healer for a wife? For I’m not giving that up, not even for Thomas Sinclair.”
He shook his head. “I don’t see why he would mind. He’s only a younger son.”
“I see.”
“Do you? You claim you don’t wish to take a husband, yet your words seem to suggest otherwise.”
Lucy let out an exasperated breath. “I was only teasing, baiting you, Lord Mandeville, for I did not wish to repeat myself once more that I am not here in London on a holy quest for a husband.”
He looked at her sharply, as if assessing her words. “I must say, it seems as if your sponsors have high aspirations for you. I heard they’ve applied for vouchers for Almack’s on your behalf, and I’m fairly certain they won’t succeed. Shall I be blunt?”
“By all means, Lord Mandeville,” she bit out. “Aren’t you always?”
She saw him wince.
“Sinclair has set his sights on you, and not for your wifely potential.” He cleared his throat. “I assume you know what I’m insinuating, Lucy.”
Indeed she did, and she also noticed he had addressed her by her given name. She knew she should correct him, but what was the use? She attempted to speak calmly, coolly, so as not to betray her agitation. “I do, my lord, and I thank you for your concern. But I am perfectly capable of seeing to my own virtue.”
“I’m sure you are. You are perhaps the most capable woman I’ve ever known. But the ways of the ton are not familiar to you, and there are certain realities you should be aware of. Your interests, your passions, are not usual for a lady. If you were, say, an earl’s daughter, then the ton might turn their head a bit, chalk it up as nothing more than an eccentricity. But with your background—”
“I’m well aware of my own background.”
“Devil take it, Lucy. I don’t mean to offend you. I only mean to make you aware that some men might not have honorable intentions toward you.”
“I’m aware of that, as well.” Lucy could only wonder if this conversation was in response to Katherine’s comments. Was he trying to make certain she understood that a marquess would never consider a girl like her?
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I did not mean—”
“Don’t apologize. Have you noticed we have gotten ourselves into a tiresome pattern of insulting one another and then apologizing for it?”
“Actually, it’s always me insulting you, never the other way around.” He smiled ruefully.
“I realize that. I was only trying to be polite. But why apologize for speaking the truth? I will say it once more and then you are free to believe what you will—I am not in London to find a husband. I have much higher aspirations than that.”
Remembering just why she was in London, Lucy suddenly wondered why she had not yet heard from Mr. Wilton. Surely he had received her letter by now.
“Well, then...I apol—I mean, very well, then.”
Lucy thought she saw the faintest blush creep across his cheeks. No, she thought, shaking her head. She must be mistaken. But his eyes had become a blank again, that maddening curtain drawn against their depths. He had shut down, shut her out, and Lucy was glad for it. She sighed and shook her head sadly.
“Tenfold, my lord,” she muttered. “Tenfold.”
The two continued in brooding silence back to the marquess’ family. If Lady Worthington noticed the pallor that had fallen across their mood upon their return, she did not comment upon it.
Lucy summoned Bridgette and the horses and hurried home toward Rosemoor House at the briskest clip acceptable. As she made her way back through the park and toward St. James’s Place, she looked to the sky and scowled at the ominous shadow of storm clouds darkening the previously perfect afternoon. It was an apt reflection of her mood.
Chapter 10
Henry stood gazing at Lucy’s retreating form on horseback. Eleanor came to stand by his side, watching him. She smiled broadly, her eyes twinkling. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
“In love with whom?” Henry asked distractedly, unable to draw his gaze from Lucy until she disappeared over the rise into the distance.
“Don’t insult my intelligence. You know exactly whom I speak of. Miss Abbington.”
“Of course I’m not in love with her.” He dropped his gaze and intently studied his fingernails. “Why would you even think such a thing?”
“Clearly you admire her, and it’s obvious you find her fetching. That’s why. I’ve never seen you so smitten. It’s high time you chose a wife.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting I consider marriage to Miss Abbington?”
“Of course I am. Why not?”
“Why not? Eleanor, need I remind you I am a marquess? Have you forgotten such a minor detail? I can’t marry her.”
“And why is that?”
“Her father is a physician. I realize you are a bit broad-minded in that regard, but you must realize how inappropriate she is.”
“Her grandfather was a baron. Lord Wexley. That would mean the current Baron Wexley is what? Her uncle? A cousin? How is she inappropriate? Pray, enlighten me. And don’t insult me further with your lies.”
“If it will satisfy you, I will admit that I admire her. She’s got pluck, that girl does, and good sense, too. It’s refreshing to speak with a woman so accomplished and intelligent. As you well know I’m convinced that ‘proper’ ladies are weak in mind and character.”
Eleanor cleared her throat.
“Present company excluded, of course,” he added.
“But you don’t deny she’s lovely?”
“I suppose she’s attractive enough.” She was perhaps the most physically alluring woman he’d ever met, a diamond of the first water, but he’d never admit it to Eleanor.
She laughed. “Certainly that’s an understatement. But go on, continue.”
“There’s nothing more to say.” Her stubbornness was beginning to annoy him. “I can’t marry a girl like her. She would bring nothing to the match. She’s just not good ton.”
“But you said you admired her for just that.”
“I do.”
Eleanor shook her head so vigorously that a dark lock of hair escaped its binding and fell across one alabaster cheek. “I’m not certain I’m following your logic. You like her. You admire her. You find her somewhat attractive, and a cut above proper young ladies in mind and character. She’ll make someone a fine wife, so long as that someone is not you?”
Henry sighed in relief. At last, she understood. “Exactly.”
“But you have no respect or admiration for women whom you would consider appropriate. You just said they have weak minds and characters, the ‘appropriate’ ladies. Surely you could never love a woman like that.”He nodded. “Yes, now you see.”
“I don’t see at all. In fact, I’m completely baffled. Do you even hear yourself, Henry?”
He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “If and when I choose to take a bride—and I see no reason to do so at present—the alliance will be nothing more than a political maneuver. I’m well above marrying for love. I cannot believe I am even having this conversation with you, of all people.”
“What do you mean by that? I should think I’m the one person above all you should be having this conversation with.”
“Then you should understand, Eleanor. I won’t be like him,” Henry said quietly.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. Held back. Deceived. Too blinded by misguided emotions to see or to grasp the truly great things in life.” His throat ached and he could feel the blood pulsing in his neck. “That will not be me, Eleanor.”
“But you are nothing like our father, nor is Lucy like our mother. And how do you know love isn’t the one truly great thing in life, besides?”
“I know you adore Frederick, but surely you are more sensible than that. Your own marriage was an arranged one.” He saw her face flush, her mouth fall open. She started to sputter in indignation before he cut her off with a pat on the shoulder. “Come now, don’t get yourself all puffed up. I realize Frederick fell immediately and desperately in love with you before you wed. He’d have been a fool not to. Still, it was an arrangement between his father and ours, nothing more than a political alliance. Love came later. Power, influence—those are what define you as a man. I will make more of myself than Father did.”
“Pure and utter nonsense. You cannot throw away your happiness to spite our mother,” she spat out. “No matter what you become, she’ll never see it. Don’t you know that?”
“This has nothing to do with her. I don’t give a damn what she thinks. But don’t you see? Loving a woman, particularly the wrong sort, can ruin a man.”
“And you’ve determined this universal truth from one example, I suppose. Our mother.”
“Yes, and besides, women are cruelly deceptive creatures. You can trust neither their words nor their actions. It’s all duplicity, falsehoods. Anything to gain what they desire.”
“All women? Or just Cecelia Layton? It appears you
’ve judged all of womankind by two rather poor examples.”
“What about Charlotte Haverford?”
“Okay, three poor examples. What about me, Henry? Have you forgotten that I’m a woman?”
“An exceptional woman. Not the rule.” It was true. Nothing would convince him otherwise. It had been Eleanor, after all, who had coddled and doted on her smaller, weaker twin; who had kissed him goodnight each and every evening; who had patiently slowed her pace to that of the small, tired boy. She had always been his closest friend, his confidant, his touchstone.
“Then Miss Abbington is an exception, as well.”
“And how do you know that?” he asked with an indulgent smile. “You barely know the girl.”
“I know. Woman’s intuition. Can’t you trust me, Henry? Have I ever led you astray before?”
She hadn’t. What would he have done without her all these years? What kind of man would he be today without her unwavering devotion? “No, but—”
“No buts.”
“Even if what you say is true, love won’t bring me happiness.” He was sure of it. It hadn’t done much for his father. Love wasn’t real, it had no substance—it was nothing more than a diversion, creating hurdles on the path to power and influence. And those were what he craved. The influence his father had failed to inspire, much less exert. The power to bring about change, and change was needed. His father had had the vision, yet he’d never lived up to the responsibility. Henry would shoulder the burden himself. He was no longer a weakling and he would make bloody sure all of England knew it.
“And denying your feelings for Miss Abbington will bring you happiness? Throwing away—”
“I’m happy. Look.” He forced a phony grin, stretching his mouth as wide as possible. His comical theatrics briefly lightened the mood, and Eleanor laughed.
“Well, I can’t help but worry for your future. You say the only way you’ll wed is if you’re able to bind yourself to someone you neither admire nor care for. Yet the one woman you do seem to admire is off-limits because she isn’t good ton. Come now, admit you’re falling in love with her.”
Unlaced (Undone by Love Book 1) Page 11
