A Season for Love

by Blair Bancroft

  In truth, it was no wonder the viscount was a dash spoiled. Heir to an earldom and possessed of a fortune from a great-uncle who had made good use of his many years working for the John Company, Tony Norville had no responsibilities beyond a minor manor that seemed quite capable of running itself. Nothing to do but while away the hours, confident it would be many long years before he stepped into his father’s shoes and was expected to take his seat in the House of Lords.

  It was a life he seldom questioned. Except, some years previously, when he had informed his father of his wish to buy a commission in the same regiment as his sister’s husband and had received the sharpest setdown of his overindulged life. After that, he had dedicated himself even more strongly to the frivolous life, which suited him, he assured himself. Yet there were times . . . like tonight . . .

  As he thought of the tedious hours just passed with a variety of relations he had not seen in years, nor wished to see again, Viscount Frayne leaned back still farther into one of the duke’s black leather wingchairs, settled his feet more comfortably on a matching upholstered footstool, and basked in the soft warmth of the crackling fire. Heaven! He was free at last from the inane chatter, the utter ennui. If he had not felt obligated to support poor Jen through this ordeal, it would have taken one of Boney’s regiments to drag him to Longville House tonight. Yet he had done rather well, he thought, a somewhat cynical smile flitting across his classically handsome face. After all, handling delicate social situations was his forte, was it not? But as soon as the horde of relatives began to take their leave, he had considered himself freed from duty, escaping with neat alacrity to the privacy of Longville’s bookroom.

  Tony Norville savored the duke’s fine brandy and indulged in an unaccustomed moment of fraternal pride. As sisters went, Jen was top o’ the trees. He lifted his brandy in a silent toast. Jen was a brave one, taking on the Duke of Longville. Truthfully, not something he would have expected of her. Not the type to marry for title or wealth was Jenny Norville Wharton. Married the first time for love, hadn’t she? Run off with a younger son, followed the drum. To hell and back, Tony suspected, though Jen seldom spoke of her life on the Peninsula. So perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised she was willing to marry Longville. Past time she was sensible. Feathering her nest, some were calling it, but why shouldn’t she live in comfort if she could, as well as providing little Susan with a secure position at the top of the ton?

  With the brandy snifter tilted to his lips, Tony’s fingers froze around the glass. The tiniest susurration had reached his ears, a sound barely heard above the hiss and crackle of the fire. Was he no longer alone? Damn and blast! Though his friends would never believe it, Viscount Frayne, that peripatetic leader of the ton, truly had moments when he wanted to be alone. And this, by God, was one of them.

  His chair was tall, the wings wide; his black pantaloons and shiny black shoes, stretched out on the padded stool, faced the fireplace and were not visible to someone just entering the room. Hopefully, whoever it was, seeing the room empty, would simply go away.

  Movement caught his eye. Tony—also termed Frayne the Unflappable—nearly dropped his brandy. He blinked, half convinced he had fallen asleep. A vision, a veritable vision filled his gaze. Vividly illuminated by the light of a single candle clutched in the young woman’s hand was an exquisitely lovely face framed in golden blonde curls that fell in profusion over her shoulders and down her back. Only when he finally lowered his eyes to examine the rest of her did he discover she was incongruously clad in a robe of faded blue, with a few inches of white cotton nightwear peeking out from beneath the hem and a pair of houseslippers so well worn Tony doubted the church’s charity box would accept them as a castoff.

  A mystery. The viscount’s ennui evaporated on the instant. The girl might be poorly dressed, but she was no maid, of that he was certain. For one thing, no maid would dare enter the Duke of Longville’s bookroom in the wee hours of the morning. And yet the alternative was too shocking, even for Longville. The duke couldn’t be sporting a mistress in his own townhouse on the eve of his wedding. Surely not.

  In a faded blue robe and ragged slippers? Never. The duke’s sense of consequence wouldn’t allow it. Yet here she was, every gorgeous unprotected inch of her.

  Tony’s eyes gleamed. Never let it be said a Norville botched such a delicious opportunity.

  Her candle was currently wavering down near the floor as the young lady attempted to examine the books on one of the lower shelves along the far wall. Her knees were bent nearly double. Perhaps he should wait until she was in a less awkward position . . .

  His lips curled in anticipation. No. It was time. Let the fun begin.

  “May I help you find something?” Viscount Frayne inquired. Politely.

  The ethereally beautiful young lady shrieked, dropped the book she had just picked up, and toppled with a soft thud onto her nicely rounded derrière. Exactly the opening Tony wanted. He was still congratulating himself as he ambled across the room to the bookcase where the young lady sat upon the carpet, glaring up at him in high dudgeon.

  “My abject apologies, my dear,” he said, “but I felt I must find some means of making my presence known.” He offered his most charming smile, the one that brought him instant absolution from society hostesses whenever he managed to be late or totally forgot an engagement. “I suppose I might simply have cleared my throat, but if I had stood up, suddenly looming over you, you might have been frightened quite out of your wits.” The viscount held out his hand. “Come. Please allow me to help you up.”

  Still glaring, the vision of loveliness ignored him, scrambling to her feet on her own. Fortunately, in a bit of artful maneuvering, she managed to keep her candle from burning a hole in either the carpet, a book, or herself. “I beg your pardon,” she declared stiffly. “If I had had any notion someone was here, I would not have entered. “Goodnight.” She proffered a regal nod and took a step toward the door.

  With an agile sidestep, Tony moved in front of her. “Please,” the viscount coaxed. “Have you never wished to have a thoroughly unacceptable conversation with a stranger in the middle of the night? Where is your sense of adventure, my dear lady? Here I was, bored to flinders, and then—quite miraculously—you appeared before me. I am certain Fate has determined that we should meet, and that your forfeit for entering the duke’s library in your robe and slippers must be a few moments of your time.”

  Ah . . . the look she aimed at him was lethal. If suspicion were a sword, he would already lie bleeding upon the carpet.

  “Very well,” Tony conceded, “we will remain anonymous, you and I. A mystery to each other for all eternity. Will that concession procure a few bon mots between us? Pray sit with me for five minutes. After all, there are people just outside the door who will come bursting in at the slightest sound of a scream.”

  “Then where are they?” the young lady demanded. “For I am certain I shrieked quite loudly when you first spoke to me.”

  “A most ladylike shriek,” he assured her. “You would have to do better than that, I fear.”

  “You are outrageous.”

  “Indeed,” he agreed blandly. “M’lady?” With more uncertainty that Tony Norville cared to admit, he waved a hand toward the wingchair opposite the one in which he had been sitting. “I take it you were having difficulty sleeping. Perhaps a glass of ratafia or some sherry?”

  A swift refusal, but she accepted his offer of a chair, making no further effort to run away. Gingerly, the vision of loveliness sat on the edge of the black leather, hands folded primly in her lap. If this girl were the duke’s latest indiscretion, Tony thought, Longville’s taste in women had changed dramatically.

  “I did not see you at the party tonight,” he ventured.

  “I was not expected,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on her clasped fingers, “nor did I have the proper clothes.”

  A guest then. But who would dare to come to Longville House uninvited? “Do you make a long stay in
London?”

  Startled eyes looked up to meet his. “Oh, no,” she told him. “I expect to return straightway.”

  “Might I inquire to where?”

  “If I told you, I would be breaking our agreement to anonymity,” she told him.

  Touché. Clever little chit. “May I ask when you arrived in London?” Tony countered smoothly.

  “This evening.”

  “And you intend to return immediately, with the Season just beginning? Surely you would not deny us the pleasure of the company of such a beautiful young woman?”

  “You mistake my situation, sir. I do not expect to have a Season.”

  “I think not,” the viscount said in a tone so gentle his friends would not have believed it possible. “For all our vows of anonymity, I think there is only one person you could possibly be.”

  “Tell me about the Season,” she said, with the obvious intent of changing the subject. “Tell me what I shall be missing. Convince me that I should care.”

  Tony searched the lovely face for any hint that she truly wanted an answer, that she was not simply making an effort to distract him. The bookroom was full of shadows, but he recognized her fine amber eyes, currently as solemn as the duke’s own. Her skin, however, was her mother’s—classic English porcelain with a blush of rose upon her cheeks, which might have been natural or was perhaps the result of her unexpected encounter with a stranger while en déshabillé. Her lips were full, inviting. Perfect. And that glorious golden hair—hair that should never be cut, no matter how out of fashion. Inwardly, he sighed. If she was who he thought she was, he was about to become her uncle. Bloody hell!

  “Surely you love beautiful clothes, music, dancing?” Tony asked. “The glitter of the ton’s finest enjoying themselves—”

  “While our soldiers are about to go back to war?”

  The viscount’s guilt and frustration came sweeping back, as if his desire to join the Royal Fusiliers were only yesterday. Blasted chit, to have hit on the one thing about which he could not be blasé.

  “Don’t you know society suffers in silence?” the viscount said, maintaining his bland social façade only with considerable effort. “During all the years of war Papas played cards for high stakes to avoid contemplating the reality of Younger Sons baking in the Spanish heat. Mamas and Sisters ran from one entertainment to the next. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think about John or Henry or George who may be on the next casualty list.”

  “And you?” she asked, her seemingly simple question pinning him to the wingchair like a butterfly to a collector’s case.

  They were supposed to be talking about her. Not him. He could not possibly be having this extraordinary anonymous conversation in Longville’s library.

  “I am an only son,” Tony replied without inflection. “And my sister’s husband died at Badajoz. The reality of war was too close for my family to ignore. My father would not countenance my going.” He managed a wry smile. “In truth, I find the Season I am touting to you sadly flat. Season after Season, I might add. But I am stuck with it, so I try to make the best of a frequently boring burden. As you should,” he emphasized, returning abruptly to their original topic.

  He had to give her credit, Tony thought. She was sensitive enough to realize he had said all he intended to say on the subject of the military. More, in fact, that he had ever said to anyone before.

  “Very well,” she agreed briskly, “I concede that beautiful clothes and glittering people have a certain fascination, particularly to one who has been mewed up in the country for years. What activities do you recommend during the Season?”

  Mewed up in the country for years. Oh, yes, she had to be Longville’s long-lost daughter.

  “In addition to the routs, balls, picnics, and musicales, most enjoy the opera, theater, concerts, drives in the park, visiting with friends, particularly those who come to town only during the Season.”

  She did not seem impressed. “Are you a member of the Four-Horse Club?” she demanded.

  “Truthfully, I find their costume ridiculous,” Tony admitted. “Too embarrassing by half to don a waistcoat of such shockingly bad taste, not to mention plush breeches. Plush breeches,” he reiterated in accents of loathing, “with rosettes, and a driving coat with buttons the size of butter plates. And all that only to drive a four-horse team up a hill and back down. Reminds me of that rhyme about the Duke of York.”

  His companion emitted an unladylike chortle. “Oh, you mean that silly children’s song about the Noble Duke of York and ten thousand men going up the hill, then down again?”

  “Exactly.” For a fleeting moment an impish grin lit his companion’s features. Tony found it delightful.

  “Do you drive a curricle?” she asked.

  “If you stay in town, I shall give you a ride in it,” he promised.

  Obviously disconcerted, she glanced down. “I think I should like that,” she admitted softly. “It would be very fine to ride in the park. I can remember my fa—” She broke off. “But I do not think I will be here even for a whole day.” She raised her eyes, cocked her head to one side, golden curls gleaming against the black leather. “Yet I will admit that you have half-convinced me that for many people a Season has its purpose. As for myself . . . I believe I should like the theater and the opera. I would also like to dance,” she added wistfully, “and see all the beautiful gowns.” The unknown young lady’s chin firmed; her fine amber eyes took on a militant glint. “But I will not place myself on the Marriage Mart as I am not in search of a husband.”

  “You disapprove of the Marriage Mart?” Tony inquired mildly, finding his mysterious companion delightfully young and naive.

  “Yes,” she responded directly. “I have long thought it quite terrible that young women are paraded about like horses at Tattersall’s. Or, worse yet, geese at a fair. For I think gentleman frequently choose a horse with more care than a wife.”

  Tony could only gape at her, as he himself had been known to make the exact same comment; once, unfortunately, just prior to the marriage of a good friend. A wedding which had resulted in as much disaster as the Viscount Frayne had predicted it would.

  So his anonymous companion was as cynical about marriage as he himself. An odd opinion for one so young.

  Not if she was Longville’s daughter. In truth, with her background, it was a wonder she had not screamed like a banshee when he spoke to her, resulting in the awkward situation of the duke being forced to call out his future brother-in-law. Or, worse yet, in an instant betrothal.

  He should have stayed hidden in the confines of the great black wingchair. With his mouth firmly closed and his hands over his eyes. Instead, here he was—Anthony Norville, Viscount Frayne—idiot extraordinaire, having a highly questionable tête-à-tête with what he feared was his host’s only child.

  “Oh, there you are!” Lady Eugenia Norville Wharton came sailing through the door of the bookroom on her usual whirl of energy, despite the lateness of the hour. “For shame, Tony, to hide in here when I have run my voice to a thread bidding every last one of the family goodbye. You might have helped— Goodness gracious, who is this?” she ended, voice rising in surprise.

  With lazy grace, Tony rose to his feet. “My apologies, Jen,” he told his sister, “but I am unable to make introductions. You see, we agreed on anonymity,” he confided, “as the lady is not exactly dressed—”

  “I should say she isn’t,” Jenny Wharton interrupted in ominous accents, every tale of her intended’s proclivities rushing through her mind in a torrent so shocking, her customary good sense disintegrated on the spot. “Well, girl, speak up. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  “Jen!” Tony warned.

  The young lady in nightgown, robe, and slippers, rose to her feet with such regal grace that Viscount Frayne knew his guess had been correct. This was not good. But he was given no opportunity to act as mediator, for his anonymous companion had already launched into speech.

  �
�You are Lady Eugenia, Longville’s betrothed?” she asked stonily.

  “I am.”

  “Then I am not at all surprised by your error. Think how many times in future you may encounter true dem-reps scattered about your bookroom. I wish you joy of him, my lady. But I doubt you shall have it.”

  As an exit line, it was superb. Mrs. Siddons herself could not have done better, Tony thought. But Jen, poor Jen. He had not realized how much the on dits about Longville had affected her. And now, he was quite certain his sister had made an enemy of her future step-daughter, one whose come-out she would be expected to arrange. Jenny was going to need every ounce of the courage that had gotten her through the long marches in Portugal and Spain and through the birth of a child in a hovel in a village far from home.

  The bookroom door slammed with all the vigor of an eighteen-year-old arm and an eighteen-year-old intellect that had not yet learned discretion. A book, abandoned on a sidetable near the door, teetered and slid to the floor.

  “Jen, my dear,” said Tony Norville, shaking his head, “I fear you have just made a sad mistake.”

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Three

  Caroline collapsed onto her bed’s blue velvet coverlet, burying her face in the soft rumpled folds. All she had wanted was a book to while away the sleepless hours until she could meet with her father. Instead, she had met the Enemy . . . and quite the most handsome and charming man she had ever been privileged to see. And, to her eternal mortification, she had managed to disgrace herself before them both. Even her poor dear mama, who had never failed to excoriate the ton and all it stood for, would have been shocked by her conduct.