by Anita Mills
She didn't like his tone. "I could ask the same of you," she muttered.
"I was at Carlton House." Later, he was to wonder why he did it, for he was not particularly proud of it, but he reached into his coat pocket and drew out a pin. Tossing it beneath the blanket, he explained, "It's because I have survived."
This time, when she lifted a corner of the lap rug, he did not stop her. She stared at the pin. "The Regent decorated you?" she asked, betraying her awe.
"I told you—I am alive. And you have not answered me."
"I went to buy ribbons."
"One would think you could afford Grafton's," he said sarcastically, "or does Arthur keep a tight purse?"
"Sometimes I tire of the life I lead," she said simply.
"The bored widgeon. I pray you will spare me the tale, for rich, useless women pain me."
"I do not expect you to understand, my lord," she responded stiffly. "And if I am rich, it's because Papa took your advice and sold me."
"You seem to have done rather well."
"I have naught to do but shop and be seen."
"An enviable lot to most—did you not see those poor devils back there?" he asked almost angrily. "They have fought for an ungrateful nation, it would seem. And when Prinny has his way and the stalls are torn down, they will probably perish."
"Parliament—"
"Parliament be damned!"
"It's not my fault they are poor. Indeed, I—"
"You are the problem—aye, and all the rest of us."
"At least I have never been embroiled in an unsavory scandal," she retorted. His leg tensed, and she wished she could call back the uncivil words. "Your pardon—"
"There is no need to apologize for the truth, Lady Kingsley."
"But I did not mean—that is, I understand that the circumstances—"
"You don't know the circumstances."
Apparently, for all his seeming indifference, his divorce pained him still, and she pitied him for it. "She must have been very lovely," she said lamely.
"Very."
"I'm sorry."
He snorted derisively. "For what? I assure you I value my freedom above my pride."
"Perhaps she was merely led into it," she murmured, thinking perhaps that would make it less painful for him.
"I rather think it a mutual leading." He lapsed into a strained silence again. He could scarce blame Townsend, for Elinor Kingsley was an Original—a beauty lacking the insipidity he despised. And if he'd had the time, he might have cast a few lures that direction himself. But he didn't—and he had no business thinking it. No, it was better to pursue those who knew how to play the game— or those who made pursuit unnecessary, the sophisticates among the demimonde who understood a business arrangement.
He looked down, seeing the bright, mud-streaked hair, and for all that he told himself he disliked rich, bored females, he could not resist moving his hand to touch the silk of it. And despite what he'd thought scarce a moment before, he considered the possibility he might interest her in a brief liaison. His hand moved lower, brushing the bare skin where her hair fell away from her neck.
She shivered involuntarily, then held her breath, knowing she ought to duck away. Instead, she closed her eyes as his fingertips traced lightly, making her long to be held by a man. If his barest touch could do that to her, she dared not think what his kiss would make her feel now.
He forced himself to remember that she'd been the only one to speak to him, and for that alone he owed her more than this. Reluctantly, he leaned back, warning her, "A word to the wise, my dear—your friend Bellamy is possessed of an utterly inconstant heart. He will lead you to grief, if you allow it."
"It would seem like the pot warning of the kettle," she retorted, trying to hide her embarrassment. "You have not precisely been absent from the tattle-tongues yourself."
"No, but I never promise that which I am unprepared to give. I've never offered any woman constancy to get beneath her petticoat."
"How very crude you are, sir."
"At least I make no pretense of being anything other than what I am. But no doubt the Jersey has warned you to stay away from me." He noted the street. "You can sit now, but you might wish to cover that hair. You can use the rug."
He shifted his legs, and she pulled herself into the seat across from him. "I shall look the veriest quiz," she muttered. Nonetheless, she pulled the woolen blanket over her head.
"I should rather say a ragamuffin."
"What a lack of address."
"Being an outcast, I have little need of any."
"No, I suppose not."
"That's your house, isn't it?"
"That one—yes." She pointed to the large Georgian mansion, its red brick contrasting with the white pillared portico. "Oh, dear." She swallowed, then said hollowly, "Arthur is home."
"Would you have me set you down here?"
"Yes—no—" Her hands twisted the soiled material of her skirt. "It does not matter—he will read me a peal, anyway."
"What do you mean to tell him?"
Her amber eyes widened, then she answered, her voice low. "The truth—and I pray he will not discharge Mary and Jeremy for it. I shall of course make it plain that the scrape was mine, that they attempted to dissuade me."
He stared, oddly drawn to the smudged face and the dirty hair that clung to her neck, and he felt the familiar stirring within. Reminding himself again that he had neither the time nor the inclination to pursue another man's wife, he murmured regretfully, "I should not tell him you were with me, you know."
"I'd not be caught in a lie, my lord."
The carriage had stopped, and the tiger had jumped down to open the door. For an instant, she hesitated, then she held out her hand to Lucien, blurting out, "You must not think me ungrateful, my lord, for had you not come along, I know not what would have happened to me. Indeed, but—"
"It was nothing," he declared brusquely. He tipped his hat, then reset it over his black locks. "Good day, Lady Kingsley."
She stepped down, then turned back to look up into the black eyes. "Goodbye, sir—and Godspeed."
He watched her smooth her muddy, torn gown over her slim figure as though she could somehow lessen the damage, then she squared her shoulders and walked toward the Kingsley house. Telling himself that for all her looks, she was probably as empty-headed as the rest of her sex, he snapped the reins, and as the pair started forward, he looked down to discover the ruined shawl at his feet. For a moment, he considered going back, then decided against it. Even if he were inclined to help her now, he could not. He did not see her stop at the corner, nor did he see her turn back to watch him go.
Her eyes followed him until he was out of sight. He
was a strange man—cold and bitter—and yet if even a fraction of the stories told of him were true, his bitterness did not stop him from enjoying the companionship of Cyprians and opera dancers, she reminded herself. But despite his own warning, she knew he was not entirely bad, for he'd come to her aid, and he'd gone back for Mary. And, dangerous or not, there was that about him that still intrigued her.
She stared absently, wondering if he even remembered kissing her in the inn. He could not know that for nearly five years, her memory of it had lived, promising her that when Arthur was gone, there had to be someone a bit like Longford for her.
CHAPTER 11
"Townsend do this to you?" Charles demanded angrily. "Afore the Almighty, I'll call him out over it!"
"Will you be quiet?" Elinor whispered loudly. "You'll alert the whole house!" Acutely aware of her dirty, disheveled appearance, she edged toward the stairs. "I shall explain later."
"Did he force you?" he asked, moving in front of her.
"I said I would speak of this later," she muttered, exasperated, as she tried to pass him. "It was no such thing, I assure you."
"No you don't, my girl—I shall not be fobbed off so easily," he insisted, catching her arm.
"Charley—please!" she hiss
ed desperately. "Later!"
"Unhand her, Charles," Kingsley said.
They spun around guiltily, and his grandson dropped his hand before stepping back. She took a deep breath and waited silently, knowing that she had been too late.
"I have discharged Mary."
The old man's voice was controlled, but there was no mistaking the edge in it. His faded eyes rested on her disdainfully, and she wanted to flee from the coldness in them. "When you have made yourself presentable, Elinor, I should like a word with you."
"But Mary is blameless! The fault was mine!"
"It's to be hoped that Agnes can repair your hair and face before tonight," he went on, ignoring her outburst.
"I won't have her! Mary—" But he'd already turned away, and leaning heavily on his stick, he had started back toward his bookroom. She bit her lip to stifle the pain she felt. "Please, Arthur," she whispered. "Mary does not deserve this—I pray you—"
He did not mean to listen to her, and she knew it. In his anger, he'd not even bothered to ask if she were hurt.
She wanted to run after him, to plead, to explain, but she knew it would be to no avail. Her shoulders sagged and she fought the urge to cry. Without Mary, she would be at the mercy of his spies. She looked mutely to Charles, unable to speak for the ache in her throat, then she walked past him.
"Where were you?" he asked behind her. When she did not answer, he followed her. "I ain't about to be put off, Elinor—where the devil were you?" he repeated more loudly.
"It doesn't matter," she responded wearily.
"Doesn't matter! The deuce it don't! You cannot go to the balloon ascension with me, but you can come home like this!"
"I would you lowered your voice, Charles. Please."
"The driver said he set you down in Marylebone, then Mary came home without you—in a hired conveyance in fact, when she don't have any money! It was an assignation!" he declared loudly, daring her to dispute it.
He was going to make things worse with Arthur. Pushing her mud-caked hair back from her face, she retorted, "It's none of your affair. Now, if you will pardon me, I mean to bathe."
"No!" His hand closed over her arm, pulling her back. "I got to know, Elinor—I got to know!"
He was looking at her like the veriest mooncalf, and for a moment, she could only stare at him. "Even if I owed you an explanation, which I do not, I would not dignify such an accusation," she responded icily. But as he reddened, she felt sorry for hurting his feelings. "Do you really think that Lord Townsend would do this to any female?" she asked more kindly.
"Fellow's a dashed loose screw! Been with half the females in London! And you don't know what you are about!" His fingers tightened, pressing painfully into her arm. "You are green, Elinor!"
"Oh, for—" Disgusted, she shook free. "Look at me, Charles Kingsley! If I took a tumble, it was in the street— and I very much doubt that even a—a seasoned rake like Bellamy Townsend would be so crude as to maul me in the mud! Given his reputation, I should expect a gentler, more persuasive approach," she added tartly. "Wouldn't you? Or are you too blinded to reason to think on it?"
His color deepened, then he dropped his gaze to stare at her ruined slippers. In his jealousy, he was making a muddle out of everything. "No, I guess not," he mumbled finally, "but I was out of reason worried, you know. And when the maid came back—and she wouldn't answer—well, dash it, what was we to think?"
"I would have hoped you cherished a higher opinion of me." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she'd chosen better ones, for she'd given him an opening she didn't want him to pursue.
"Do cherish you," he insisted. "Always have—always will."
His voice had dropped, and there was no mistaking the warmth in it. "Then do not be so quick to accuse." Afraid he meant to say more, she started down the hall toward her bedchamber.
"How'd you get home?"
"I was rescued," she answered simply.
He watched her go, a sickness in the pit of his stomach, an ache somewhere beneath his breastbone, feeling the hopelessness of the impossible passion he'd nursed ever since his return. It was foolish to feel what he felt for her, but he could not help it, not even knowing that once the old man was gone, he still could not have her, not in England.
"Wait—"
She stopped, but did not turn back. "What?" she asked cautiously.
"Are you hurt?"
"Only my pride—but I thank you for asking, anyway. "
"I hope Agnes can cover the bruises, for he still means to take you to Almack's," he said lamely. When she said nothing, he exhaled heavily. "Don't favor cake and lemonade myself, but I'll go also. Been practicing the waltz," he added diffidently, "so I won't embarrass you."
"After today, I doubt anything could embarrass me."
"You want me to speak to him of Mary?"
"No." Her shoulders slumped slightly. "No," she repeated tiredly. "I shall have to make him see the fault was mine. Later, when I feel more the thing, I mean to try again to make him understand."
"He didn't catch Jeremy, you know."
"I'm thankful for that, at least."
Afraid she was still angered with him, he didn't want to let her go. "Look—I'm sorry, Elinor—truly I am. I didn't mean to—"
"It's all right, Charley."
At least she still called him Charley. "Best have Mar— best have Agnes take a look at that place on your arm. Looks nasty." He felt like an idiot when the words came out. "I mean—"
She looked down at the ugly bruise above her elbow. "No—no, you are quite right. I shall have to wear a winter gown, I fear."
He let her go then, wishing that somehow he could do something for her, but he was in no better case than she was—the old man controlled the purse strings. Reflecting resentfully on the miserable hand Fate had dealt him, he turned to go back downstairs. Had he been like Byron, he'd have thrown a scarf about his neck, rumpled his hair wildly, and affected the air of a tragic figure. But Elinor would probably think he was making a cake of himself.
Instead of going to her bedchamber, Elinor climbed the back stairs to the servants' quarters above. Mary was packing her few things into a worn wooden and leather portmanteau. When she looked up, her eyes were swollen and red. "Oh, mistress—it's sorry I am ter leave ye!" she burst out, her face contorting as she tried to hold back tears. "But I didn't tell 'im where we was! I was a-tryin' ter sneak in fer ye, so's ye could come in the back way—and Jeremy was a-paying the hack!" Unable to control the flood now, she turned away and sobbed.
Her own throat tight with emotion, Elinor moved behind her maid, touching her shoulder. "The fault was mine, Mary, and—"
The girl turned into Elinor, clinging to her. "It don't matter now—and—and I ain't got a character! He said he ain't giving me one!"
For a moment, Elinor held her, patting her, making clucking sounds like her own mother was used to do. Finally, she stepped back, holding the maid at arm's length. "I won't let you go," she promised. "I swear it."
"But ye ain't—" The girl sniffed, then wiped her streaming eyes on her sleeve. "He don't listen to nobody!" she wailed, dissolving into tears again. "He don't!"
"He cannot drag me to Almack's."
Hope flared briefly in Mary's eyes, then she shook her head. "He'll beat ye."
"On the day of his greatest triumph? No, I don't think so." Elinor looked to the ancient portmanteau. "You'd best put your things back, then come down to make me presentable."
The girl stared. "Ye ain't going to beard him, are ye?"
"Yes."
"Oh—mistress!"
"Now, if you will but cease watering the flowers, and tidy yourself up, we shall both be all right."
Before the maid could throw herself into her arms again, Elinor retreated to the door. But once outside, she stood for a moment, trying to control her own shaking. In the four and one-half years of her marriage, she'd not dared a direct confrontation with Arthur—not once. Taking a deep breath for
calm, she forced herself to march back downstairs before she lost her resolve. Outside the bookroom, she stopped to wipe damp palms on her dirty skirt, then went in to face him.
He was sitting before the empty fireplace, his hands over his waistcoat, his fingertips touching each other, and his eyes were closed. She walked around to face him. She felt as though her insides had turned to jelly.
"My lord-"
He looked up, took in her muddy, tangled hair, and frowned his displeasure. "You look like a street whore after a parade," he muttered sourly.
It wasn't going to be easy, and she knew it. "I went to the market," she began, trying to keep her voice calm. "When she could not dissuade me, Mary went also. She went to protect me, Arthur."
"I have no wish to hear this," he said coldly.
"As your wife, I have the right to speak, else I am no more than that clock on the mantel to you."
"I said—"
"I wanted some ribbons for my hair, Arthur—and I wanted some excitement. I wanted to see the market. I tire of this life I lead, and—"
"I give you everything!" he snapped. "Everything! You had no need!"
"I want more! I want to see things—I want to do things!" She swallowed hard, and lowered her voice. "Can you not see? Arthur, I tire of dressing up and posturing before these shallow people you would have me know. I'd not be forever in your leading strings. Indeed, until Charley came home, I'd seen and done nothing beyond this world you would keep me in."
"I have made you what you are, Elinor."
"You have made me into a pretty thing—an expensive possession—nothing more, Arthur—nothing more." She held out her hands then dropped them. If she did not cease confronting him on this, she would lose. "But we were speaking of Mary, I believe. My lord, she was blameless—she tried to stop me."
"She could have come to me. She did not have to abet your folly," he reminded her coldly.
"You were not home. It was but my innocent mistake, else naught would have happened. I opened my reticule where all could see, and we were set upon." When he said nothing, her voice rose. "You have not even asked how I fared—you've not offered one word of concern, have you? We were robbed, Arthur! Had not Mary thrown the money at them, I know not what would have happened! Do you not see?—it was Mary as saved me! I had to crawl into the street to escape them!"
