by Allison Lane
“True. Ackermann’s has a new set of his prints – village craftsmen. Marvelous pieces. He makes the most ordinary workers look like artists. The weaver is a wonder, evoking almost mythological magic.”
Nicholas nodded, but didn’t mention that he also owned the set. His own favorites were the blacksmith and the baker. Somehow Merriweather had conveyed the blistering heat of forge and oven without any of the usual gimmicks.
Justin sighed. “I almost got one of his oils yesterday – powerful painting of the Cornish coast. But it had already sold.”
“Too bad.” It was on its way to the Abbey, with orders to hang it in the library in place of the previous marquess’s favorite horse.
He let Justin’s comments wash over him as he again scanned the crowd. There wasn’t a single guest he didn’t know. But the poet and artist might not have arrived yet, he admitted, directing Justin’s attention away from Merriweather’s art with a question about his aunt’s health.
Abandoning his guessing game, he turned his eyes to Diana and Langley. He’d had to work hard to remain aloof during that brief greeting. Langley’s attentions to Diana hurt. Much as he hated to admit it, they shared a rapport that he had not expected, and a very genuine affection. Whatever had precipitated this betrothal no longer bothered them.
Perhaps he had been wrong, he admitted as Diana laughed at something Langley murmured in her ear. And that was good. He wanted her to be happy. If Langley cared, then he would return her loyalty. God knew she harbored enough passion to keep any man from straying.
Memories jostled for attention, blinding him to the room. He could not rid himself of guilt – for his youthful cruelty, for his recent attempts to seduce her, for any number of gaffes that might have forced her into Langley’s arms.
Not until Justin jostled him did he set aside his bitter soul-searching.
Diana was poised to make the expected introduction. Most of the guests looked around in surprise. No strangers had arrived. Unless Thornton and his illustrator were waiting in another room, they were already here.
Nicholas was one of the few who kept his eyes turned to Diana. She was beautiful this evening, her slim figure draped in green silk. Emeralds sparkled at ears and throat. The curve of her mouth sent tremors into his hands. He should not have come. Lust still burned – hotter than ever.
“My friends,” Diana began, seeming to look straight into his eyes. “You all know why we are here. As lovers of poetry and art, we have long debated why Thornton insisted on anonymity. Many of you have wished to tell him how much you enjoy his work. Others have expressed awe that Merriweather’s illustrations so perfectly capture the essence of his poetry. Now is your chance to be heard. Please join me in welcoming Mr. Thornton and M. E. Merriweather.”
She held out her hands. A collective gasp filled the room when the Earl and Countess of Bridgeport joined her. The earl’s face had reddened, but Nicholas lost sight of them as the crowd surged forward, the babble of voices nearly deafening.
“Bridgeport?” he stammered, turning to Justin.
Justin gave his head a quick shake as if to realign his brain. “Unbelievable! And Lady Bridgeport? I thought you were joking when you suggested a female.”
“But Bridgeport? My God! I’ve known him since Eton. Not well, admittedly, as he is several years older, but I would never have pegged him as an intellectual. Between sports and women, he filled every hour.”
“Perhaps not,” said Justin slowly. “Raintree once complained that life was unfair, for he could not function on less than nine hours of sleep, while Bridgeport needed only three or four.”
Nicholas frowned, adding numbers in his head. If that was true, then even at the height of Bridgeport’s rakehell years, he had probably spent four hours a day writing.
He let out a long breath. Diana had escaped the mob around Bridgeport.
“Quite a shock,” he said, moving to her side. “Congratulations. Lady Beatrice will gnash her teeth when she hears.”
She grinned. “She knows by now. She lives only two doors away. My butler was listening, and one of her footmen has been loitering around my servants’ entrance all evening.” She laughed. “Lady Beatrice always gives generous vails for information. Norton should be quite satisfied with the evening.”
“So why did Bridgeport decide that you should have the honor of revealing his secret pastime?”
“Writing is far more than a pastime for him,” she said seriously. “Mark has two great loves – his family and his work.” She stared into his eyes and must have seen his objection even before he formed the words. “His public pursuits kept him fit, but they were never more than a cloak for his real life. I’ve known him for ten years – one of his estates adjoined Bounty’s seat – and I’ve known of his writing since his marriage. He ceased caring about secrecy several years ago, but maintained his silence until he was sure that Elaine would not suffer from the exposure.”
“She is a formidable talent.”
“With an even more formidable intelligence. Just like Mark. Neither of them forgets anything. They can quote entire books and repeat conversations from months past. But she is still female.”
He shook his head, awed by such mental power, but he knew what she meant. Bridgeport must have decided his clout was strong enough to keep the publishers from retaliating. Women never got the prestigious illustration jobs and were rarely paid more than a pittance.
“She was another example I could have cited during our little debate that day.”
“On the abilities of women.” He shook his head. “Another point to you. Is that why you invited me?”
“In part. And because you admire her work.” And because you meant to leave town.
He could almost hear the words. Mind-reading again. No one knew of those plans, which had since been put on hold. He suppressed a shiver. But there was no point in belaboring the subject. “Have you and Langley set a date yet?”
“I’ve been too busy setting up this evening to begin arrangements, but probably October.”
“You are content?” He probed her eyes, though he could not have said what he was looking for.
“Of course. As is Charles. All our plans are falling into place.” She seemed puzzled by his interest, but he detected no fear and no unhappiness.
“I suspected that you were being coerced,” he explained.
“No one will ever force me down a path not of my choosing, my lord. And you have no right to judge me in any case. I refused your offer and would have done so again.”
“I would not have made it again,” he lied, though the moment the words left his tongue, he knew that he spoke the truth. She deserved far more than life as a man’s mistress – even his. “I admire your integrity – and your loyalty. It is something I should have recognized sooner. Langley offered you more than I ever have. I can hardly blame you for accepting.”
“No, you cannot. I can only rejoice that you recognize my character at last.”
Nodding briskly, he went to meet Lady Bridgeport. Would anything be different if he had recognized it earlier? Pain had again flashed in her eyes. So it must be him that was causing it. That damned proposition. Offering her a post as his mistress had insulted her. As well it should.
* * * *
News that Bridgeport was Thornton echoed from every drawing room and club in London, overshadowing even the most scandalous gossip. Speculation was rampant that he used other aliases. Recalling Diana’s comment on Bridgeport’s intelligence, Nicholas was unsurprised to learn that the man’s political commentary appeared in several highly respected newspapers and his well-reasoned arguments favoring reform showed up in others.
His own interest in the tale rapidly waned, pushed aside by renewed pressure from his mother. She was determined to see him wed, and had blatantly enlisted Lady Hardesty’s help.
The matchmaker pestered him until he wanted to scream. He was trying to find a suitor for Sophia, but every time he spoke to a gentleman, Lady Harde
sty would appear with one of her brainless protégées in tow. More than once, he dragged Diana into a set just to escape the woman. Dealing with unfulfilled lust was better than being trapped into marriage.
“Who are you avoiding this time?” she asked at the Barkley ball. It was the second set he had claimed that evening.
“Miss Hardcastle. She is even more determined than Lady Hortense. Why won’t they leave me alone?”
“Society knows you need a wife. Despite all your protests, you are here. Since you have decided to frequent the Marriage Mart rounds, you cannot blame people for assuming that you are shopping. Either admit the truth or leave town.”
The dance separated them.
But despite the dangers he ran, he couldn’t leave, he realized as he smiled at his new partner. Sophia was stubbornly ignoring all suitors. She refused to believe that her father was serious, spending much of her time pining for Eastbrook. Every day her social mask came closer to cracking. She often sought Nicholas out, railing at fate and grieving over a man she had never had. But even that outlet failed to relieve much pressure. And pointing out that Eastbrook was so anxious to wed Miss Parker that he had moved up his wedding date did no good.
“Charles mentioned that wagers are running ten to one in favor of you being leg-shackled by summer,” said Diana when the dance again brought them together. “No one agrees on who will win your hand, but at least half the ton expects you to be compromised.” She raised her brows. “Watch your back.”
“You sound concerned.” But he knew she was right. The Season had passed the midpoint. Girls who had no serious suitors were growing desperate. Talking about it made his skin crawl worse than usual.
“I dislike force.”
“You wouldn’t like my mother, then.” He met her eyes. “I’m not enamored of her myself.”
“Because she is pushing you to marry?”
“Not entirely. I only recently discovered that many of my father’s excesses – including the crimes that got him banished to the country – resulted from my mother’s pressure to rebuild his fortune.”
“Not an uncommon story.”
“Now she’s trying to run my life.”
“But you have more backbone than your father.” She smiled.
The dance separated them. He certainly didn’t feel like he had a backbone. He felt more like a leaf caught in a breeze, batted about by events, with little control of his destiny.
Yet Diana looked into his eyes and saw strength. Why? He had no answers. And despite their growing friendship, he could hardly ask her. She was just beginning to relax with him. He dared do nothing to change that.
“Is Bridgeport sorry he revealed himself?” he asked when they came together again, uncomfortable with how personal their conversation had gotten.
“He expected a furor, but it is only a nine-days wonder. Already it is blowing over as people speculate on why Heflin is limping.” The baron had arrived in town two days earlier but refused to discuss his injury. “Bridgeport is satisfied. There will be no more questions, for people understand that his body of work is larger than most writers manage, even without the additional duties of his title and position.”
“My God! He’s also—”
Her eyes stopped his words, but he had already made the connection – and saw verification in Diana’s face. Merriweather had illustrated other volumes over the years, one of them a hilarious – and exceedingly libelous – parody of society written by the unknown Mr. Anstey, which must be another of Bridgeport’s pseudonyms. He had found himself in it, though his fictional counterpart was too funny to take offense. But others would not be so gracious, particularly those whose foibles included greed or brutality. Or those who were stupid, unscrupulous, or rude.
“The man has talent,” he admitted with a shake of his head.
“That he does.”
The set ended, putting him again at the mercy of matchmaking mamas and Lady Hardesty. Succumbing to prudence – or cowardice, if he were being honest – he left. He couldn’t use Diana as a shield again this night without scandal.
Diana danced the next waltz with Charles, then sent him off for an innocuous country set with Chloe. Lady Parker still looked askance on that connection, but had not forbidden it. Yet Diana fretted. How much longer could those two stand the pretense. Their faces came closer to displaying smoldering passion every day. Already she could see it in their eyes. It was only a matter of time before Lady Parker did.
“How could you accept that fribble when Woodvale was available?” demanded Lady Hardesty, sneaking up behind her.
“But he’s not available.” She looked Harry’s goddaughter squarely in her fifty-year-old eyes. “Marriage is entirely his mother’s idea. He is not interested.”
“No man is. But he has a duty to his title. And whatever his protests, he is here. I am disappointed in you, Diana. You should have grabbed him while you could.”
“He cared nothing for me,” she said firmly. “But I would not have accepted an offer from him in any case. He is a libertine without heart or remorse.”
“He is intelligent, well-read, and enjoys a lively discussion,” countered Lady Hardesty.
“He is a fortune hunter despite his recent inheritance.”
“And Langley isn’t?” Her disbelief was plain.
“Not at all. Like most young men, he has enjoyed London. But he has a core of sober responsibility. Once he decided to settle down, he lost all interest in youthful pursuits. Have you heard of a single liaison – or even a wager – in the last month?”
Lady Hardesty pursed her lips. “I cannot recall any.”
“Precisely. Not since he fell in love. He is the most loyal man of my acquaintance.” She bit off further words lest she give Charles and Chloe away. The pretense was wearing thin on her as well, but she must maintain her charade of adoration until they were safely wed.
“I am more interested in you, Diana. You don’t love Langley. I’ve seen the way you look at Woodvale – and the way he looks at you, especially when he thinks no one is watching. You belong together.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” The woman was too astute, she admitted, suppressing the shudder of lust that hit her whenever she caught Nicholas’s eye – or even thought of him. But physical attraction wasn’t enough, and he was incapable of offering more. She had been serious about his lack of heart. “I have chosen my path. We will not speak of this again.”
Stupid! she chided herself as Lady Hardesty walked away. That last comment had all but shouted that the woman was right. The connection with Nicholas remained, not that it would do her any good. He had claimed that he no longer wanted her as a mistress, but that would not hold true when she was again free. Somehow, she must find the courage to refuse him one more time.
* * * *
Nicholas followed Sophia out of the Cunningham ballroom – to keep her out of trouble, he insisted, though he knew it was merely a ploy to avoid Lady Hardesty. His cowardice annoyed him. Others had noticed his maneuvers, shooting his reputation all to hell.
Tonight was no exception. Thrice he had ducked the woman’s candidates, but his face had revealed every bit of his disgust. Blue-devils plagued him worse every day, growing so bad this afternoon that he had tried to banish them with a bottle of brandy. But all he had accomplished was losing control of his social mask and setting his ears to buzzing.
Now he had a new problem in the form of Sophia. She had clearly reached a crisis point. Her smile was false. Her melancholy had gotten so bad that people were noticing – and speculating on the cause. Was her brooding undermining her sense? He hoped she was not going to throw herself at Eastbrook. The man would be appalled. Getting caught alone together would destroy her credit and make her a laughingstock, but it would do nothing to dissolve his betrothal.
But his fears proved groundless. She ducked into an empty antechamber.
“Not enjoying the ball?” he asked, quietly locking the door so they would not be interrupted. Too man
y people were determined to catch him alone with a lady.
“Hardly.” Tears glittered in her eyes. She bit her lip, finally bursting into speech. “Everyone will be miserable, and it’s all my fault!”
“Suppose you define everyone, then tell me what you did to make them miserable,” he said gently.
“George. Miss Parker. Charles. Lady Bounty.” The tears ran down her cheeks unchecked. “I know you think I’m obsessed, but George can never be happy with Miss Parker. He is already irritated at her unrelenting frivolity. And I know that she can never be happy with him. She loves Charles.”
What? There was not the slightest hint that the girl cared for Langley. She’d only danced with him a few times – all since his betrothal. And she was close to Diana, which explained that. “Did she tell you she loved the man?”
“No, but they were embracing in the folly at Harrison Court. By the time I fetched the Parkers, she was gone and he was forced to announce a betrothal to Lady Bounty. Now Miss Parker will never let George go!”
He frowned. He did not for a moment believe that either Langley or Diana was unhappy with their betrothal. They were too relaxed together – too intimate. He had watched them since returning to town. The truth was obvious.
So what had Langley and Miss Parker been doing in the folly? he wondered dizzily. Had Sophia asked Charles to seduce the girl after he himself had refused? It seemed likely. Her admission that she had fetched the Parkers made it more so. But it hadn’t worked.
Langley had been paying court to Diana for weeks. If she had appeared in the folly, he would have immediately abandoned Miss Parker. But this revived all his questions about Langley’s motives. Perhaps the man was a better actor than he had thought. Was he only after Diana’s fortune?
Ice coiled in his stomach.
He was overreacting. No tales linked him with any ladies in recent weeks. And he had been most attentive. No one could maintain that charade day after day under eyes as keen as his.
