Shenanigans in Berkeley Square

by Vivian Roycroft

  So many elements of her life had become so perfect, and so quickly. Franklin hadn’t stopped beaming since the dinner party. Mrs. Lacey smiled and rested her bones at home, writing to her daughter in front of a comfortable fire. And Lissie scampered across the Berkeley Square green to visit every day, or she called on Lissie. And Mr. Rainier, her handsome and excellent Mr. Rainier…

  Her unease returned. Again he peered across the room, a scowl briefly marring his lush lips and heavy eyelids. His forbidding glare seemed to be aimed at his sister, whose only crime appeared to be enjoying a lively chat with her friends. Coralie bit her lip and considered. Perhaps the ladies’ conversation was ill-timed — Lissie performed on the pianoforte, and better manners would have stilled their tongues until she’d completed — but the Maynards’ routs were known to be relaxed.

  It was a puzzle.

  He turned back to her, but his awkward smile didn’t reach his eyes. Some emotion behind his visage hinted of roiling seas, rocky outcroppings, blasted heaths, anger with a vindictive edge, a growing belligerence. “Forgive my distraction, Miss Busche. It’s Hortense. Her occasional lack of discretion can be infuriating.”

  Coralie paused, uncertain what to say. Strange that he should mention his sister’s shortcomings, real or imagined, to her. It hardly seemed an appropriate comment for a courtship — unless of course she’d imagined the entire shining relationship in her fancy. More than ever, something about him, something deeper than merely a surface mood, seemed different and wrong. Anger tinged his proud cheekbones and glinted in his eyes; he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, glanced again at his sister, and his teeth clenched. Coralie’s embarrassment strengthened. The happy chatter faded around her, even Lissie’s Bach prelude, leaving her and Mr. Rainier isolated in a little cocoon that wasn’t nearly as inviting as the one she’d yearned for.

  Was this normal behavior for him? The reaction seemed excessive, considering the smallness of his sister’s offense, if offense it could be called. Of course everyone had a temper, good or bad, but she could detect no lack of discretion in Miss Rainier’s actions, only a lack of patience and tolerance in his. It was doubtful if every brother and sister enjoyed the friendly relationship she had with Franklin. But she’d expected better from Mr. Rainier; in fact, she’d counted on it, counted on her passion being returned by a tolerant, mannerly, elegant man, and the sudden possibility that she’d miscalculated shivered across her arms.

  If this was an example of his true, unguarded behavior, then falling in love from a distance might not have been her soundest idea. Really, how well did she know this man? Not much at all, and the intensity of the anger he displayed toward his inoffensive sister had a frightening edge to its blade. Come to think of it, he’d frowned at Miss Rainier several times over dinner. Had she ever seen him smile at his sister, even once? If he had, she couldn’t remember it, and that was cause for concern, too.

  He shifted again, then without warning smacked his hands down on the chair arms. “Excuse me one moment, Miss Busche. I shan’t be long.” Without waiting for her answer, he rose and stalked across the room, graceful as a furious cat. Inside his black tailcoat, his shoulders bunched and shifted.

  Confused and a little frightened, Coralie gave him a five-step headstart, then she slipped from the Maynards’ music room into the hall and away. Her heart beat an uneven rhythm in her chest and she couldn’t seem to draw a deep, steady breath. Something was horribly wrong. She had to get away from his absorbing presence, at least for a while. She had to think.

  Chapter Eleven

  Thursday, October 28, 1813 (continued)

  Everything had been so wonderful, so nearly perfect, and now it was such a confounded mess.

  Coralie slid into the darkest corner of the Maynards’ library and wished she had the nerve to close the door behind her. But since she didn’t, at least she wouldn’t cry, no matter how her eyes stung and her throat closed. When Mr. Rainier returned from berating his poor sister, he’d find she’d abandoned him. How would he react to the discovery? For some reason, the question made her shiver.

  She’d never seen him angry before. Irritated at George Anson, of course, and impatient when Mr. Culver couldn’t respond to a reasoned argument with a coherent thought, but never truly angry. Before that moment, Mr. Rainier had always shrugged off the trials of life, from being splashed by a careless phaeton to being bowled over by a pack of racing street urchins and smacking his head on the pavement. Never before had more than a thinning of his beautiful lips signaled any negative emotion.

  At least, not when she’d been there to observe it. And that meant, not in public. But as to his behavior in private, away from prying eyes…

  Controlling. His attitude toward his sister Hortense, at least, seemed controlling, as if she weren’t permitted to laugh with her friends for whatever reason. During those blissfully ignorant months when she’d watched him from the shadows, Coralie had never seen him in company with Miss Rainier nor with Miss Lucia, and so she’d never had the opportunity to observe them together, to note the tone or color of their interactions. For that matter, she’d almost never seen him in company with anyone except his men friends. Once or twice at balls, he’d danced when a young lady was put before him. But he’d never gone out of his way to approach one.

  Some men, she knew, exerted strong control over their womenfolk, their sisters and wives. Was “her” Mr. Rainier such a man? She’d seen possession in his eyes while she’d sung; did he believe he could now control her behavior, as well?

  If her fondest dream came true and she married the pretended prince of her imagined fairy tale, would he treat her in that same way? Revulsion forced out her fear. That was unthinkable. Franklin wouldn’t permit it. No, Franklin didn’t run her life, either; she wouldn’t permit it.

  She shook her head hard, fighting again to hold back tears. This wasn’t love. It couldn’t be. Love was a constant, an ever-fixed star that never wavered; all the poets said so. If she’d truly ever been in love with Mr. Rainier, she’d not have been able to leave him no matter the circumstances. But on the contrary, he’d scowled at one of his sisters, Coralie’s hands had trembled, and she’d run. She hadn’t even found the nerve to excuse herself, but instead she’d stolen away like a coward and now she hid on the other side of the house. Her behavior was as shameful as his, and certainly more blameworthy than Miss Rainier’s.

  Returning to the parlor…

  Coralie shivered all over. Something within her argued against such a move and she couldn’t force her feet to take even the first step. Her face felt flushed and cold at the same time, her hands still trembled, and gooseflesh stood out on her arms above her gloves. Strange, how her overreaction to his overreaction outweighed her common sense. Of course he would not hurt her physically; no gentleman in the crowded parlor would permit it, and Lady de Lisle would raise her impressive voice at any man’s first wrong move. Besides, even with the memory of his scowl in her mind’s eye, she couldn’t imagine Mr. Rainier striking anyone; his Romanticism was too highly developed. Perhaps in a duel…

  She shook her head. No, she didn’t suffer from physical fear. Nor did she fear his censure or any rebuke. She simply couldn’t bear the idea of seeing him again, not until she’d considered the situation more fully and understood not only his reaction but hers — not until she understood the emotions pounding within her. Until that happy moment, she needed some distance between them.

  But if she didn’t return to the parlor, what could she do? Other guests, those less musically inclined, gathered in the Maynards’ sitting room and card room. But losing herself in the crowd, beyond any possibility of Mr. Rainier finding her, was simply impossible. Within the confines of the house, wherever she could go, he could follow. And Lady de Lisle wouldn’t be ready to leave before midnight at the earliest.

  Unless she intended to escape into the garden and climb a tree, Coralie was stuck.

  Yes. The garden. Or if she really screwed her courage
to the sticking point, she could sneak out and walk home. Berkeley Square wasn’t far.

  Flickering light seeped through the lone window’s heavy drapes. She crept across the room and slid the damask aside. Glass panes reflected distorted flames, and beyond them a small patio and walled garden, bracketed by massive oil lanterns. Plenty of trees blanketed London’s few stars and many neighboring lights; dozens of huddled shadows, bushes and benches and statues on plinths, where she could spend some quiet time with her thoughts. And a postern gate broke the dark line of the garden wall, a streetlamp lighting the way. All she had to do was open the French doors and step through.

  “Miss Busche?”

  Her heart leaped into her throat and she whirled. His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland, eyed her from the doorway. His pale, penetrating gaze bored into her without blinking, flickered aside to the French doors and the curtain she held open, and snapped back to her. Heat rose in her face and her fingers tightened into fists among the damask.

  She’d loved Mr. Rainier from a distance; this kind, perceptive man had noticed and arranged a relationship formed from her dreams. She’d been frightened of wearing the gold crepe in public; he’d guided the ton’s reaction to her silly gown and silly self, confirming her suitability in their eyes. Every time she’d awakened enough to glance around, His Grace had been a step before her, smoothing, tweaking, preparing. If he hadn’t seen something worthwhile in her distant, flimsy desires, would he have bothered? Was there some positive feeling between her and Mr. Rainier after all, something His Grace had discerned and she couldn’t see at the moment, something worth fighting for?

  Was she letting herself be frightened away too easily? Oh, maddening emotions; if only she could sort out her thoughts.

  “I… I was going…” She couldn’t even put together a decent excuse for trying to rip the drapes from the rods. Coralie loosened her fingers, let the material slide through them and whisper away, then wiped her palms on her puce muslin gown. Thankfully she hadn’t worn the gold crepe that night.

  “Of course,” he said, as if she’d given the most logical reason in the world for hiding in a dark library away from the crowd. With long strides, he crossed the room, pushed the drapes aside, and glanced out, then let them fall. “Wait for me here. I’ll return in a few minutes.”

  And then he was gone, boot heels clicking down the hallway into silence.

  Her heart pounded, filling the void he’d left behind, and again everything shifted within her. She’d been so wrong about Mr. Rainier, mistaking his public manners for private graces, and she knew this man even less. Had she really discovered His Grace’s true motivations? Could she trust him? The Duke of Cumberland had the reputation of the most disreputable rake. They said he’d ruined Dorcas Wentworth-Gower, Anne Kirkhoven, Lydia Townshend, until they’d married beneath their position or simply vanished from London. He’d dallied with Beryl Wentworth, Dorcas’ cousin, but Beryl had married a Fitzwilliam and escaped in time. If falling in love from a distance had been one of her less credible ideas, then trusting a rake and allowing herself to be alone with him had to be even worse.

  But again, she couldn’t force her feet to move. Her original problem remained; she had no desire for company, especially not Mr. Rainier’s company, until she understood herself and the entire situation better. Perhaps a better hiding place, among the bookshelves, beneath the table, or out into the garden, her original idea. Yes, the garden; she’d be safer out there. Suddenly clear-headed, she swept the drapes aside—

  A liveried footman stood outside the French doors, one gloved hand raised to knock. She gasped and jumped back. The drapes swished closed—

  —over His Grace’s laughing glee.

  Wait, what?

  The French doors opened. A sudden rush of London noise, the party in the other wing intermixed with the rattling and clopping of a passing carriage, and the night’s wetness sucked with the lanterns’ smoke into her lungs. Then the drapes slid aside, and the footman with the noble face bowed and shook out a long cloak.

  “Lady Gower is distressed to learn of your headache, Miss Busche,” His Grace murmured. The befrogged livery coat pulled across his shoulders as he held the cloak for her. “Her carriage will be here shortly to convey you safely home.”

  His merest breath emphasized the word safely.

  Again heat flooded her face. She shouldn’t have doubted him. Well, perhaps she should. But she couldn’t. She stepped into the too-long cloak — it had to be his — and let its comforting shelter wrap around her. Nobody would recognize her through those folds. Not even her slippers would show. And never, in the weeks he’d pretended to chase her, had he ever offered the expected flirtation.

  “You don’t really want me.”

  His glance sideways was dry and cunning, his lips curling into a rogue’s smile. But it was too late to fool her. If he was well and truly getting her out of this scrape, then he meant her no harm.

  Before he could speak, she rushed on. “I know you don’t. And so you must answer the obvious question for me.”

  Again his eyes laughed at her and his smile widened. Smug man, clearly he expected her to ask regarding his intentions. She’d surprise him.

  “You must tell me about the woman you do love.”

  For an astonished moment he stared at her, frozen like one of the patio’s statues. Then his smile died and his expression grew haunted. Suddenly it was like looking at a different man, a younger, less confident one, one who’d suffered too many hardships and heartbreaks. The very lines of his handsome face seemed changed, more real, less concocted — she hadn’t even noticed his pretending until it vanished — and in the ridiculous livery coat, a more vulnerable man overall.

  Fog crept through the garden like a shy animal. Behind him, a grey statue seemed to have lost its base and plinth in the fog, the Greek maiden turning to eye them over her sculpted shoulder. The rain began again, splattering from his shoulders, tapping at the cloak above her head. Coralie wished she hadn’t asked. A carriage appeared above the garden wall from behind the house, approached at a trot, then slowed at the postern gate and stopped.

  “She’s smaller than you,” that other man said, “and her hair is lighter.”

  His Grace offered her his arm. She took it and let him lead her to the gate. He opened it, opened the carriage door, set the step for her, and handed her in. And somewhere during those moments, his mask slid back into place, for when he closed the carriage door, it was the practiced smile of His Grace that she last saw.

  The coachman chirruped; the horses clopped away. A dip behind as the carriage lurched forward, the weight of a mounting footman stepping aboard. The duke — the duke, that strange, inexplicable, extraordinary man — rode tiger.

  Seeing her home safely, without risking her reputation by riding inside with her.

  Whoever that woman was, hopefully she would deserve him.

  * * * *

  “Miss Busche!”

  “Hush, Severidge.” Coralie stepped through the front entrance, pushing past the butler, and handed the damp cloak back outside to the waiting footman. With the best composure she could manage, she looked into those pale eyes and said, “Please thank Lady Gower again for me. Her kindness in ensuring I arrived home safely is very much appreciated. Do please tell her.”

  The footman bowed, perfectly correct. The rain splattered on the pavement behind him. The liveried coat couldn’t get any wetter. “I will, miss. Good night, and we hope you’re better soon.”

  His gaze held hers, unrelenting, until Severidge closed the door between them.

  “Coralie, dear?” Mrs. Lacey’s trembling voice, from the top of the stairs. “Goodness, you’re home early. Is something wrong?”

  And the tears returned, tightening her throat. Coralie felt her face ripple beneath their threat. She gathered her skirts and ran up the stairs, away from Severidge’s questioning stare and into Mrs. Lacey’s open arms as her self-control broke.

  Chapter Twelv
e

  Thursday, October 28, 1813 (continued)

  Cold silence filled the walls of Rainier’s home.

  The butler and two footmen bustled about, lighting the library candles, poking the fire, setting out the decanter. His early return broke his usual custom, and the footmen peered at him sideways as they worked. At least the butler remembered proper decorum.

  Right. Decorum. That element of a properly run household which dictated no one could speak to him, the master thereof, beyond the barest minimum of social interchanges. Good morning, sir. How are you today? Nothing meaningful.

  Nothing real.

  “That’s fine.” The sooner they left him to his miserable thoughts, the better. “I shan’t need you further tonight.”

  But after the door closed behind them, after the room had fallen still, Rainier felt no relief. Only the fire crackled, a gentle rustling in the background of his mind. No one shared the space with him. No one smiled at him with attentive eyes.

  No one spoke with him.

  Rows of books lined the mahogany shelves: an elegant light blue leather binding for poetry, green for modern literature, red for the ancient classics, plain brown for tomes of reference, a special shade of orangey yellow especially reserved for his collection of Shakespeare’s folios. His book buyer had found rare works from all over the known world, a Chinese romance written by a courtesan, long soulful diatribes translated from original Russian poetry, a titillating Indian how-to manual for physical pleasures. He’d boasted for years that his library was the most complete in London; no one could possibly remain bored within its walls.

  He’d been stunned when he’d returned from berating Hortense — as discreetly as he could manage, out in the hall, away from the crowd, and ignoring her preening, victorious smile. And while he’d been gone, Miss Busche had vanished.