by Anita Mills
"I'd not talk about the divorce, George. Let us proceed with the holidays. Besides, it's to be expected that Mad Jack's son would want to go, don't you think? After all, everyone expects me to be like him," he added bitterly.
"Before your uncle died, Jack was the younger son. Ain't the same—you got the money and the title. You know, sometimes I think I don't know you at all," Leighton grumbled.
"How far is Stoneleigh from your place?" Lucien asked abruptly. "Or more to the point, how far is it from Langston Park? I bought the Park, you know."
"Neighbors then. Six or so miles from my house, depending on the road taken. Park's even closer. Why?"
"I have a bit of business there—a country party, I believe." He reached into his coat pocket and drew out Ashton's letter. "On the seventh of January."
"At Stoneleigh? Didn't know you knew Kingsley, and cannot think why you would want to pursue the acquaintance, anyway. Deuced encroaching fellow, if you was to ask me. Bought the title, you know."
"The old mushroom has wed."
"Wed! At his age?" For a moment, Leighton was diverted. "Got him a dowager, eh?"
"An infant."
"Thought he was too old to have one in the oven."
"My dear George, as far as I know the girl is not increasing—it's the infant he's wed." Lucien recalled his brief encounter with Elinor Ashton and her father. "A fifteen-year-old beauty."
"Egad! Why'd he want one so young? Fellow must be sixty—maybe older."
Lucien shrugged. "I expect for the usual reason."
"You've seen her?"
"Ashton's daughter. She was there the night he tried to fleece Bell."
"I didn't see her."
"Your loss," Lucien murmured. "You could have been a hasty bridegroom."
"I beg your pardon?" Leighton recoiled visibly. "Not me, I can tell you. I'm not ready to wed, and if I was I'd not take a poor girl—Ashton's damn near run off his legs."
"It doesn't signify. But you can look her over at Stoneleigh."
"Never knew you to frequent country parties. Deuced boring, if you was to ask me."
"In this case, I have business. I'd collect from Ashton before I go, else I'll never see the money."
"As if you needed it," Leighton snorted.
"I'll be hanged before I give Diana any of my own gold, George. I'd much rather give her Townsend's and Ashton's." He leaned back and pulled his hat forward so that the brim shadowed his eyes. "Call it principle, if you wish."
"If you won it, it's yours."
"Suffice it to say that somehow it seems different."
For a time, Leighton left him alone, choosing to stare out at the spitting snow. He'd argued against the divorce, for he knew what it would do to Longford, but every point he'd raised had fallen on deaf ears, and he could not understand it. Had Diana been his, he'd have called Bell out on another pretext, and when it was done, he'd see to it that she lived more discreetly until he got his heir of her. After that, he'd not give a damn what she did. But Lucien was different. Whether out of wounded pride or bitter disappointment, he'd seized upon her indiscretion. He must've cared more about her than was thought, Leighton decided finally.
"The country is a good place to mend a bruised heart," he said softly.
Lucien roused and pushed back the beaver hat to fix his friend with his black eyes. "My dear George, after all these years, you must surely know there is no heart to bruise."
"She must have touched something within you."
Lucien was silent for a moment, and this time he could think of nothing witty or cutting to say. "No," he said finally, "I place the blame for that on Mad Jack."
CHAPTER 5
January 7, 1808
Her father looked up approvingly when she entered the saloon. "Look as fine as fivepence, you do, my dear." His gaze traveled over the fine green lustring gown, then up to the perfectly matched pearls at her throat. "You cannot say I did not do right by you, damme if I didn't." He laid aside the paper he had been reading and rose to inspect her more closely. "Arthur must be besotted."
"I should scarce call it that, Papa."
"Here now—mustn't appear long-faced. He don't like that, you know. Likes to see you smiling." He looked around the elegantly appointed room, nodding his satisfaction. "Giving you the best of everything, puss—you got no reason to mope."
" 'He don't like that, you know,' " she mimicked. "Papa, what about what I like? Have you no care for me?"
"Now, puss—you are but overset at parting with your mama," he soothed her.
"But do you and Mama have to go?" she blurted out.
"Overstayed our welcome as it is, Nell. And after your party, we ain't got reason to stay."
"Then I shall have no one." The very thought of being left there constricted her throat painfully. "Please, Papa— I'd at least keep one of the girls."
"Don't think Arthur likes 'em," he admitted bluntly. "And you got Charles—boy's nearly of an age with you."
"All he can speak of is the war," she retorted. "Besides, he returns to Harrow tomorrow. No—when you and Mama and the girls are gone, I shall die." Her eyes swept the room, seeing not the exquisite things her husband had collected, but rather the walls, and she sought to explain. "It will be naught but a prison here, Papa."
"How can you say so?" he demanded. "Look at you! That gown must've cost Kingsley more'n I spend on your mama in a year! The man's besotted, I tell you! Twelve days of Christmas, and damme if he did not give you something for every one of them! I'd say he means to keep you like a royal princess!"
"Keep me, Papa?—those are the very words for the situation," she muttered. "I shall be like one of the animals in the Tower of London."
"The man dotes on you," he insisted. "And I'd not have you make the parting difficult for your mama," he added defensively. "It would not hurt anything if you was to make her believe you happy, you know."
"Happy? Is this what you would call happy? I would have more than things—indeed, but I do not want them! Look about you," she begged passionately. "See what you leave me!"
"I see an ingrate!" he retorted angrily.
"Look at this house—it's huge! There are so many servants I cannot learn their names, Papa! And the housekeeper—Mrs. Peake—answers only to my—my—" She could not bring herself to say it. "To Kingsley," she finished finally. "When I try to direct her, she tells me not to worry my pretty head, and when I ask for things, she discovers from him whether I am to have them before they are given."
"You will learn, puss—you will learn! It's but new to you, Nell. Already Kingsley is more than pleased with you."
"He would be as pleased with a trained dog, if he could say it cost him enough." She held out her hands, palms up. "Do you not see, Papa?—I am to be a cosseted pet!"
"All you got to do is bide your time, Nell."
It was no use, and she knew it. He would never understand what she feared. It was easier for him to believe he'd done his best for her. She dropped her hands and turned away. "For all that his leg is bad, he does not appear in poor health otherwise," she responded dryly. "I shall be here years."
"Man's sixty-one," he reminded her.
"And how many wives has he buried already?"
"Two, but they wasn't young."
"I doubt you even know what happened to them," she declared bitterly.
"What's to know? They died."
"From being overmanaged, no doubt."
"That's enough of this, Nell!" Nonetheless, he unbent enough to tell her, "It wasn't that way at all—had the tale from his solicitor. The first did not survive childbirth. The second was a common sort he wed to care for his boy. Fever took her off some years back, and he's been too busy gaining his wealth to be in the petticoat line since."
"But why me, Papa?"
"A pretty, well-bred creature gives a man consequence, and—"
"There you are, Elinor," Charles Kingsley interrupted them, coming into the room. "Your pardon, sir," he addressed he
r father, "but Grandpapa would see her before the company arrives."
"Is it that late?" Thomas Ashton took out his watch and flipped open the cover. "Egad. Yes—well, best run along, Nell. I've got to see what keeps your mother."
At the stairs, Charles stepped back to let her go up first. As she passed him, he blurted out, "The dress becomes you." And when she turned around, he flushed to the roots of his fair hair. "Ought not to have said that, I suppose, but you look smashing—truly. Bang up to the mark, in fact. Be a credit to the Kingsleys, I'll be bound."
"Thank you."
"Meant it." He ducked his head and lowered his voice. "When I heard he was to wed, I nearly howled at the thought, I can tell you."
"I cannot say I was overjoyed either," she admitted sourly.
"But it ain't so bad, is it? I mean, now when I am down from school I got somebody to talk with besides him." He looked toward the hall above. "He don't bend much, you know—had a devil of a time getting him to let me stay until tomorrow. But the term at Harrow don't start until Monday, anyways."
"At least you know the people who are coming."
"Ain't nobody of note, I'd say—not in Cornwall this time of year, unless they are rusticating. Guess that's why he wants to do it—to see how you fadge in company before he tosses you among the London tabbies."
She started to admit that she had not the least notion of how to go on, then stopped herself for fear he would laugh at her. "No doubt," she murmured instead.
"Hope you ain't cowhanded on the pianoforte."
"I beg your pardon?"
He grinned. "He'll make you play. Sing, too."
"In company?" she gasped. "Oh, but I could not!"
"You'd best do what he asks. He don't like to be denied, I can tell you." He stopped in front of her bedchamber door. "Ruthless," he declared succinctly. "Make you do what you don't want to prove he can do it."
"You do not seem to hold him in high regard," she chided.
His grin faded. "The highest. Got to—can't help admiring a man as has done what he has done. Afraid of him, that's all. But he ain't going to want to be kept waiting—I can tell you that also. See you downstairs before the company arrives."
She pushed open the door to see Arthur Kingsley sitting in a chair pulled before the fire. His long, thin legs were crossed above his polished highlows.
"Come give me a kiss, my dear," he ordered. But his brow creased and his lips pursed as he watched her walk toward him. He waited until she bent to place an obedient peck on his cheek. There was no mistaking that she did not like to do it.
"You look like an infant," he decided sourly.
"You chose the dress, my lord."
"It's the hair. Mary"—he waved a bony hand toward the hovering maid—"I have changed my mind—Lady Kingsley will wear it pinned up."
"Aye, my lord."
"And the pearls are wrong also. I'd thought perhaps they denoted innocence, but now I merely think them plain. Daggett!"
"Aye, my lord?"
"Fetch the cases. I cannot abide insipidity, and she looks insipid, don't you think?"
The valet did not even look at her. "Your taste is always impeccable, sir."
"Just so." The old man leaned back, pressing his fingertips together as he continued to survey Elinor. "Had I to do it over, I should have chosen a darker shade for the gown, I think, but you look presentable enough for tonight. Should it be emeralds—or is that too much green, I wonder?" he mused more to himself than to anyone. "Or perhaps the topazes."
"The diamonds—?" Daggett dared to suggest.
"No. No—not yet. It's a country party. I'd save the diamonds for London."
She felt like a thing standing before him. "I like the pearls," she declared stubbornly. "I think them lovely."
He favored her with a look usually reserved for fools. "You are a schoolgirl no longer, Elinor," he told her coldly. "Every gown or jewel you wear, every word you speak—your merest misstep—will reflect on me. I should not wish to be pitied for elevating you."
She stiffened. Elevating her? She was daughter to a baron whose title was far less dubious than his own. For a moment, she wanted to tell him so, then bit back the words.
"You are quite wise, my dear," he murmured. "I require obedience in all things." He looked up at his valet. "The emeralds would favor her hair, but the topazes would show her eyes to advantage. What do you think— which will it be?"
"The topazes do not set off the green gown."
"Quite right. Perhaps the bronze taffeta..." His voice trailed off speculatively.
"I like the green, my lord," she managed through clenched teeth.
"Mary, fetch the bronze, if you please," Kingsley ordered, ignoring Elinor.
Sensing that he played some sort of game, one where only he knew the rules, she was at a loss. "Please, my lord—this is the loveliest gown I have ever owned."
"Please what?"
She blinked, unable to follow him. "What?"
He sighed expressively. "My dear, you will make me think I have wed an imbecile." With an effort, he heaved himself up from the chair, and leaning on his cane, he walked toward her. "Do you always stand like that?"
"Like what?"
"Mary, on the morrow you will put her into a corset board."
"What? Naught's wrong with my posture!"
"Only for the days," he decided. "Just a precaution, my dear. I'd not have it said that Lady Kingsley's shoulders are rounded." Turning to the maid, he told her, "See that she wears the bronze—and pin up her hair. Daggett will ready the topazes for you."
"Aye, my lord," the valet answered promptly.
"Arthur," Elinor tried one last time. "I don't want to wear the bronze! The green—"
"I cannot abide tantrums, my dear." Favoring his left leg, the old man walked to the door. Without looking back, he added, "And when you are made presentable, Elinor, you will come to my chamber that we may go down together."
"We ain't got much time, my lady," Mary murmured, reaching for the hooks on the green gown.
"I wanted to wear this!"
The maid clucked sympathetically. "If ye was wanting to do that, mebbe ye oughta said it was the bronze ye favored. He alius has his way, ye know. It's the master as decides everything," she declared.
Elinor wanted to scream her vexation, but it would serve nothing to take out her anger on the maid. And certainly her papa would not understand. As Mary pulled her dress over her head, the girl's temper faded in the face of defeat. On the morrow, her whole family would be going, and she would be left in Kingsley's house with Kingsley's servants, at the mercy of her elderly husband. An almost terrifying chill seemed to encircle her heart. She would be alone.
CHAPTER 6
To Elinor, if Cornwall were thin of company after Christmas, the crowd belied it. Whether from custom or curiosity, every member of the neighboring gentry came, pressing into the grand reception room and spilling over into the glittering, chandelier-lit saloons. It was, she overheard one richly gowned woman declare, "as fine an affair as any I have attended in London. But for all that one can say of him, Kingsley does not spare expense, after all."
"In this instance, I cannot say I blame him," another responded. "She is a pretty little thing, is she not?"
"Stunning," the first woman agreed.
"I own I had expected a mere child."
"Well, she is not that."
"My dear, our footman had it of one of his maids that she is but fifteen."
"How obscene."
"Well, I cannot pity her, of course, for she can say she has done exceedingly well for herself, given that I am told her father is quite run off his legs."
Elinor's face flushed, and she turned away. Despite the glittering topazes that blazed warmly against her neck, despite the bronze taffeta's shimmering iridescence, she felt like an object, nothing more than a display of an old man's wealth. And already she hated what she would become.
As she stood in the receiving line, tryin
g to fix the names with the faces that passed her, Elinor was acutely conscious that her husband watched over her every word and gesture. Her face ached from the forced smiles until she longed for the evening to end. From time to time, Arthur Kingsley's hand rested proprietarily on her arm, directing her attention to one guest or another in particular. As the last of the latecomers passed by, she felt his fingers stiffen, and she looked up quickly. But his face remained blandly amiable.
"Lucien de Clare, Earl of Longford," he murmured. To the other man, he added, "You surprise me, my lord— I did not expect you. Indeed, but I had heard you were leaving the country." He smiled thinly. "My wife—Lady Kingsley."
"Let us just say I am rusticating until a few matters are attended," the earl answered smoothly. His black head bowed over Elinor's hand, and his fingers possessed hers. "My felicitations, my dear—Arthur is to be congratulated on his good fortune." When he looked up, his black eyes still seemed to mock her. "How is your fond parent, by the by? I had hopes of encountering him here."
"He is well, my lord."
"I'll wager he is—now."
"Yes—well—" Coloring, she pulled her hand away. "He is about somewhere."
"Then the luck is mine as well as his."
"I did not know you had property here," Kingsley said, his voice suddenly curt.
"Actually, I have acquired Langston Park recently, so I suppose we must be accounted neighbors. You recall George, do you not? Impeccable ton, I believe."
"Leighton," Arthur Kingsley acknowledged. "My dear," he murmured, turning to Elinor, "may I present George Maxwell, Viscount Leighton?" As he spoke, his hand possessed her elbow again. "Leighton Hall lies but a few miles from here."
Tall, slender, possessed of an open, friendly face, the viscount took her hand gracefully and lifted it to his lips, brushing it lightly. "Charming, my dear," he pronounced. "Utterly charming. You are all that Longford said."
Her husband's grip tightened. "I was unaware either of you were acquainted with my wife."
She felt her face grow hot. "Uh—not precisely."
Longford came to her rescue. "Actually, we have never been presented. It was my good fortune to glimpse Lady Kingsley when her father brought her home from school."
