Treacherous Temptations

by Victoria Vane

  “I think I would prefer to do it myself, if you don’t mind,” she answered with a smile. In her short time in London, Mary had found the life of a lady mind-numbingly dull. In truth, the idea of putting her hands to any good and sensible use held infinite appeal. After retrieving a couple of flower pots from the gardener’s shed, she placed herself on a stone bench by the ornamental fountain, for the sheer convenience of its running water. It was there, while she was deeply engrossed in dirt, that he came upon her.

  It was his shoes she noticed first, a flash of light reflecting off the ornamental buckles catching her eye. She looked up and almost didn’t recognize him, so different was he from the day before. He was dressed in shirtsleeves and a richly embroidered silk waistcoat, with his lustrous black hair uncovered, unpowdered, and unbound, hanging loosely to his shoulders. While yesterday she would have guessed him to be in his mid-thirties, today he appeared almost a decade younger. Devoid of courtly trappings, this was an entirely different, and for Mary, heart-racing version of the Conte Vittorio Amedeo di Caserta.

  Mary shaded her eyes, but still felt as if she stared straight into the sun’s blinding brilliance when he smiled at her. “Mistress Mary, the extraordinary. How does your garden grow?” He purposefully misquoted the old nursery rhyme.

  She swallowed hard and rose instantly. Flowers forgotten, they scattered at her feet.

  “Buongiorno, signorina.” He swept her a bow. “We meet once more under less than decorous circumstances. Will you run away again, I wonder?”

  Mary fought her impulse to do just that.

  He looked to the flowers and back to her with a quizzical expression. “You have uprooted these only to re-plant them?”

  “But I didn’t…I was.” Mary cast her flustered gaze to the strewn flowers. “They are—

  “Primula Vulgaris,” he volunteered. “Better known as the Common Primrose.”

  “But not roses at all,” Mary said. “They are imposters and interlopers here.” She tamped down the urge to add, just like me. “The gardener was plucking them out from amongst the rose bushes as ruthlessly as one would weeds.”

  “An absolute travesty,” he teased and gestured to the bench. Mary gathered her skirts and sat. Rather than joining her, he propped a foot on the bench and an elbow on his knee.

  “But it is!” she protested with passion. “They are my favorite flower. They have much more than just an ornamental function. They are practical too.”

  “A practical flower?” The corner of his mouth lifted.

  “Indeed!” she replied. “Primroses are very practical and can be used for several purposes. Firstly, they are easy to gather, as they are commonly found in the wild. Secondly, both the blooms and leaves are quite edible. In Leicester, cook often used them. Moreover, the leaves can be used for tea and the flowers can be made into a wine.”

  “Primrose wine?” He looked skeptical.

  “It’s quite good,” she insisted. “Although I don’t suppose the better class drink such things. Yet I find I miss many of the simple pleasures.”

  She gazed up to find him regarding her with a curious expression and then he took hold of her chin. “Hold still my little Antheia.” His grip was warm, firm, commanding. He must have seen the wariness in her eyes for he added with a chuckle. “Though I might be tempted, I’m not going to bite you.”

  If he’d intended to set her at ease, it had the opposite effect. She sat perfectly still, frozen by eyes that were not black, as she had previously thought, but the darkest shade of indigo. “Antheia?” she asked, willing herself to relax.

  “A goddess of flowers and an attendant of Aphrodite, but one whose cheek is currently smudged by her labor of love.” He withdrew a fine linen handkerchief from his pocket and raised it to her cheek, wiping and then scowling before dipping it in the fountain pool. She blushed while he dabbed the damp linen to her face with a touch that was efficient but surprisingly gentle.

  He was so close that his scent wafted over her, washing her senses in his wonderfully heady essence. She wanted so badly to inhale deeply, to breathe him into her lungs, but Mary found she could hardly breathe at all. She was beginning to feel light-headed from lack of air when he released her chin.

  “There now.” He continued as if the world hadn’t just stopped turning. “You don’t care for town life?” he remarked.

  “N-not particularly,” Mary said, still struggling to compose.

  “Unusual,” he remarked.

  “Coming to London wasn’t exactly my choice.”

  “No? Then why are you here?”

  “Because I am not my own mistress and my guardian insisted on it.”

  His expression suggested that her candor surprised him. “You desire to be your own mistress?”

  “Yes, had I a choice. But I do not. I am told I must wed but have no desire to do so.”

  “You intrigue me, signorina. I thought all young women dreamt of such things.”

  “Not I, my lord. I would be much happier at home in Leicester.”

  “Is this your purpose in coming to the capital then? To find a husband?”

  “It is my guardian’s purpose,” she amended. “I am only resigned to my fate because I see no means of avoiding it.”

  “Are you now under the care of Lady Blanchard?”

  “No….Yes…I mean…sort of. I suppose you could say that.”

  He cocked a brow. “You are uncertain?”

  “I am here because Lady Blanchard is a close acquaintance of the gentleman who is my guardian. He suggested I stay here until I find a suitable husband.”

  “Suitable as in wealthy and ennobled,” he added dryly.

  “I’m afraid so,” Mary agreed. “At least the ennobled part.”

  “The nobility do not appear to rank highly in your estimation.”

  “That’s not exactly true,” Mary replied. “I just do not understand their ways. What of you, my lord?” She was more than eager to divert the conversation away from herself and increasingly curious about him. “Are you the guest Lady Blanchard expected yesterday? Will you be staying at Blanchard House while in London?”

  He gave her a wry smile. “It is my intent. But I am hardly a guest. This is…or was…my home.”

  “Your home?” Mary gave a puzzled shake of her head. “How can that be? Are you a kinsman to the countess?”

  His lips twisted in a peculiar manner. “One might say so…The countess is my step-mother.”

  “Your step-mother? But she can’t be much older than you are! And aren’t you Italian?”

  “I am an Englishman born and bred, but only compelled to live abroad. I am sorry to have misled you.”

  Mary found her bewilderment only increasing. “Then you cannot mean…you are the Earl of Blanchard?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, a black expression briefly marring his handsome features. “Here in England I am simply Lord Hadley, but even that honorific is but a mere courtesy.”

  “Lord Hadley? But you introduced yourself yesterday as…”

  “The Conte di Caserta? I pray you will forgive the ruse under which we first met, although it was a partial truth. I am indeed the owner of such an elegant Italian patent of nobility, but the property that goes with it is but a desolate cliff top village, and the palazzo, a mediaeval ruin inhabited solely by stray goats.” He gave her a deprecating grin. “Yet I maintain use of the title as a precaution to avoid my enemies.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “It does not signify, my dear, and is far too tedious to explain.”

  “I see.” She really did not, but it was obviously a line of discourse he didn’t care to continue. “But you have now revealed yourself to me.”

  “Indeed, I have. Something about you seems to have inspired my confidence. Will you betray me, my Antheia?” He traced her cheek with a thoughtful look.

  She gazed solemnly into the depths of his blue eyes. “No. You may trust that I would never do such a thing as betray a
friend.”

  He laughed. “You would be my friend when you know nothing at all about me?”

  “I perceive that we both feel like strangers here, and are not strangers always in need of friends?”

  “So very trusting.” He gave her a soft smile and brushed her cheek with his finger.

  “Are you and Lady Blanchard estranged?” Mary bit her lip, immediately regretting the question. Why couldn’t she remember the simplest rules? The countess had instructed her never to ask personal questions—especially of a gentleman. To her relief, he seemed unperturbed, and mayhap, even a bit amused.

  “Not at all, my dear. Why should you think it?”

  “It’s just that she has not made any mention of you, and you said you have been away for a long time.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “I am only recently returned from an extended Continental sojourn. I have lived the past few years in Italy.”

  “Is it very different in Italy? I have never travelled out of the country.” Mary realized with another pang that her confession only emphasized her ignorance of the world, her social inferiority, and various other deficiencies.

  “It is,” he answered without the least condescension. “Not only the language and the landscape, but the customs and manners differ greatly from our own. I enjoyed it for a time but it has lost its novelty.”

  “I can imagine it must have,” Mary said. “Did you grow homesick, Lord Hadley? I think that I would have. I already yearn for Leicestershire and I am only in London a fortnight.”

  “Homesick implies that one has a home,” he remarked dryly.

  “But you just said—”

  “This?” He gestured to the house. “In truth I have passed very little time here. I was at school by age seven and spent most holidays with friends or at the family seat in Kent. Then my travels commenced almost immediately upon my coming of age.”

  “Was it your grand tour?” she asked, now trying for an air of sophistication. “I understand most noblemen undertake such travels to complete their education.”

  He emitted a humorless laugh. “My education was most extensive, as it has lasted seven years.”

  “Seven years abroad?” Mary was taken aback. “You have been gone so very long?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t elaborate, yet his expression suggested much more than his terse reply. It seemed that each time he spoke there was always a hint of much more he didn’t say.

  “I suppose that is the benefit of leaving one’s home to gain experience of the world. I have left mine yet cannot ever imagine becoming a part of this one.” She made a sweeping gesture to encompass her opulent surroundings.

  “I’m not sure I comprehend your meaning.”

  “I fear it’s far too tedious to explain,” Mary echoed his earlier reply with an impish grin.

  “Touché!” Lord Hadley chuckled.

  “What I meant is London and the sophisticated world,” she said. “It’s not where I belong. Nor do I really wish to, truth be told. I think I am much akin to my poor primroses here.” She cast her gaze to the scattered blooms.

  “I understand your sentiments better than you might think,” he replied.

  “How could you when you were born to all this?”

  He laughed, a harsh sound, all sign of humor leaving his eyes. “Don’t let any of it fool you, my dear, for even the most tarnished silver can acquire a fine and gleaming polish. And believe me, there is far more tarnish here than an innocent and unschooled eye such as yours can discern.”

  “Why would you speak so of yourself?” Mary protested.

  He reached for a red-gold curl that had escaped her lace cap and coiled it around his finger. “I would forewarn you, Miss Edwardes that I am a man, and men in general are not to be trusted…” He held her gaze as he slowly released the ringlet, allowing his fingers to skim her cheek. “…especially not by pretty young virgins.”

  Pretty? Her heart lurched. He thought her pretty? Yet in the same breath that he complimented her, it seemed he warned her away. Confused and embarrassed, Mary knelt to retrieve both her scattered flowers and wits. “Will you be staying in England now?”

  He joined her in collecting the blooms. “I am undecided. There are certain conditions…that must be met before I can do so. But I do intend to remain at Blanchard House for the nonce.”

  The declaration filled Mary with elation. “How wonderful—for the countess, I mean. It is good for Lady Blanchard that you are here. She has shown me the greatest kindness and I have come to regard her almost as a mother.”

  “A mother?” His mouth twisted as if she had said something amusing. “You’ve no idea how…transported…she would be to hear that.”

  Mary noted again the sardonic lift of his brow. “Pray don’t doubt my sincerity. If you are indeed returned, I would like very much for us to consider one another in the same regard.”

  Lord Hadley again looked taken aback. “As relations?”

  Mary bit her lower lip, wondering now if she had offended him. Perhaps he thought the request too familiar or impertinent. “If you don’t think it a presumption on my part.”

  “Not at all, my dear. But I would have one small request. If you wish us to consider one another as relations, pray let it be only as distant cousins.” He raised a blossom to his nose and inhaled its fragrance.

  “Why is that?” she asked. She froze as he brushed the flower along her jaw and then traced the whisper-soft petals along the contour of her mouth. She closed her eyes imagining it was his beautiful mouth brushing over hers. The thought wrought a suffusion of heat from the base of her neck to the roots of her coppery hair.

  She felt him move closer, her skin prickling as he murmured low in her ear, “Because I find I have no desire at all to be regarded as your brother.”

  He could never mean…Mary opened her eyes to find herself helplessly at sea, drowning in fathomless blue depths. “I-I’ve never wanted a brother,” she stammered.

  He gifted her with a slow and meaningful smile. “How very fortunate…for me.”

  Her stomach fluttered. Their eyes met and locked. He was so very near, inches away really. His mouth…Her heart surged against her chest. If he only just…She closed her eyes on the wish…

  “Ah! There you both are!” Lady Blanchard came upon them, sending Mary scrambling to her feet.

  “Lord Hadley, it seems you have saved me the trouble of introducing you to my young companion.” The countess eyed Mary with a peculiar look that made her feel strangely guilty.

  “Yes, my lady,” he answered, completely unruffled. “After twice coming upon one another by happenstance, Miss Edwardes and I are indeed acquainted.”

  “How…charming. So sorry to intrude on your little tête-à-tête, but I thought you would wish to know that your valet and baggage have arrived.”

  “Thank you, Countess. Then I must now take my leave of you both.” He rose and brushed the grass from his breeches, but then turned once more to Mary. “Miss Edwardes, since you have such a fondness of flowers, perhaps you would care to explore the Palace Gardens at Kensington? I understand the new queen commissioned a folly and an artificial lake since I left England. I have yet to view them myself.”

  “Lake?” The countess snorted. “Is that how they refer to Caroline’s great ditch? They dug up half of Hyde Park to create that moat-like monstrosity.”

  Mary noted the arch of Lord Hadley’s brow as he remarked, “I take it the new queen does not receive you?”

  “La!” Barbara gave a careless laugh. “What do I care about that back-biting Hanoverian court anyway? But I suppose an outing would do the girl some good. What say you, my dear? Do you accept Lord Hadley’s gracious invitation?”

  “Y-yes. I would be most honored, my lord.” Mary bobbed a shy curtsey.

  “Lackaday, my dear! How much you still have to learn! A fashionable lady should always make it clear that it is the gentleman’s privilege to have her company.”

  Mary glanced uncertainly at L
ord Hadley.

  “It would indeed be my honor,” he replied. “Do you care to join us, countess?”

  Lady Blanchard’s gaze darted between Mary and Lord Hadley and settled back on her stepson. “Someone once told me that in England, three is considered de trop.”

  Hadley returned a queer look that Mary couldn’t interpret. “Still, the girl requires a chaperone.”

  “Then I suppose that Jenny-creature will have to suffice.”

  “Very well, my lady.” Lord Hadley took her hand, kissed the air above it, and repeated the same with Mary. “I am your servant, Miss Edwardes.” He held her gaze with a smile and lingered just a moment before releasing her hand.

  When he turned, Mary fought the urge to follow his retreating back.

  “It appears you have made quite a conquest of my stepson.”

  “I hardly think a chat in a garden is anything to remark upon.”

  “Yet you both seem to have a peculiar penchant for botany, for you were alone together for quite some time.” Lady Blanchard eyed her narrowly.

  “Not so very long,” Mary protested. “And hardly alone, for there was the gardener—”

  “A gardener makes for a poor chaperone, my dear,” Lady Blanchard scolded. “Thank goodness Lord Hadley is a gentleman. Another might have taken unseemly advantage of you and destroyed your reputation. A young woman is nothing without her reputation. You must guard it at all costs.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Mary sighed. Why must she always disappoint Lady Blanchard? Even in the simplest things.

  “I suppose there’s no harm done—this time.” The countess patted Mary’s hand. “My step-son is quite charming, is he not? ‘Tis a pity one from such a long and illustrious line has been reduced to earning his bread.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did he not tell you? Well I suppose he could not. It’s a matter of pride, you see, for Lord Hadley is quite penniless. The Earl, my dear departed husband, left us near destitute after losing everything in the South Sea Company.”

  “How unfortunate,” Mary said. “But I understand many people shared that woeful fate. My father warned many of his friends and associates about the speculation frenzy, but most would not listen. I think that’s why my guardian is so concerned with my welfare, out of gratitude to my father for his advice.”