“If you do not wish anyone to know about the incident, then I suggest you do not speak of it. Even as a point of reference.”
“I want to forget it ever happened. I don’t even want to acknowledge I know you.”
“Well, it’s a bit late for that, is it not? By addressing me by name, you’ve just told an entire roomful of London Society that we are acquainted. Not only know me, but know me well. As I have just agreed to see you … alone. And at your request, I might add.”
Randall stood silent. She was right. It had been a foolish maneuver on his part.
“By kissing me, you’ve made yourself quite well-known to me. I could hardly ignore you, could I?” Larissa’s gaze was hard.
“I think not. Well, you can take satisfaction in knowing it will never happen again.”
“No?” she squeaked. Almost as if she were disappointed.
“No,” he repeated, his voice firm.
“Was it so very improper?” Her eyes held him riveted. Randall knew he could not allow himself to be swayed by her innocent appearance. He, more than anyone, should know better.
She’d told him that she had grown up in the confines of a girls’ seminary. He wondered if it was true. Surely, they must have taught more than reading and writing, something about the social graces. After all, she had known how to dance.
“No, it is not proper for a man to kiss a woman in public—even if they happen to be married to each other. It’s blatant, outrageous behavior. Wholly unsuitable. That woman sitting across from us, Mrs. Briggs, drove me into doing something rash.” He swallowed hard. Watching her for a moment longer, he inhaled her scent, fresh and fragrant. He remembered the sweet taste of her full lips. Now they were quite alone in the garden and at that moment he found her very desirable.
“Oh.” was Larissa’s only comment. How could she tell him she had enjoyed it? He had been on her thoughts since they had parted. A single day had not passed when she did not think of him. “It is permitted to partake in such activities when alone, then?” She stared up at him, looking for guidance.
Sir Randall tugged at the inside of his cravat with a finger. “I shouldn’t even be speaking to you of such things.”
“How shall I ever understand if I am not told?” she replied with a hint of frustration.
“What I mean to say is, I should not be the one informing you of subjects of such a personal and delicate nature,” Sir Randall said in his own defense. “I hope you enjoy your Season, for I do not expect we shall meet again.” With those parting words, he sketched a bow and left.
Larissa watched Sir Randall reenter the room and disappear into the crowd. Sir Randall Trent was the last person she had expected to see. He had been traveling to see his uncle, if she was not mistaken, and London had never been mentioned as far as she could recall.
Still, he was here. Sharing the same city, sharing the same ballroom, and sharing the same memory. Only he wanted nothing more to do with her. If he would not be willing to indulge her, she would find someone who would.
Larissa strolled into the room, tapping the end of her folded fan on her fingertips. He wasn’t the only man around. She surveyed the room, there were dozens. She liked what she had felt with Sir Randall when he kissed her and decided she’d have more.
Indeed, there would be no stopping her.
Randall kept company with his uncle between the next several sets. As anticipated, there was no lack of interest in Rushton. What did surprise him was his uncle’s stamina, participating in every dance. Randall eagerly anticipated the approaching waltz, the waltz he planned to share with Lady Dorothea.
His attention drifted from the languorous Lady Dorothea, whom he suspected might be striking an attitude for his benefit, and returned to Larissa. Observing the surrounding throng, Randall saw she did not lack attention, for her popularity appeared to grow with every passing minute.
Randall had broached the dance floor and now stood at Lady Dorothea’s side. No more thoughts of Larissa, he told himself, for Lady Dorothea was more to his taste. Refined, subdued, and above all, suitable.
With a smile, he tucked her kid-gloved hand into the crook of his arm and led her to the dance floor. During their dance, while he held her close in his arms, guiding her around the floor, he further contemplated his partner. He thought that surely, by now, Lady Dorothea would have married. Sir Randall added to her list of engaging qualities, charm, delightful company, and accomplished dancing.
Knowing he would be expected to call on the morrow, the last thing he wanted to do was send a footman with his card. That was not the message he wanted to relay. Randall was interested, he repeatedly told himself, deeply interested in Lady Dorothea.
He took his commitment to his Uncle Cyrus seriously and could not abandon him while he took the time to pay a call on his latest love interest. After all, Randall was not the one in London to find a wife.
Strangely enough, he did not find the idea of marriage disturbing in the least, and if Lady Dorothea filled that position, so much the better. She was a girl who knew her place, knew how to act properly. He would ultimately be better off with her.
It was too early to tell whether Lady Dorothea adequately filled his requirements for a wife and he looked forward to exploring that avenue. If he had the time, that is. At the present, he did not. He had to attend to Uncle Cyrus.
Randall felt he should mention his inability to pay her proper attention, and that he would rectify the situation once matters with his uncle sorted themselves out.
“Lady Dorothea, I would love to take you on a drive tomorrow.” Randall glanced across the room to his uncle.
“Then, pray tell, why don’t you?” Dorothea directed her eyes to Randall. They were breathtaking, wide, celestial blue eyes framed by long, lovely lashes.
“To tell the truth, I am not here to indulge myself. I am to accompany my uncle.”
“Your uncle? And who is your uncle?”
“The Earl of Rushton.”
“I see,” Dorothea replied.
“He is depending on me. I cannot shirk my responsibility to him.” It didn’t seem to make a difference to her that he had an earl for an uncle. Gads, half the room must have earls for uncles, if not dukes.
“I understand. Nor would I even ask it of you.” She gave a wistful sigh and a longing look. “How dutiful you are, Sir Randall. It is such an honorable quality.”
“Tomorrow, I shall do my utmost to pay a call.”
“Oh, please do.” Lady Dorothea stared at Randall with her wide eyes. “But, I would understand completely if you cannot find the time to do so. One cannot fault a dutiful gentleman.”
“I am sure this is not the last we shall meet.”
“I am sure you are correct.” The corners of her rosebud lips curved up. She bestowed upon Randall the most perfect smile he had ever seen, charming him to the tips of his dancing slippers.
Chapter Eight
The following day, Randall accompanied Uncle Cyrus on his morning calls, thus preventing him from making his own call on Lady Dorothea. Sending a card did not properly convey his feelings, so he did the next best thing—sent a flower bouquet with a personal note.
The lightness in Randall’s step abated once he and his uncle stepped into the Curzon Street townhouse, residence of Miss Larissa Quinn and her aunt. To Randall’s great relief, they found the occupants not at home. Before leaving, Rushton left his calling card with the butler.
Once inside the carriage, Randall could not prevent the image of Larissa from flickering into his mind, and it did so with astounding ease. She had looked lovely last night, her golden hair pulled atop her head, curled tendrils framing her face, teasing him to brush them back. The excited look in her eyes was the look of an innocent who was experiencing the wonder of her first lavish social affair. He had not seen an expression like that in years.
Randall admitted he felt an attraction to her, but in the next lucid thought, he quickly dismissed the idea of keeping her acqu
aintance. However, he did wonder what it would have been like to hold her in his arms and dance.
“I’m afraid you’ve been right all along, my dear boy,” Rushton said, breaking the silence.
“Right? About what, Uncle?”
“Miss Quinn, much too young.” Rushton shrugged. “Whatever would I do with such loveliness?”
Randall had a few ideas and thought it best to keep them to himself. Although he considered her troublesome, Larissa conjured up feelings in him, feelings best left hidden. He wanted to avoid all thought of her and concentrated on Lady Dorothea to make him forget Larissa. He hoped Dorothea would make him forget Larissa.
Just one week later, Randall had the pleasure of sleeping late. It was now scarcely after one in the afternoon. He hadn’t risen much later than that in this last week of nonstop parties and balls. He and his uncle had seen the dawn of each new day arrive. Most days since their arrival, Rushton had insisted his nephew accompany him on his round of morning calls that more likely than not seemed to stretch into the late afternoon. Today he was fortunate enough to breakfast at his leisure.
He sat at the table enjoying his coffee and skimming the headlines of the morning paper when his Uncle Cyrus bounded in. “I’ve found her! I’ve found her!” Rushton exclaimed. He fairly pranced on the tips of his toes around the length of the long breakfast table with delight. “She is the one! She is the light of my life! The very breath in my body!”
“Already?” Randall folded the paper and set it aside. “Albeit you’ve been searching day and night. Must have danced with every lady in town by now.”
“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve been saying? I said I have found her, my boy!”
“I share your happiness, Uncle. Who is she, pray tell?”
“The Dowager Viscountess Claiborne,” his love struck uncle crooned.
The sparkle in Rushton’s eyes alluded to the amatory pounding of his heart. Smitten. He was more than smitten, Randall decided. Quite taken, indeed.
“I am to see her tomorrow night at the ball after the opera.” Rushton took hold of his nephew’s shoulders. “I need to ask a great favor of you, my boy.”
Wary by instinct, Randall proceeded with reluctance. “What is it you wish me to do?”
“My angel will only spend time with me if I can assure her ward has a suitable escort.” Rushton looked hopefully at his nephew.
“Oh, no.” Randall feared what might come next.
“It is only for the ball that follows the opera. It is such a short while.” Rushton stared directly into Randall’s eyes. “I’ve already promised.”
“Tell me you didn’t,” Randall said, knowing full well his uncle already had. Worse than having to attend the Season was being forced to tolerate some maid on her third season.
“I knew I could count on you, my boy,” Rushton crowed with delight. “I’m off to bed,” he announced. “I’m going to need my beauty sleep. Haven’t had much lately.” He gave a burst of laughter and rocked his head. “If I can fall asleep that is.” With that, he gave a knowing wink and spun with delight out of the room.
Randall smiled, amused at the sight of his uncle. Then all of a sudden he realized, now that Rushton had found his next countess, his time constraints would ease. Uncle Cyrus’ good fortune was Randall’s good fortune as well. He could use the phaeton to take Lady Dorothea for a drive in Hyde Park that very afternoon. He wasted no time in dispatching a note to her.
“I say, Miss Larissa, is that not a new bonnet?” She and Lord Fenton Harding had arrived just at the height of the fashionable hour at Hyde Park. Lord Fenton gave the horses their heads to walk along the busy, well-traveled path.
Larissa peeked out at him from beneath the brim. “Why yes, it is new. Do you like it?” She found it tedious that Lord Fenton touched only upon the most correct subjects for a lady’s discussion. Ladies’ fashions, last night’s social gatherings and the latest on dit.
“It’s quite fetching,” he complimented in his proper manner. Perhaps it was too proper.
“Thank you,” she replied. What Larissa found fetching was Lord Fenton’s smile.
“Miss Larissa, did you happen to take notice of Miss Uppington-Styles last evening?”
“Miss Uppington-Styles?” Larissa tilted her head in quizzical contemplation, holding the loose ribbons from her bonnet. She caught Lord Fenton’s fine profile as he awaited his answer.
His aristocratic nose, while slender, was not sharp. His chin fell to a nice point from a strong, wide jaw. She regarded how his slender yet strong hands handled the reins with a gentle firmness. She could just as easily imagine the way in which his long, tapered fingers would hold her fast and deliver a gentle touch or a warm caress.
How much longer did she have to wait? She wanted him to take her hand into his and press it. She wanted him to pull her into his arms and kiss her breathless, just as Sir Randall had.
“Miss Larissa?”
Larissa found herself gazing into Lord Fenton’s face. “I am sorry, my lord. We were speaking of Miss Uppington-Styles, were we not?”
“Yes, that’s right.” He gave a jovial social laugh. “She wore a simply dazzling raspberry-colored gown.”
“Raspberry? Are you sure?”
“I believe so. Too purple to be scarlet, and too red to be violet. I thought raspberry a most apt description.”
“What a brilliant observation,” Larissa gushed, doing her best London Miss imitation.
Lord Fenton continued to speak while he and Larissa acknowledged other fashionable guests in passing carriages. Larissa spied a somewhat familiar gig, not too far off in the distance. It took a gentle curve, approaching from the opposite direction, coming toward them. The dark green phaeton with a fine yellow stripe finally drew close enough for her to see the passengers.
Sir Randall Trent recognized Larissa Quinn at once and drew back on the ribbons, pulling his team to a sliding and disruptive halt. The horses neighed, shaking their heads in protest. After they settled and stood quiet an awkward moment of silence ensued.
“I would not wish to speak out of place,” Larissa began, her voice, not much more than a whisper, was meant for her escort and not for Randall. “However, I do believe someone must say something.”
It was only after Larissa spoke that Randall realized both transports stood facing one another at a standstill, caught in an uncomfortable social circumstance.
“I’m afraid I do not know the proper order of introducing a younger son of a duke to a baronet.” Larissa’s attention darted from Fenton to Randall.
“Nearly any titled person ranks above a baronet,” came the soft reminder next to her.
Larissa gave an awkward smile. “Then, Lord Fenton, may I present Sir Randall Trent. Sir Randall, Lord Fenton Harding.”
The men tipped their hats and exchanged gracious social pleasantries. All of it properly done. All of it polite and yet very staged.
Randall observed the awkward silence that followed. Larissa and Lord Fenton stared at him. He realized he had not performed the same introductions for Lady Dorothea.
“Would you be so kind, Sir Randall, as to introduce your guest?” Lord Fenton drawled.
Randall’s head snapped toward Lady Dorothea who remained quiet. “Why, yes of course,” he faltered. “Lady Dorothea Brookhurst, may I present Lord Fenton Hartley.”
Lord Fenton gave a chuckle. “No, no, you’ve quite mistaken, Sir Randall. It’s Harding.”
Randall feigned an amused chuckle of his own, joining Lord Fenton. “Yes, of course. Lord Fenton … Harding and Miss Larissa Quinn. I did get that right, didn’t I?”
“Spot on,” Lord Fenton exclaimed with enthusiasm.
Lady Dorothea enunciated a polite “How do you do.” to each and said nothing more.
“Well, hate to run,” Lord Fenton interjected, “but I fear we must. Good day to you.”
“You as well,” Randall bid, taking up his ribbons. “Enjoy the remainder of your drive.”
Randall signaled his horses to move. He rested his elbows on his knees and pondered. Why on earth couldn’t Larissa at least have taken an interest in a man? A real man. Harding wasn’t a man, he was a confounded piece of fluff. Randall did not care. He need not concern himself with her any longer. Larissa was out of his life for good.
Randall felt the touch on his leg. It was the pink gloved hand of Lady Dorothea. Gads, he had nearly forgotten her again. Bumping into Larissa had distracted him. What a cad he was.
He looked down the tunnel of Lady Dorothea’s poke bonnet. Large blue eyes framed by full lashes gazed back at him, drawing every bit of his attention, rendering him speechless.
“Are you quite all right, Sir Randall?”
Randall sighed. She was all he needed in a wife—considerate and beautiful, and she had an uncanny ability to make him forget all about Larissa.
Chapter Nine
“I beg your pardon, Sir Randall,” Laurie interrupted.
Randall looked up from his book. “Yes, Laurie, what is it?”
The butler had a regal air about him. “His lordship wishes me to remind you of the opera performance you will be attending this evening.”
“I’d be hard pressed to forget it.” Randall cracked a smile. “Uncle Cyrus has been talking of nothing but the opera.”
“I hadn’t realized my lord was overly fond of the theater, sir.”
Randall rested the book on his chest. “I believe it is a lady who has caught his interest.”
Laurie’s left eyebrow lifted, while keeping his austere facial expression intact.
“Well, I think enough said, really.” Randall glanced at the page to find where he had left off. “Thank you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Still seated, Randall noted Laurie had not left. “Is there something else?”
“I believe it was the earl’s intention, sir, to have you ready yourself for this evening’s festivities,” Laurie continued in a disapproving tone.
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