by Anita Mills
"Perhaps if you told him—if you promised—"
"No." He crossed the room to her and took her hands, holding them. "He's right—I cannot stay—not now." His fingers were warm, surprisingly strong. "I guess you are the only one as did not see it," he said softly. "The hat's over the windmill, and there ain't any way to get it back, Nell."
It was the first time anyone had called her Nell since Arthur had forbidden it. "Charley—"
"No. Got to say it, don't you see? I'm head over heels for you—have been for a couple of years—maybe longer even." As she opened her mouth to speak, he shook his head. "And don't be saying it's but my salad days, 'cause it ain't." His clasp tightened as he drew her closer. "I love you, Nell—if it wasn't for him, I'd be shouting it from the rooftops."
She fought the urge to cry. "Oh, Charley—I—"
"No. You don't have to say anything—not yet."
"It's impossible, Charley." She bit her lip to still its trembling. "Even—even if—oh, I could not! Do you not see? I cannot betray my marriage vows!"
"But it ain't impossible. Been thinking—been thinking about it a lot, and it stands to reason he ain't going to live forever."
"But—"
"Oh, I know it ain't legal in England, but I'd take you away from here—maybe marry you in America, if you'd have me." Releasing one of her hands, he reached into his pocket and drew out a folded paper. Opening it, he showed her a simple pearl ring. "Want you to have something to look at while I am gone, so's you don't forget me."
"Oh, Charley! As if I would! But—" Her lower lip quivered, and her eyes spilled tears onto her cheek.
"Stoopid," she choked, "you know I love you, but not like this!"
"Here now," he said gruffly, "can't go turning on the water pot, Nell. And the time for 'buts' ain't now. All I'm asking for is that you don't forget me. Then when the war's over—when the old man's gone—I mean to ask you to marry me. Until then, I ain't wanting to know whether you want me or not." His voice was earnest, his eyes intent. "I know I can win you, Nell."
He possessed her right hand and slid the ring on her middle finger, then stared at it. "Ought to be diamonds, but it wouldn't look right—not yet."
"It's—it's beautiful."
His hands slid up her arms to her shoulders, then he hugged her close, enfolding her against him, murmuring, "Been wanting to do this a long time, you know."
She returned his embrace, clinging to him. "I'm afraid for you, Charley. What if—?"
"Shhhhh." One of his hands tilted her head back, and he bent his face to hers. His warm breath brushed her cheek, then his lips pressed gently, tenderly against hers. Then he stood back. "Ain't half of what I'd like to do with you, but I ain't about to dishonor you—or the old man. We got time, Nell—we're young."
She heard the footmen moving something heavy down the stairs. "Charley, you are not leaving now? Not yet-surely—"
He nodded. "Got to. The old man's paid for lodgings at the Pulteney until the papers are done. He don't want me under the same roof now."
"But I'll see you again before you leave?"
"Don't know. Rumor's got it that something big's about to happen in the Peninsula—chance is good that once I am signed, they ain't going to want to wait to ship me over."
"But surely—I mean, you are not trained—and—"
"Ride as good as the best of 'em," he assured her. "Good shot, too."
"Charley, it's war!"
"Going to write to you—every day, in fact. Oh, I know they don't dispatch 'em like that, but I'll keep a journal-mail the pages when I can." Once again, he lifted her chin. "You going to write to me, Nell?"
Her throat ached almost too much for speech. "You know I will," she whispered.
"Good. Word of you will mean everything to me."
"Charley, go back to school—don't—" She choked, unable to go on.
"Can't. Too late for that. Tell you what though—come back a captain for you."
There was a discreet tap on the facing of the open door. "Begging your pardon, sir, but the carriage is waiting."
"Oh—tell 'em I'll be right along." This time, he leaned to place a quick kiss on her cheek. "Wait for me—it's all I ask," he whispered. "You don't have to love me—yet."
This time she knew he was gone. She stood at the window and watched as the big, black-lacquered carriage pulled away, then disappeared down the sunlit street. As she turned away from the cross-panes, she was nearly overwhelmed by die sudden dreariness, the emptiness of the ornately decorated room. And a new, chilling isolation seemed to descend like a mantle over her.
Heavy-hearted, her mind in turmoil, she climbed slowly up the stairs to her bedchamber, where she sat staring unseeing for a time. It had happened too quickly, this brief glimpse of freedom and fun, and now it was gone. Had she done wrong? Had she somehow caused this? Did she love him—or would she even know if she did? Of course she loved him—who would not? But was it because he was the brother she'd never had—or was it because he cared about her?
She crossed her arms, holding herself, telling herself there was more to life than the inane, petty existence Arthur Kingsley gave her—that there was the comfort, the solace, and the excitement of a man's arms about her that every woman needed, and she did not have. She wanted someone to ease the aching loneliness that had settled into the hollow between her breasts.
But as she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, Charley's tender kiss faded in the remembered heat of Longford's passion. Where the one had been sweet, gentle, almost pure, the other had been ruthless and demanding. And as much as she believed she loved Charles Kingsley, as much as she now despised Lucien de Clare, she had to admit the earl's passionate embrace had been far more exciting.
Forcing both men from her mind, she rose determinedly and moved to her writing desk. She had to pour out her heart to someone or go mad. Sitting down, she drew out a crisp sheet of vellum and uncorked the inkpot. Dipping her pen into it, she began, "Drst Mama—" then faltered. What could she say? That her husband's grandson had declared his love for her and was going off to war for it? That she could not bear to go on being naught but a decorative accessory to her husband's life?
"My lady-?"
She looked up, startled. "Yes?"
"Jeremy said I was to tell you that Lord Townsend awaits ye below."
Townsend. She'd forgotten him. She glanced at the clock, sighing. She'd forgotten her promise to go riding in the park with him at four. For a moment, she considered going down to beg off, then thought better of it. If she had to explain, she would cry.
"My lady?" Mary came close, peering into her mistress's face. "It's overset ye are, ain't ye?"
Elinor started to deny it, then buried her head in her hands. "Just go away," she choked out miserably. "I— I shall be better later."
"I'll tell him ye've got the headache and are abed," the maid decided.
Ordinarily, Elinor would have despised the lie, but this time, she said nothing. Mary touched her shoulder, patting it briefly, then murmured, "Ain't none of us likes it, ye know—it ain't right." Then she stepped back. "When Lord Townsend is gone, I'll bring ye a bit of toddy."
Elinor straightened and wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. "I'm not cold."
"It will ease yer mind if I was to put a dab of butter in it, ye know."
"I cannot be disguised when Arthur comes home, Mary—he cannot stand a female sot."
"Humph! If it was left ter me, I'd give him a dose of laudanum and leave 'im ter sleep it off. Then we don't have ter listen ter what he can't stand."
"Mary—"
"I'm a-going," the maid insisted. "Do Jeremy good ter tell his lordship ye ain't coming down."
When Mary returned a few minutes later, Elinor was still sitting, her eyes fixed on the sheet of vellum. "He said I was ter give ye these, my lady—he brung ye flowers. Roses from the flower monger down the street, I think."
"They are lovely," Elinor replied without enthus
iasm.
"And Jeremy's ter bring the toddy—make ye feel more the thing. Though it ain't going ter seem right without the young master, is it?"
"No."
"Thought it was good fer ye to have somebody yer age about, but I guess—"
"It was my fault, Mary."
"Yer fault?" The maid's voice rose incredulously. "And how might that be, I ask ye? Ye ain't a boy caught in his first calf-love."
"I welcomed him—I was glad he came home."
"And well ye ought to be! Place's like a tomb when there ain't any but the old master about," Mary sniffed. "If he still had his eyes, he'd know—"
"Mary—"
"Guess it ain't proper to talk about it," the maid conceded reluctantly. "Guess ye just got to drink the toddy and try to fergit it, huh?"
"I don't know—Mary, I don't know!" For a moment, Elinor's face seemed to crumple, then she regained her composure. "You'd best see what keeps Jeremy."
As soon as the maid left again, she redipped her pen and scratched across the page, "I am the most miserable of females, and I see no end to it."
She stopped to stare at the words, then put her pen in the inkwell. She could not send that, not when her mother was powerless to do anything to help her. Wadding the vellum into a ball, she threw it to the floor and took out another sheet and began to write again.
Drst Mama,
I trust you, Papa, and the girls are well. As for Kingsley and I, we are fast becoming all the crack, and the pace is quite exhausting. Charles has been home for several weeks, but is leaving to join a regiment of dragoons, and I shall miss him in the extreme. Indeed, now that I have become used to a young person in the house, I know not how I shall go on without one.
I know that Charlotte is not yet out, but I have been thinking perhaps that she might enjoy a visit to London. There is so much to see here, Mama, that you cannot imagine it all, and although Charlotte cannot go about to routs and balls before she is presented, I am sure I can keep her tolerably amused. And it will do no harm to see that Madame Cecile takes her measurements for her court presentation next year, after all, for there is quite a waiting list.
You must not worry over the expense, for I am sure Arthur would frank the entire trip were I to ask him. And you must think of it not as a favor to Charlotte, but rather as one to myself. I assure you I shall delight in taking her about.
Do tell Papa and the girls that I think of them often, and that I wish it were possible to see them also. And you have my leave to tell that awful Mrs. Pangburn that I have waltzed at Almack's, for I quite know it will set up her back and afford you a bit of amusement.
Until we are met again, I remain yr obedient dtr, Nell Kingsley.
She read it carefully to discern if there were anything that might offend Arthur, then decided there was nothing beyond her use of the word Nell. If anything, it was rather vacuous, utterly concealing her pain and loneliness. Sitting back, she felt a small bit of relief—with Charlotte there, she would have an excuse to avoid Lord Townsend. And after what had happened with Longford—not to mention the guilt and loss she felt over Charles—she did not welcome any sort of flirtation, however fashionable Sally Jersey might think it.
CHAPTER 15
It was early and White's was relatively quiet, with the usual gaming over baize-covered tables, the gentlemen who merely conversed, and those who were already more than half-disguised with drink. In a solitary corner, Bellamy Townsend sat hunched over a bottle of port, his handsome countenance marred by his ugly temper. From time to time, his friends Sefton, Alvanley, and Skeffington approached him, trying to draw him into a game of faro, and each was equally rebuffed.
Brummell glanced across to him from his exalted place at the bow-window and suggested loudly that "Poor Bell has either lost his last farthing or been thwarted by a female," at which the drunken viscount lurched to his feet, demanded the betting book, and rashly entered a wager that "Bellamy, Viscount Townsend, shall mount Lady Kingsley before the year is out, taking her away from the Earl of Longford." When done, he read his entry loudly, as though he dared any to dispute it. For a moment, there was relative silence, then a ripple of murmurs, followed by considerable speculation as to the virtue of the lady in question.
"I have it on authority that Longford's Venus is rather unattainable," the Beau said coolly.
"You?" someone snorted. "She rebuffed you?"
"Of course not—but I should take the Jersey's word for it, for she knows everything. She says La Kingsley is an innocent."
"I can take her away from Longford!" Townsend snapped.
"Who says she is Longford's?" Skeffington asked. "First I ever heard of it."
"Much you know," Bell responded sourly. "Saw her at his house myself."
"I hear Longford's going back to the war," someone else spoke up.
"How much you want to wager, Bell?" Freddy Pink-ham demanded, drawing out his money. "Think you must be mistaken."
"A hundred pounds," Bellamy muttered truculently.
"Well now—that don't make it worth the space in the book," Freddy complained.
Leighton, who'd half-observed the wager between casts of the dice, started to rise. "Bell's gone too far, Luce— if you don't mean to queer his lay, I do."
Lucien raked in his winnings, and shook his head. "Best leave it—Bell's got a damnable temper when he's foxed. And if I stand up, the rumor will be counted."
"Damme if I'll stand for it—it isn't right. Not a reason in the world to think—besides, Townsend's outright accusing you, Luce!"
"Don't be a fool—let it die." Lucien's hand snaked out, holding down Leighton's arm. "He'll lose, George."
"Dash it, but I like Lady Kingsley! Feel sorry for her. I mean, who'd blame her if she did put horns on the old gent? But it ain't something I'd bet on."
"No," Lucien muttered dryly.
"A man ought to stand up for a woman's honor, Luce." Then, "Why'd he call her your Venus? You been up to something I don't know? That dancer—Emma Land—pale for you already?"
"No." Lucien shrugged. "Malice—wit—who knows? I told you—I mean to ignore it."
"But if it's not so, it isn't right!"
"Forget it."
"She's not up to his weight at all," Leighton protested. "Gel's an innocent."
The earl favored him with a pained look. "Are you playing or not?"
"How deep am I?"
"About ten thousand."
"Got to come about—blasted run of luck lately." The viscount shook his head in disgust. "Went down about the time you came back, you know."
"My dear George, I never advise playing against me," Lucien murmured mildly. "If you had hoped to win, you ought to have sat down with Bell."
"Fellow's three sheets into it," Leighton snorted.
"Precisely."
"And what am I supposed to make of that?"
"You ought to stick to your cards. Would you care to try faro?"
"Lud, no! You fleeced me the last time! You know what, Luce?—you've got the devil's own luck."
"I hope so—considering where I am going."
"It makes no sense to go, Luce. Just because your father—"
"It has nothing to do with him."
"Diana, then."
"Nor Diana."
"Look, if you'd stay and face 'em down—if you'd do like Rotherfield did and brazen it out—"
"George, I don't give a damn if I am never received again," Lucien cut in coldly. "It was worth the price." He picked up the dice, weighed them in his hand, then cast them onto the table, rolling a seven. "Well worth it."
"Maybe you asked too much of her. I mean, you are a cold fellow, and—"
But Longford's attention had strayed to the door. "Damn!" he muttered under his breath.
"What—?" Leighton blinked, then followed his glance. Perplexed, he frowned. "I don't—oh, young Fenton. Hope he doesn't mean to make a scene."
"No. The one with him—Kingsley."
"Kingsley? But h
e's—"
"The old man's grandson."
"Ten to one, he'll not be amused by the wager."
"Not at all," Lucien agreed grimly.
For a moment, he could see Elinor Kingsley sitting forward in her chair in his saloon, acknowledging that her elderly husband was jealous of the boy, that he was sending him off to war because of it. And as the two young men walked unsteadily, betraying an early start on an evening of drinking, Lucien forsaw disaster. He tossed the dice again, paying no attention to the ivory cubes, telling himself that even if the boy quarreled with Bell, it was none of his affair. Almost idly, he handed the dice to Leighton.
"Well, George?"
"Done up for tonight, I'm afraid."
"Your vouchers are always good with me."
"Heart's not in it. I get tired of losing." Leighton started to rise. "If you want to fleece somebody, take Bell. Think I'll see what Alvanley means to do."
"I can tell you—they are all going to Watier's to sup, provided Prinny is not in attendance there. The coolness between the Beau and our Regent continues, I'm afraid."
"Watier's?"
"Rumor has it that it's to be lobster patties and apricot tarts—and you know what that does to Alvanley," Lucien answered. "They but wait for a coachman to come back to advise them on Prinny's presence."
"Dash it, but you cannot know that! You been sitting here with me, and I did not hear it," Leighton protested.
"Acute hearing is sometimes useful, George."
"One would think the cannon would have dulled it by now," his friend muttered. He looked up. "Oh-oh. Fen-ton's wanting to enter something in the book—no doubt it's a mill or some such thing."
Despite his self-professed disinterest, Lucien half-turned to watch as the attendant brought out the book. Fenton started to write, then said something to the other boy, whose face reddened visibly. Before he could be stopped, Charles Kingsley started across the room toward Bellamy Townsend. And it was obvious that in his present state, he wasn't entirely rational. There was a public and ugly quarrel in the making.
But you could use your position to see he is kept from the fray. It was as though Elinor Kingsley's words echoed in his mind. I could not bear it if he were to perish. I'd not have it said he died because of me.
