“Oh?” Meg gazed up at the horse, which seemed enormous. “Are you sure this isn’t an elephant, my lord? He seems large enough to me.”
“What? My Meg a coward?” he challenged. Without giving her time to reflect on his use of her given name and the possessive pronoun, Bryn clamped his hands about her waist to lift her.
The warmth of his touch sent a delicate shiver down her spine. Attempting to dispel it, Meg reached for a grip on the saddle, but she lost her balance and fell back down against the marquis. He caught her easily, his arms encircling her, his cheek pressed against her hair. They both stood motionless, overcome by this unexpected contact.
Meg’s skin tingled, her knees felt wobbly, and warmth suffused her entire body as the marquis turned her gently round to face him. His hands moved to her shoulders, then framed her face as his mouth descended to hers.
Meg had no desire to protest as her lips parted. Instead, she clung to him, letting hunger well within her as the kiss deepened.
This, this was the stuff of her dreams, this raging in the blood. It was more than she had imagined, the feeling of his body against hers, the excitement rising in her as she drank in his caresses. They could not seem to stop kissing, their heat merging and intensifying until it seemed they must burst into flames.
It was Lord Bryn who drew back. “My Meg,” he whispered. “What’s happening to us?”
“I don’t know.” What a tangle! How she wished she had never deceived this man. But had she not, Meg would never have discovered such passion. How could she live without him now?
“Must you leave?” he murmured, trailing small kisses across her brow, nose, and cheeks.
“My lord, I...” Meg swallowed, trying to clear a path for the words. “I should clarify certain matters. My arrival here, my station.”
“You’re overwrought, dearest.” He stepped back, still holding her hands. “Tonight, after dinner, you and I must talk privately.”
She nodded dumbly. Yes, tonight. How angry he would be when he learned the truth! Would the coldness she had seen before envelop him? Would he send her away? Her mind awhirl, Meg let herself be lifted onto King Arthur and felt the horse shift as the marquis swung up in front of her.
Arms clasped around Lord Bryn, her body arched against his back, Meg closed her eyes as they rode forward. She could feel every motion of the stallion ripple through the man. The three of them became one, riding through the dusk. I love him, Meg thought. I want to stay with him forever. Please let this dream never end.
The gallop muted into a canter and she knew they must be nearing Brynwood. With a sigh, Meg pushed a wayward strand of hair from her eyes.
She hoped no one was looking out of the house as the canter slowed to a trot. For she could imagine the picture she made, riding astride with her arms around the marquis and her hair floating loose.
They rounded the corner of the house and came to an abrupt halt. Almost dislodged from her seat, Meg clutched the marquis for balance before straightening. She adjusted the glasses upon her face and leaned out to gaze around him.
A large tan-and-umber carriage stood in the drive. Vaguely, in the background, Meg noted the Franklins mingling with several servants in unfamiliar livery. Her gaze riveted on the figures in front, an older couple and a younger, stern-faced woman, staring at the two of them with undisguised astonishment.
The Geraints had arrived early.
Chapter Eleven
In the days following the garden party, Edward Cockerell became a stranger to himself. In outward appearances, he was much the same. He arose early, breakfasted alone, and went to the City to conduct business and talk with his man of affairs. Or, if that wasn’t necessary, he remained in his study reviewing the rents and other matters of the family’s estates.
Yet his mind betrayed him. Deucedly annoying, how he fussed now with the cravat that had never troubled him before; how he vexed his valet by rejecting first one waistcoat and then another; how, when driving, he found himself watching for someone or something he couldn’t identify.
It was time to put his life in order.
Having received an apologetic note from Lady Darnet explaining that she had suffered from a toothache, he visited her to see if matters between them might be restored. She received him in her gold parlour, with an elderly female cousin dozing in one corner for the sake of propriety. Gowned in dark blue satin, the countess reigned as an Incomparable.
Why, then, could Edward not forget how rough her skin had appeared in the daylight and the hardness about her eyes? The toothache was the explanation, perhaps for her appearance as well as for her display of temper. The explanation should have sufficed to ease his doubts, but it did not.
He noted for the first time the absence of warmth between him and the countess, the lack of any spark when their eyes chanced to meet, the way she confined her conversation to malicious on-dits. Oddly, Edward felt as if he were comparing her to someone. It was not until he was returning home in his phaeton that he realized who that someone was.
Angela Linley.
She was the figure who haunted the corners of his mind. She was the ghost who shadowed his dreams.
The discovery rocked through him like cannon-fire. Angela Linley? That young girl, his sister’s barely acceptable friend? It could not be, must not be. The chit was entirely too lively and unrestrained to meet his standards for matrimony.
He was, after all, heir to considerable monies and served as trustee for not only his sister, but also his aunt and two young cousins. There were tenants to consider, and dozens of servants, including some who had waited upon his parents and grandparents. If Edward lost his good sense and allied himself with an unpredictable, overemotional wife, great harm might come of it.
He recalled only too well the plight of a schoolmate of his at Eton, Jamie Winter. When Jamie’s mother lost her temper and insulted Queen Charlotte, he had been removed from school, and his sister’s engagement to the eldest son of a duke had been promptly terminated. After the family was forced to retreat to the country, the daughter had died of a fever—some said she committed suicide—and Jamie had departed for America, never to be heard from again.
Such, Edward reflected grimly, might be the fate of his own offspring if he married Angela. Nevertheless, the girl did come from good family. For the first time in his life, he found himself unsure of the proper course.
The answer came to him slowly, as he mulled the matter during the next few hours. If Angela was a ghost, then she could be exorcised. Not through priestly ministrations, but through the dulling effect of habituation.
He refused to allow himself to visit her alone, which might cause society to think he was courting her. It would be improper, of course, to woo and then abandon a respectable young woman. Therefore, on the following day, Edward decided to call on the Linleys in the company of Helen, sitting silently while the two girls conversed in animated fashion.
How lovely Angela looked, he couldn’t help but notice. Sternly, he forced himself to concentrate upon her flaws.
Her conversation was unsuitable. Interesting, true, and never unkind, but entirely too well informed. What well-bred young lady of the ton would keep so abreast of the war with France, and so forcefully decry it for raising the price of food and thereby increasing hunger among the poor?
Admirable sentiments in a man, he thought, or perhaps in an older woman, but inappropriate in a young girl. Angela even dared to criticize the enclosure laws that forced small farmers off the land. Politics was no matter for a female, particularly not when one of her visitors was a large landowner whose estates benefitted from the enclosures. She might even, he reflected with horror, have the temerity to broach such unpopular opinions in the company of other lords and ladies. If so, she would surely be shunned.
Yet as the days went by and Edward adhered to his plan by visiting repeatedly with Helen, he was forced to concede that the Linley family behaved in a manner beyond reproach. They avoided the excesses in whic
h many other families with a marriageable daughter indulged. He witnessed no flaunting of jewels and gowns, nor a plethora of sumptuous balls, merely the good taste and refinement one found among the old nobility. Yes, Angela Linley would make a splendid wife for some less-particular gentleman, but not, he warned himself, for Edward Cockerell.
So matters might have remained had it not been for Sir Manfred and Lady Darnet.
When Edward failed to pay another call upon the countess, she decided it was time to take matters into her own hands. Cynthia well knew the young man’s extreme adherence to propriety. To place Angela Linley in an unflattering public light would quickly destroy his interest in her, the countess believed.
To this end she required the assistance of her cousin, the baronet. Cynthia invited him to tea and told him of jests, which she herself invented, which Angela had made at his expense at a card party. These bon mots, the countess declared, were currently circulating through society. With shrewd insight, Cynthia abused her cousin’s vanity in a way calculated to provoke him most painfully.
Sir Manfred was easily persuaded that the Linley minx had played him for a fool. Within the hour, he had become Angela’s most bitter enemy.
Smoothly Cynthia proposed a plan. Sir Manfred would pretend to court the Linley girl, and be seen with her everywhere. Then he would contrive, with Lady Darnet’s help if need be, to create an embarrassing situation in which she would appear to be at fault. During this courtship, the countess proposed that she spread titbits about Angela. Nothing so scandalous as to defy belief, but needle pricks that would help lay the groundwork for the upstart’s ultimate downfall.
By the time her cousin left her parlour, Cynthia’s irritation with Angela Linley had shifted into glee. That frothy little baggage would rue the day she ever set her cap for Edward Cockerell.
The conspiracy took its first step at the Opera, where London society had gone ostensibly to enjoy the melodrama of Timour the Tartar and a pantomime with the clown Joey Grimaldi. In truth, everyone had come to be seen and to show off the latest fashions and hairstyles, with little regard for what transpired on stage.
It was Angela’s first visit to Covent Garden, and she descended eagerly amid the crush of carriages. She paused to stare up at the massive building, which had opened less than two years earlier, to replace a structure destroyed by fire. The ponderous exterior of stucco and stone, relieved only by a Greek portico resting on four Doric columns, struck Angela as unexpectedly severe, but the interior more than compensated.
The Linleys and the Cockerells, who had come together, entered at Bow Street. They proceeded through the foyer and up the main staircase, a single grand flight set off dramatically by a vault resting on black Ionic columns.
At the top, they entered a curving lobby, from which branched a long saloon styled in the Greek manner and lined with statues. Here Edward purchased refreshments before escorting the party to the Cockerells’ private box.
Painted a Grecian pink accented by mahogany woodwork, it was set forward in one of the horseshoe tiers of boxes. These overlooked the pit, where poorer folk and rowdy young bucks sat. Raucous catcalls and the smells of unwashed bodies ascended forcefully, but were ignored by the elegant set, who conversed in a more seemly fashion.
Angela’s gaze travelled upward to the curving, ornamental ceiling, before Lady Mary distracted her by pointing out some of their acquaintances in other boxes. Nods, smiles, and waves were exchanged. How exciting this was! At last she was part of the glittering world of which she had dreamed for so long.
The entertainment began, but no one paid much attention. Even Angela, in her excitement, found it difficult to focus on the absurd goings-on of the melodrama.
She had little inkling that a different sort of drama was about to unfold.
At the interval, the real business of the evening began. Gentlemen and ladies visited back and forth between boxes, exchanging compliments and gossip.
Lady Darnet was a popular figure as always, and she glowed with delight, the reason for which, as she alone knew, derived from having observed that Angela Linley’s gown bore a strong resemblance to one the girl’s sister had worn the previous season.
“Do you know,” the countess murmured to Lady Jersey, “that the Linley creature is wearing one of her sister’s made-over dresses? The family must have fallen upon hard times, or else they are extremely clutch-fisted.”
Cynthia had intended, by singling out the leader of society, to spread her tale directly to the top. What she failed to take into account, however, was that Lady Jersey was no fool. The patroness knew perfectly well what lay behind Lady Darnet’s remarks.
Therefore it was to Edward Cockerell, as Angela’s sponsor, that Lady Jersey took this item. His response was an immediate denial, followed for emphasis by the statement that he believed his sister had accompanied Miss Angela to the dressmaker.
Now why had he said that? Edward wondered after Lady Jersey departed. No matter; it would put the preposterous story to rest.
He had not meant to leap so strongly to Angela’s defence. Might not his championing of her lead to speculation? Yet he was infuriated that anyone should subject the Linleys to idle gossip and speculation. He might not choose Angela for himself, but he accorded her a certain grudging respect.
Meanwhile, Sir Manfred was laying the groundwork for his counterfeit suit. Ensconced in the Cockerell box with the three ladies he found there, he proceeded to ply Angela with witticisms that soon had her laughing.
“You are indeed clever, Sir Manfred!” she declared.
Her apparently genuine admiration flattered his sensibilities, until he remembered the cruelties which his cousin had claimed she uttered behind his back. The baronet harrumphed mightily. “How kind you are. And how very lovely this evening. May I compliment you on that particularly becoming gown? And you, as well, Miss Cockerell. A bevy of beauties. Well. Such splendid company. I cannot tear myself away.”
His back was to the entrance and so he failed to see the scowl upon Edward’s face when he entered and spied them sitting together. Sir Manfred had intended to remain in place for the second act, but he found himself firmly steered away by Mr. Cockerell, and thrust from the box with a firmness approaching insult.
“Can’t understand it,” muttered the baronet as he rejoined Lady Darnet. “Fellow was practically rude to me.”
Cynthia shook her head, lost in conjectures. Why had Lady Jersey not spread the gossip? For if she had, word of it would surely have reached herself by now. And how far had matters got, if Edward still behaved in such a proprietary manner toward Angela?
The countess was not dissuaded, however. Despite the failure of her first attempt, she resolved to continue passing along such titbits in future. One of them would surely strike to the heart.
In the following days, Sir Manfred frequently visited the Linley household, ignoring the coldness displayed him by Mr. Cockerell when they chanced to meet. He took Angela driving in Hyde Park, plied her with flowers, and gave everyone to believe he was dangling after her.
The girl had other suitors, but none so persistent. Most were fops still tied to their parents’ purse strings, or younger sons who must marry an heiress, which she was not.
As the days passed, the baronet found himself enjoying more and more the sweetness of Angela’s disposition. When he dropped the reins during a ride through the park, she made a game of it, and soon had them both laughing. He was even given to understand by an acquaintance that she had chastised an acquaintance who poked fun at the baronet’s girth.
Sir Manfred began to wonder at the cutting remarks his cousin had attributed to this delightful miss. Had she truly made them? Didn’t suit her character. Must have been misheard. How like Cynthia to put the worst interpretation on things. Impossible to remain angry with such a taking little thing.
Indeed, the baronet was tending in an entirely different direction. He’d never been eager to find himself leg-shackled, but if a man must marry,
he could scarce do better than Angela Linley.
Lady Darnet’s noose was developing snarls, although she did not yet know of them. Another such concerned the reactions of her intended husband, Edward Cockerell.
Often, when he and Helen came to call on the Linleys they found Sir Manfred had arrived before them, and he stayed until they left. At other times Angela was away from home, having gone riding with that same gentleman.
Sir Manfred! Driving home from the Linleys’ on such an occasion, Edward clenched his fists and would have pounded the seat but for his sister’s presence. He had nearly succeeded in dissuading himself from further involvement with the young lady, but the presumption of the baronet infuriated him.
“I think it entirely too unfortunate,” said Helen.
“What?” Her brother glared at her, resenting the interruption of his thoughts.
“That Angela should marry such a weak sort of chap,” she said with a sniff.
“Marry?” Edward wished his heart wouldn’t pound in that tiresome manner.
“Well, I don’t suppose he’s asked her yet, but clearly he will,” Helen went on. “I can’t think he’s right for her.”
“Then she must refuse him.” Edward felt his pulse return to normal and his common sense reassert itself.
“How can she?” said Helen. “He’s her only serious suitor. And she’s seen too well the pitfalls into which a girl can fall if she goes unmarried for long. She’d hardly dare wait and risk some other scandal, especially with a certain person spreading false rumours about her.”
“I beg your pardon?” Edward said.
“Far be it from me to name any names,” Helen replied. “But I have contradicted two nasty stories this week, and I can only guess where they began.”
With a shock, Edward remembered Lady Jersey and the nonsense about Angela’s gown. Had she told him where she heard it? Oh, yes, it had been repeated to her by Lady Darnet.
Repeated, or invented?
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