by Anita Mills
"Then I will settle for you that Longford may go." The elderly baron's voice betrayed his contempt for his son-in-law. "I will, however, deduct a like amount from our agreement, Thomas. I trust you are satisfied, my lord?" he asked the earl.
"I still do not see why this cannot wait," her father protested. "It ain't like he needs the money."
"Unfortunately, my dear baron," Longford murmured, "I have my own settlement to make—and I'd rather give your money than mine."
"Humph! From all I have heard, you ain't repining," her father muttered.
"Actually, had not poor Bell come along, I should have strangled her to gain my freedom." Apparently the earl turned to Kingsley, for his next words were, "My thanks." Then, "I wish you joy of the little chit, Arthur, but I would not share your shoes for the world."
"He's coming out!" Charles hissed into her ear. "Come on."
"Not yet."
But the door opened, and the earl stepped out. For a moment, his black eyes betrayed a trace of amusement. "Still lost, my dear?" he gibed at her. "I should have a care how I went on, you know, for I suspect Arthur does not mean to be a complacent husband."
"Uh—" She groped for a suitable rejoinder, but he was gone before anything came to mind, leaving her to feel like the veriest child caught out of school.
"What'd he mean by that?"
"Nothing. I suspect it's naught but his ill temper." She started back toward the ballroom.
"Elinor!" Kingsley said sharply.
She spun around at the sound of his voice, and the color rose in her cheeks. For a moment, she considered lying to him, but Charles hastened manfully to her defense. "Wasn't Elinor, sir—it was me. I—uh—I wanted to know where Longford was going. Wish it was me going to fight Boney, that's all."
"That will be all, Charles."
It was the boy's turn to redden. "Dash it, but she didn't do anything!"
"Charles—"
"Oh, all right—be glad enough to get back to Harrow!" Turning on his heel, the boy stalked off.
"I cannot say you have had a good effect on my grandson," Kingsley murmured. "Do come in, my dear." He turned back to the library. "As for you, Thomas," he added coldly, "I suggest when you are returned to Edge-hill that you recall the amount of your allowance. I shall tolerate no more scenes like this."
"The voucher was on the list," her father protested.
"And it is paid—this time. Good night, Thomas."
Her father rose reluctantly and passed by her in the doorway. Her heart sinking at the thought of another interview with her elderly spouse, Elinor appealed to him.
"Papa—"
"Ain't nothing I can do about it, puss—it's your husband as has got the purse," he muttered resentfully. "Got to be a good girl and do what he tells you."
Her hands were suddenly damp and her heart seemed to be beating against her rib cage so hard she could hear it. Taking a deep breath, she wiped her palms against the expensive taffeta.
"Come here." Moving to lean against the mantel, Kingsley gestured toward a chair. "Sit down, my dear."
She hesitated, not wanting to hear the peal she knew he would read over her. "The guests—"
"Your concern is commendable, I am sure," he said dryly, "but I shall not require your attendance over-long."
"Yes, sir." She sank into the chair, sitting forward on the edge of the seat.
"No."
"No?"
" 'Yes, Arthur,' " he reminded her. "Say it."
"Yes, Arthur. About Lord Longford—he asked—or rather—"
"I have forgotten that matter already."
"You have?" For a moment, she could almost breathe her relief.
"Your wont of conduct in general is quite another matter." He moved away from the fire and came to stand behind her. His thin fingers smoothed a stray strand of hair against her neck, sending a shiver of renewed apprehension through her. "On the morrow, my dear, we shall begin your instruction. I'd have you understand what I require of you."
"I don't need a corset board, sir—Arthur."
"I was rather thinking of other things, Elinor. Before I can take you to London, I should like to know you are as accomplished as your father represented. You will demonstrate your abilities on the pianoforte—as well as your proficiencies in your studies."
"Papa said you did not want a bluestocking!" she blurted out.
"On the contrary, my love." His hand slid to the topaz necklace, tracing the gold filigree chain at her nape. "I want more than a bluestocking, Lady Kingsley. In fact—" His voice dropped, then he paused for effect. "In fact, I shall require a paragon. When I am done, you will be a credit to me in all things. You will comport yourself with grace at the pianoforte, on the dance floor, and in the best salons in London." Again, there was a lengthy pause. "You will be worthy of all I bestow on you, little Elinor."
"Arthur—my lord—," she began desperately. "I cannot be other than what I am."
"There you are quite wrong." He walked around to face her, then lifted his cane, and she fought the urge to duck. "It's the last time I forgive your childishness, my love. For what I have paid for you, I have a right to expect beauty, charm, and a fair amount of wit, don't you think?" Lowering the silver-tipped staff, he held out his other hand. "Come—it's time we supped with our guests, dearest Elinor. I have it on Mrs. Peake's authority that the lobster patties are sublime."
She swallowed. "Could I—that is, perhaps my sister Charlotte could stay—for just a few weeks?" she dared to ask.
"I am afraid you will not have the time to entertain the child," he answered. "And I cannot say I will miss any of your family, my dear, for they are not the least credit to me. Now—I am understood, am I not, on that head?"
"Yes, sir," she mumbled glumly.
"Arthur," he reminded her again.
He waited until she rose from the chair, then gave her his arm. As her fingers closed over it, she could feel the bones beneath his coat sleeve. The chill once again seemed to tighten about her heart, making her breastbone ache, and she felt anew the acute loneliness. And she knew if she were to survive, she'd have to become what he wanted.
"Yes, Arthur," she repeated for him.
CHAPTER 7
London: May, 1812
"It's a pity the fashion for perukes has passed," Arthur Kingsley murmured regretfully as Daggett attempted to arrange the gray wisps into a sort of feathery Brutus. "What do you think, my dear?" he asked, turning to Elinor.
He was vain, and she knew it. She cocked her head to look at his hair, then answered noncommitally, "It will do."
"Yes, well—it's not precisely the effect I had wanted." He reached a bony finger to poke at the fine fringe, then sighed, "Aye—it will have to do. Come over here that I may have a better look at you."
She moved closer, the emerald satin of her evening gown clinging seductively to her thin petticoat. "I know I wear green too much, but I have always liked it."
"It becomes you," he decided, nodding. He favored her with his thin smile. "You have acquired my taste, my dear."
It was his greatest compliment, and one that he tended to repeat more often these days. She inclined her head. "Thank you."
"In fact, you are becoming quite the Toast. I had it of Sefton that Brummell calls you the Titian Beauty."
"Well, I should not call my hair 'titian' precisely."
"The point is, my dear Elinor," he declared patiently, "that you have gained his favorable notice, and given what he has been known to say about others, I must count it a triumph. Lady Sefton also declares him an admirer of your eyes."
"People refine too much on his whims, I fear. I for one count him a shallow person in a shallow society. Anyone who would give up his commission because his regiment was posted to Manchester—or wherever it was—"
"I do hope you do not mean to bring up the war again," he interrupted her impatiently. "It's too unpleasant for social discourse, you know."
"Thankfully not everyone feels as you do, A
rthur," she murmured. "George Ponsonby chose to go—and Longford also."
"Humph! All the Ponsonbys tend to the military, I am told." Turning to peer into the mirror Daggett still held for him, he fluffed the gray wisps one last time. "As for Longford, my dear, I hope you do not mean to hold him up as an example for anyone. There was not much else he could do to escape the scandal," he reminded her mildly. "Indeed, but even then the tale does not die."
Rising, he gestured for his evening coat. He shrugged into the expertly tailored coat, and settled his stooped shoulders as Daggett smoothed the cloth over them. "Come," he added with uncharacteristic conciliation, "you are far too lovely to worry over that which you cannot help, Elinor. It is more to the point to plot your continuing success." His hand reached to touch her cheek lightly. "I shall not be satisfied until everyone admires you as much as I do."
"Fiddle, my lord."
"Ah, my dear, but do you not see?—it's part of your charm that you are unaffected." For a long moment, he surveyed her critically, then he turned to his valet. "What say you, Daggett—is she not exquisite?"
"Exquisite, my lord," the man agreed with him.
"I see you chose the emerald and diamond collar again," Kingsley observed. "I should rather have thought the other diamonds spread above the satin..."
"Well, Sally Jersey seems to admire these every time she sees them," she countered, knowing what would persuade him.
"Ah, yes—the Jersey. I am glad to see that she has been won over, for with Lady Sefton with us also, I cannot but think you will receive vouchers for Almack's."
"Brummell says it's nothing but stale cake and lemonade."
"It would not matter if it were bread and water," he responded dryly. "You are not made until you have been there."
"I think I should prefer Hyde Park, Arthur," she murmured, betraying a trace of asperity. "At least there one can look at the flowers among the Pinks."
"Nonetheless, I shall be satisfied with nothing less than Almack's, my dear."
There was a definiteness in his tone that did not invite further discussion, so she forebore disputing the matter. His thin smile curved his mouth again and he nodded. "Just so, dearest Elinor. You will conquer that last bastion also."
"Your stick, my lord," Daggett reminded him, handing him the gilt-handled ebony cane.
Kingsley leaned heavily on it, testing his leg as he took a step. Satisfied, he offered Elinor his arm. "Ready, my dear?"
"Of course."
"You are unfashionably prompt," he chided her.
"You would be vexed otherwise."
"What time is it, Daggett?" he asked his valet.
"Seven, my lord."
"Seven," he repeated. "And it's a musicale at Lady Broxton's, is it not?" He sighed. "I suppose we shall merely take the long way, for I'd not arrive before it's a squeeze."
"The Candotti sings, Arthur," Elinor protested. "If we are too late, we shall not have seats."
"See and be seen," he reminded her again. "There is nothing like a late entrance to gain one notice."
"At Almack's, I am told they will not even admit the Regent late."
"Well, when we are for Almack's, I shall remember that."
After four years of marriage to Arthur Kingsley, Elinor knew the oft-repeated scene by heart. Ever conscious of the entrance they made, Arthur led her inside to greet the host or hostess, in this case Lady Broxton, then moved through the crowd slowly, stopping to acknowledge anyone of social standing, until finally they reached a chair along the wall. As always, he urged her, "Enjoy yourself, my dear, and do not forget to be all that is proper before Lady Sefton—and Lady Jersey, of course." For a brief moment, he searched the room eagerly, then sighed. "I do not see Princess Esterhazy tonight, but I am told the Drummond-Burrell woman is to be here, much good she will do us."
He sat down to watch her, his faint smile betraying of the satisfaction she gave him. It was, she reflected wryly, as though she were a top on a string, and once he pulled, she was expected to spin gaily among the glittering ton, displaying his wealth for him. And all the while she was to be the epitome of style and wit.
Arthur's gaze followed her, taking in those who spoke to her almost jealously, wishing the acceptance he'd pursued so long had not come so late. But it had finally come—the beautiful, exquisite creature of his creation had given him that which his fortune alone could not buy. She had made most of the ton if not actually forget, then grudgingly forgive his humbler origins. Birth was everything, and even an impecunious baron was less suspect than he was. But Elinor was changing that for him. She had been worth the wait.
She was particularly in looks, clad in the low-cut, high-waisted gown that accentuated her slim body enticingly. On her neck blazed the spectacular collar of emeralds and diamonds, and above it all, her copper hair shone beneath the soft light of the chandeliers. The hair represented his only refusal to bow to the dictates of fashion—she could wear it up, pinned back, or twisted, usually at the nape of her neck, but he would not allow it to be cut above her exquisite shoulders. This time, she'd chosen to have it knotted on the crown, its severity relieved by a few artfully curled strands that softened her fine, almost perfectly chiseled features*. Yes, she was his beauty.
Then he noticed the man who approached her as she stood conversing with Lady Jersey and Lord Palmerston, and he frowned, hoping she had the good sense to cut Longford. Knowing he could not get there in time to avert a social error, he held his breath.
Already stung by the icy stares and the whispered asides behind his back, Lucien had been contemplating cutting his losses and leaving when he saw her. For a moment, he did not recognize her, then it dawned on him that woman with Sally Jersey was Ashton's daughter. Old Kingsley's wife. The change was striking—the pretty child bride had become an utterly stunning woman. And judging by the jewelry and that gown, she was costing the old man a fortune. On impulse, he made his way toward her.
"Venus," he said low behind her.
In front of her, the fine-boned woman's mouth drew into a taut line of disapproval, and then her expression went distant. And Palmerston, after nodding curtly, looked away.
"What—no greeting, Sally?"
Lady Jersey did not answer. Elinor turned to look up into the Earl of Longford's face, and despite the time that had passed, she knew she would have recognized him anywhere. He was still the handsomest man of her memory, still the one who haunted her dreams. Momentarily, she wondered if he even remembered that awful night at the inn. But aloud she said, "I thought you were in the Peninsula, sir."
His eyes raked over her, and a faint, barely discernible smile played at the corners of his sensuous mouth. ' T did not know you had followed my career. I must count myself honored, Lady Kingsley," he murmured.
Thinking he mocked her yet again, she closed the ivory-handled fan she carried, then answered coolly, "I shouldn't say your career precisely, sir—I have but read the papers, and if you happened to be in them..." She let her voice trail off as she shrugged her fine shoulders.
The smile deepened, but did not warm the black eyes. "You must give my compliments to Arthur, my dear. You have aged exceedingly well."
"Impertinence, sir. I am but nineteen—soon to be twenty," she answered easily.
"Ah, but you have been wed an age—nearly five years, is it not? And under Kingsley's tutelage, you seem to have blossomed." Before she could think of a suitable response, he'd turned to the man beside him. "You recall Leighton, do you not?"
"Of course." She favored the viscount with her most dazzling smile. "Lord Leighton and I are forever crossing paths, are we not?"
"Everywhere," he agreed. "Lady Kingsley has become the reigning Toast—after you, of course, Sally," he added gallantly to Lady Jersey.
"Stuff," Elinor retorted. "I am but a poor reflection."
"Beauty, art blind," the viscount murmured before addressing the countess. "Shocking squeeze, isn't it, Sally? Hallo, Palmerston."
Lady Jersey unb
ent slightly. "Yes, George, it is. It would seem that Maria Broxton is more intent on quantity rather than Quality."
Lord Longford inclined his head slightly to Elinor. "Your pardon, my dear—I believe I see Bell over there. See you at the clubs, Henry," he told Cupid Palmerston.
As he crossed the room, Sally Jersey shook her head. "What can Maria have been thinking? And Townsend here also!"
Leighton followed her gaze. "If you are expecting a set-to, you are wide of the mark. He and Bell are reconciled."
"Reconciled?" For an instant, Lady Jersey was diverted. "My dear George, I have not heard it." She tapped his sleeve with her own fan and leaned closer. "It's a hum, isn't it? Henry, did you know this?"
He shrugged. "Bellamy Townsend paid damages, and Lucien forgave him, I believe."
"And who's to forgive Longford?" she demanded archly. "I am sure I shall not! When I think of poor Diana—"
"It was poor Diana as played him false," Leighton reminded her.
"All the same Maria—"
"I brought him," he interrupted her curtly. "And I'd not hear of it. Your servant, Sally. Lady Kingsley. Henry."
"Humph!" As he left, Lady Jersey turned to Elinor. "It's all of a piece, I suppose. Men will make excuses for men. I for one count him a dangerous man."
Elinor's eyes followed the earl curiously, her gaze flitting to where he spoke with his wife's former lover, then she shook her head. "I cannot credit it—cold perhaps, but I should not call him dangerous, I think."
"Oh, my dear, but you are mistaken," Sally warned her, "Longford is exceedingly dangerous to a woman, for he cannot be brought to care about anything."
"Humph!" Palmerston snorted. "You may count it a fault, dear Sally, but it's what saves his hide. His very detachment no doubt serves him well on the battlefield. Indeed, but he has distinguished himself to the point that Prinny himself means to decorate him for valor."
"Now that is the blood," Lady Jersey retorted. "His father—"
"Now there you are wrong," he contradicted her. "Mad Jack de Clare was hell for anything—utterly rash, if you want the truth of it—and the consequences be damned. A more reckless, unprincipled fellow I am sure I never met."
