Miss Quinn's Quandary

by Shirley Marks

“I’m not sure how to go about this or if you are the correct person I should approach on this matter.” She became very still.

  “Please sit down,” he instructed. Larissa perched on the edge of the sofa. “If this is such an unpleasant matter, why don’t you come directly to the point then.”

  Larissa didn’t look disturbed as much as she seemed preoccupied. She never looked up to meet his gaze. She sat silent for a moment before starting. “I tried to persuade Lord Fenton to kiss me tonight.”

  “What?” Randall shot forward, gripping the arms of his chair. How would she allow that whey-faced cawker such liberties?

  “I find him quite agreeable,” she said in all honesty. “I thought I might enjoy kissing him.”

  “And you didn’t?” It almost pleased Randall to hear her admit it.

  “But we never did kiss, not really. I had such hope for him.” She sighed, disappointed. “He took me in his arms and … it wasn’t at all similar to when you kissed me.”

  Randall felt his eyes grow wide. “Is this what it’s all about, then? Vauxhall Gardens? I must remind you that—”

  “I thought that when a man kissed a woman it should feel—” She still could not meet his gaze, and with good reason. Such an unseemly topic of conversation between the sexes.

  “Any real gentleman would not take advantage of a lady,” Randall mumbled none too quietly.

  “Nor would any lady put herself in that position if she did not wish him to attempt such a maneuver.” Larissa did meet his eyes for a brief moment. “If I am to understand correctly.”

  “Exactly how many men have you gone about taking this action?” Randall reeled in disbelief.

  “It is not every gentleman. Aunt Ivy says that one must pick and choose. So I have entertained many men during the early part of my Season and decided that I would not have any of them.”

  “Exactly—” He cleared his throat. “Exactly how many men have you turned away?”

  “A few,” she answered, then reconsidered. “Perhaps several more than that.” Larissa caught her bottom lip with her teeth. She ticked off her fingers, turning her eyes toward the ceiling in contemplation. “I should think not more than ….”

  “Good lord!” Randall sighed in exasperation and rubbed his now throbbing forehead.

  “I believe my standards must be quite high for me to find so many men unsatisfactory.” She began to list them. “Sir Thomas White was just before Lord Fenton …”

  “Please—” He silenced her with a raised hand. “No names. Nor do I wish to hear any details. You cannot play fast and loose with every gentleman that comes along.”

  “It is only Lord Fenton I wished to kiss me, not any of the others,” she said in exasperation to Randall, as if he were the one who had done something wrong.

  “I cannot tell you how reassuring that is. I’m sure your aunt will have plenty to say about this when she returns,” he warned. “Do remember to tell her all this happened before you were left in my care.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”

  “Upset?” Randall scoffed. Perhaps it was not Larissa’s fault as much as it was her aunt’s. To encourage her niece to seek the attention of so many men was irresponsible—maddening—and if he weren’t so concerned perhaps it would not bother him to this extent.

  His uncle’s new countess-bride should have known better than to instruct Larissa to cast out so many lures. It was not in the best interests of the girl. Not in her best interests at all.

  He leaned back in his chair and rubbed the piercing ache in the center of his forehead. Randall’s first impulse was to go out for some fresh air. The next was to have a strong drink.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Randall found a glass waiting for him at Brook’s. Easing into one of the many leather wingback chairs, he swallowed the remainder of the brandy and ordered another.

  Uncle Cyrus and his new bride had not been gone half a day before Randall had lost control. Lost it? He never had it. He was surrounded by forward females. Larissa had not been the only one. There had also been Lady Dorothea earlier this evening.

  How had he let himself get talked into speaking to her mother? He was attracted to Dorothea. He had been thinking about marriage, but paying his addresses—now that he had a chance to think about it … he wasn’t sure now was the time. Especially since it was at her request. He didn’t consider it proper behavior for a lady.

  Ladies did not suggest when it was time for their beaus to ask for their hand and ladies did not go around kissing gentlemen. It was the gentlemen who were to decide when to speak to the ladies’ parents and when to initiate the kiss, and no real gentleman would kiss a lady unless he had honorable intentions.

  Randall knew how delightfully she kissed. He smiled into his glass and took a deep drink. He drummed his fingers. Why in heaven’s name hadn’t her aunt taught the chit some restraint?

  “Look, Dalton, it’s a celebration!” Sir Thomas White peered around Randall’s chair.

  “If we’re celebrating, then why does Trent look so miserable?” Oliver groaned.

  “Must be a woman,” Sir Thomas mused. He would surely be the one to know about troubles caused by women.

  A raunchy gurgle came from Oliver. From the look and smell of them, Randall decided they were already well into their cups.

  “Come on, Trent,” Sir Thomas said. He tugged the lace at his wrists, adjusting the lengths. “Oliver and I are off to find some entertainment.” They gave a bawdy laugh.

  “No. You two go on ahead.”

  “Thomas, this one’s not plagued by women. He’s got trouble with only one woman,” Oliver pointed out to his friend.

  “I know precisely the one. She’s a blessed beauty, that one is,” Sir Thomas taunted. “Don’t think we don’t know you’ve singled her out.”

  “You can keep your trap shut, if you please,” Randall spat back. Larissa had already mentioned her brief acquaintance with Sir Thomas.

  “You might as well know, Trent. No man’s safe with her. She’ll wind a man around her little finger and grab hold of him by his vitals. Leads him around that way. Gets you to do anything. You’d best watch yourself.”

  “Come now, Thomas,” Oliver urged. “The ladies will be wondering what’s been keeping us. We’d best be on our way.”

  The following afternoon, the sun was shining in glorious celebration of a fine London summer’s day. A very nice day for the barge party. The Rushton coach delivered Randall and Larissa close to the launching area. The guests arriving before them had set the precedent of strolling along the small worn path by the river’s edge.

  The immense barge sat at the pier. Green and yellow drapes decorated the railings. A refreshment table sat midship under an enormous awning. An orchestra shared the awning, facing the rear of the craft. If one stood at one end, surely they could not see someone standing at the other.

  A finer day to set sail could not be imagined. The wind was calm, yet strong enough to cause the yellow awning to billow and sag with the gentle breeze. Today the barge would glide smoothly over the water. Larissa opened her parasol and rested it upon her shoulder.

  She noticed Sir Randall eyeing the crowd. Looking for Lady Dorothea no doubt. She followed his example and made her own search for Lord Fenton. Larissa spotted Fenton by the splendor of his dress, ever so handsome in his bottle green coat, canary breeches, and Hessians.

  “I am come,” he announced and greeted one and all with a great flourish. “Delighted, as always, Miss Larissa.” His voice held a richness she had not noticed before.

  “Harding,” Sir Randall drawled, in his usual tolerant tone.

  Sir Randall was probably jealous of Fenton’s fine fashion sense or his elegant stature. Larissa glanced at the yellow-and-green-decorated barge and back again at Fenton.

  “How ever did you know, Lord Fenton?”

  Fenton mimicked Larissa’s gesture, glancing at the barge and down at his similarly colored canary a
nd green clothes. “What an amazing coincidence.” He chuckled. “Would you care to take a short stroll toward the bow?”

  Larissa sensed his wish to be alone with her, away from the disapproving Sir Randall. “I would, let’s,” she agreed.

  “If you will be so kind as to excuse us,” Fenton said to Sir Randall.

  “Of course,” Sir Randall replied.

  Fenton led Larissa down the narrow path toward the barge at the water’s edge.

  “Sir Randall!” Lady Brookhurst’s voice penetrated through the bustle of carriages and abounding noise of the outdoors. “There you are.” She waved her lace handkerchief to catch his attention before heading in his direction.

  “Lady Brookhurst,” Randall bowed, accepting her hand. “Lady Dorothea,” he said with equal formality.

  “I see Lady Sefton,” Lady Brookhurst trilled. “You will excuse me won’t you, dear?”

  “Yes, Maman. I shan’t leave Sir Randall’s side.” Dorothea’s coy side glance alluded to more than a demure attitude.

  Randall did not know if Lady Brookhurst’s absence was planned or not on her part. He had noticed she always seemed to leave them alone at the most opportune moments.

  “Would you not like to walk the path before we board?” Dorothea asked.

  “I thought I might speak to you alone for a moment,” Randall whispered to Dorothea.

  “Of course,” she cooed, displaying a smile which in other circumstances might charm him, but had no such effect this time. They stepped away from the pier and the other guests.

  After finding a natural screen of tall hedges, Dorothea spun to face him. “Are you going to kiss me?” She batted her wide eyes while a wicked smile crossed her face.

  Although he felt hesitant to do so, Randall leaned forward and bent his head, bringing his lips near hers. She arched her back, molding herself to his body.

  He recognized the well-practiced form. This was not the posture of a woman who lacked experience. Randall froze and held her by her shoulders at a distance and took a step back. If he had any doubts about his decision to break off with her before, this action sealed her fate.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” she asked. Her innocent act was exactly that, he realized. An act.

  “I think not,” he said in formal tones. “Also, I think I will not be speaking to your mother.”

  “What?” Dorothea shrieked, clutching two fistfuls of skirt. “You promised!”

  “No, I don’t believe that’s entirely the truth of the matter,” he corrected her.

  “There’s someone else, isn’t there? I want to know who she is.” Dorothea stomped, tamping the dirt beneath her feet. “Who is she!”

  You’d best watch yourself. Sir Thomas’ words rang through his head. It was not Larissa Quinn he had been speaking of last night. It must have been Lady Dorothea Brookhurst. Was she not using the wiles they spoke of to ensnare him?

  Randall tore himself away from Dorothea’s scene and headed for the barge.

  He felt the ornate barge rock beneath his feet with every step. Guests strolled to and fro as if they occupied the finest drawing room in London instead of floating on the Thames.

  Randall suspected something was not quite right. When the aroma of food drifted in his direction, it became increasingly clear the problem originated in his stomach. Erupted might be a more accurate description. He made a dash for the side railing.

  In his hurry, Randall charged between Lord Langley and Sir Thomas White, without begging their pardon, sending them tumbling in opposite directions. Randall’s last effort bowled over another man, who did not take kindly to his abrupt dislocation.

  “What’s all this?” he cried out, catching his balance and glaring at Randall.

  Randall made it in time to cascade into the water. He knew it was the result of last night’s drink. His digestive tract had never dealt well with alcohol and the precarious nature of the barge must have added to his stomach’s upset. Regaining his balance, Randall took the proffered dampened cloth napkin dangling from the fingers of his friend Sir Thomas White.

  “Too late to abandon ship now, old man. We’ve just gone to sea.” Sir Thomas drawled, amused. “Will you live?”

  Randall applied the cool linen to his upper lip and sweat-beaded forehead. “I sincerely hope not.” He leaned against the railing, closed his eyes and drew a measured breath.

  “Ah, Sir Randall—Trent, is it? Had it in mind that your name was Quid or Quint or some other nonsense.” A well-to-do gentleman pried Randall’s arm from the railing and pumped it in greeting. “Like the way you put the termagant in her place.”

  “I beg your pardon?” A confused Randall racked his brain for recognition. “Excuse me, sir. I don’t believe we have been introduced.”

  “Shared a coach to Oxford with you some months ago. I might have been in my cups, but I ain’t blind. Quite a display you put on for that nosy fishwife.”

  Randall felt a jolt of shock hit, numbing him.

  “Shouldn’t have come aboard. As I remember, you suffer from mal de mer, if I’m not mistaken. That’s what I recall your wife saying.”

  “My wife?” Randall repeated in confusion.

  “Wife?” Sir Thomas echoed with renewed interest.

  “I can see you’re trying your best to stay on her good side, what? Smart man.” The man winked and elbowed Sir Thomas. “By the bye, where is your lovely bride?” He smiled and looked around, revealing a gold-capped front tooth.

  Randall began to feel his stomach lurch. Only this time, it was a sinking feeling.

  “He’s a brave man, Sir Thomas.” The well-dressed stranger remarked about Randall. “Ah, there she is now.” He pointed across the barge. “I shall pay my respects and tell her not to torture you so and to take you ashore at once.” With that, the stout man strolled off.

  “Who is he?” Randall gasped, when he was certain he could not be heard.

  “That man,” Sir Thomas mused, “is Sir Purvis Archwald. He has made himself indispensable to His Royal Highness, the Duke of Clarence. The Duke had Sir Purvis knighted.”

  “What on earth was he doing on a public coach?”

  “Same as you, I imagine,” Sir Thomas surmised. “Had to get home. He’s a nice allowance, but he’s not what you’d call plump in the pockets.”

  Randall watched Sir Purvis move to the port side of the boat, disappearing into the crowd, which graciously parted to allow him passage.

  “How delightful to see you again, Lady Trent. I’m afraid we’ve spent time traveling together and yet have not had a proper introduction. I am Sir Purvis Archwald.” He made a shallow bow. “At your service.”

  What did he say? Larissa had not uttered a reply. Glancing around she could see heads drawing together, hear whispers she could not decipher. She turned in time to see Lord Fenton’s reaction when word reached him. Fenton went pale. The glasses of punch he carried shook in his hand, spilling the contents. Larissa felt her face grow warm, and pressed her hands to her cheek.

  “Lady Trent, have I said something wrong?” Sir Purvis glanced around for confirmation. He seemed to miss the gawking gazes of those few who stood around them and continued. “You know, your husband is one of the most outrageous men I’ve met.” He chuckled and was the only one doing so at the moment. “Oh, yes. Quite the sense of humor, your husband has.”

  Larissa endured the remainder of his monologue in silence.

  Lord Fenton waited until Sir Purvis left before returning to Larissa’s side “Married?” Lord Fenton growled. He stared at Larissa, his eyes narrowing into slits.

  “It’s not true,” she cried.

  “Who is he?” Fenton took Larissa roughly by an arm, looking for someone who took more than a casual interest in observing them. “Are you married to some social oddity who need hide himself from public view? Some eccentric elderly earl, perhaps?”

  “No,” Larissa refuted. “That’s not the way it is at all.” She wanted to explain, but how could she? She
wasn’t sure what was happening herself. Who was that man? He had called her Lady Trent, meaning Sir Randall must be her husband.

  “Why didn’t you just reject my offer last night?”

  “Last night?” Larissa had no idea to what he was referring. Had he offered for her? How could she have missed that?

  “You knew I wanted to marry you.” A snide, lopsided smile, an expression Larissa had never seen, spread over Fenton’s lips. She saw a disturbing glint in his eyes. And for the first time he frightened her.

  She was afraid of kind, polite Lord Fenton. Fenton, who never made an improper move. Fenton, who always kept her welfare in mind. Fenton, who now was pulling her about roughly by her arm.

  “How could you allow me to go on so? Was it as much of a joke to you as it was to your husband? To watch some lowly third son of a duke make a demmed fool of himself?”

  Larissa pried at his fingers. “Please, Fenton, you’re hurting me.”

  He shoved her toward the railing and paced an arc around her. She hoped the water-worthy craft’s deck would not buckle under his heavy, hammering steps.

  “I’m one of the most sought-after men in Society. Do you realize how many young women set out traps for me?”

  “Then I trust you will have no trouble finding another,” she said in realization. Larissa no longer wanted him. Then, she realized in that moment that she had never really wanted him.

  “I had wished to marry you.” He glared at her. “Why would you do this to me?”

  “I am afraid any explanation I could give would prove unsatisfactory.”

  “I imagine it would. Suffice it to say, I shan’t want anything to do with you again,” Fenton’s voice sounded odd, distant, emotionless.

  Tears pooled in Larissa’s eyes. “I quite understand.”

  “If you will pardon me,” Fenton performed an exquisite leg, “I shall take leave of you now.”

  Still pressing the linen to his mouth, Randall steadied himself on Sir Thomas’ shoulder.

  “Look there.” Sir Thomas gestured with his head to the very lovely, very angry Lady Dorothea.

  Randall saw Dorothea and Lady Brookhurst under the awning.