by Autumn Rain
"Then I shall return to Stoneleigh." She had the satisfaction of seeing him look up at that. "Without Mary," she went on evenly, "I have no interest in Almack's—in Prinny—or Brummell—or any of your ambitions." To control her shaking hands, she clasped them tightly before her. "There—I have said it. I do not go to Almack's tonight—or ever."
"You cannot go to Stoneleigh unless I allow it," he retorted.
"Then I shall go to Edgehill to visit Mama and the girls." Despite her thudding heart, she managed to meet his eyes steadily. "I will not have Agnes, Arthur. I don't like the woman, for she spies on me without cause." She pushed back her dirty hair. "And while we are about it, I should like to increase Mary's income to forty pounds."
He could scarce believe the young woman before him. Gone was the pleasant, almost docile girl he had groomed so carefully. He considered that she gambled, but he was loath to discover how far she would go. It had taken him too long to get her a voucher to Almack's. But neither could he yield completely, for weakness invited defiance. And he would not be ruled by a willful young wife. He stalled.
"How did you get home?" he growled, scowling.
"Lord Longford."
"Longford!" he choked. "Elinor, I forbid—you know you cannot be seen in his company!"
"He was coming from Carlton House—the Regent decorated him there, I believe. I collect he is some sort of hero."
"That's outside of enough, Elinor! Longford!"
"There was no one else," she pointed out reasonably. "And he was careful of my reputation, I assure you, for I rode home against the floorboard with a carriage rug over me, so you have naught to worry on that head."
"Still I cannot like the association. You were forbidden—"
"I could scarce remain in the street, Arthur," she reminded him calmly. "It would have been a greater scandal had I perished there."
He favored her with a look that bordered on dislike, then turned to stare into the empty fireplace. "Humph! Tell the woman she can stay if she can make you presentable tonight," he muttered grudgingly. "At thirty pounds."
"Thirty pounds! Arthur, she cannot live on that!"
"I am fining her for her folly."
She knew if she argued, she would set his back up, and Mary would go packing. He had to win—in everything, he had to win something—or else someone had to pay. But this time it did not matter. She would make up the difference out of her own allowance.
"Thank you, my lord," she said quietly.
"In the future, you will not take the carriage without my permission. And if you go out, you are to take both Mary and Agnes."
"Arthur—"
"Perhaps in a month or so, I may relent, but just now
I can only say you have disappointed me, my dear. Now I can only hope none will note it when you are not in your best looks tonight."
"I shall have Mary make use of the haresfoot."
"See that she does. I have paid too much for this opportunity to waste it."
As she trod the steps up to her bedchamber, Elinor's fatigue was mitigated by a sense of triumph. Though the battle had been small and not entirely decisive, for the first time since she'd met him, she'd won something of him.
The woman Agnes looked up when she entered the room, and her mouth flattened into a thin, disapproving line, then she smirked. "His lordship said I was to tend ye, my lady."
"And what else did his lordship say?" Elinor inquired silkily.
"That things was to be a bit different now."
"Oh?"
Agnes nodded. "Ye ain't to be gadding about without me."
"I think you are mistaken," Elinor said coldly. "Mary accompanies me."
The smirk faded. "But his lordship said—"
"I have spoken to his lordship and it's settled that Mary shall stay." Elinor waited for the import of her words to sink in, then added, "I require loyalty, you see, and I've no wish to be spied upon without reason."
The older woman stared, her disappointment evident in her face. "But he said—"
"That will be all, Agnes."
Affronted, the woman left, and Elinor sank into a chair and held the arms tightly to steady herself. Utterly, completely drained, she closed her eyes. For a time, she savored her little victory, then her thoughts turned to the Earl of Longford, remembering the feel of his leg against her body. And she felt a certain yearning, a wish that instead of Arthur she'd been wed to a younger man, to someone who wanted a wife rather than a possession. She wanted to be held. She wanted to be loved.
In the bookroom below, Arthur Kingsley stared moodily into a glass of brandy. Since Charles had come home, the house had been at sixes and sevens, and now Elinor had begun defying him also. Perhaps it had been a mistake to make the boy stay. Perhaps they were too much of an age—perhaps the high spirits of the one was rubbing off onto the other. Well, he would not have it. He'd meant what he'd said to her—he'd paid too much to gain acceptance, and neither she nor the boy were going to interfere with his keeping it.
CHAPTER 12
Brummell's overheard assessment had been right—the atmosphere at Almack's was rather disappointing. But if Arthur noted the plainness of the assembly rooms or the bare dance floor, he gave no indication as he smiled and bowed his acknowledgment to each of the patronesses. And even the haughty Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, though she merely extended two fingers, did not snub him. He almost forgot his pique with Elinor for not being in her best looks. He was seeing and being seen in that ultimate bastion of snobbery to which he had so long aspired.
Using paste and powder and a skillful application of rouge from the pot, Mary had managed to cover most of the damage done at St. James Market. And, having decided against a winter gown, Elinor draped a silver-shot silk shawl about her shoulders, pulling one side down to conceal the bruise on her arm. That, coupled with the simple peach silk gown Arthur had chosen, set off her flaming hair to advantage.
While the musicians played softly from a stand, a number of young girls, most shepherded carefully by their mamas or older sisters, circulated about the room, displaying their requisitely demure muslin gowns, smiling shyly at the bucks, trying to fix an eligible parti's interest. It was perhaps the first time in her life that Elinor was grateful she'd not been paraded in this most exalted of all Marriage Marts.
On this Wednesday Assembly night, the cream of the haut ton appeared to be there. Even Brummell, for all his disparagement of the place, stood conversing in a corner with Lady Sefton and Countess Lieven, the Russian ambassador's wife, who had created the recent stir of introducing the waltz into London. And despite the railings of clergymen and moralists, the dance had become the rage, with hopeful girls eagerly awaiting approval of the patronesses to engage in the shocking exercise publicly.
The slim, impeccably plainly attired Brummell looked up when he saw Elinor. Excusing himself from the two ladies, he made his way to her.
"Ah—Longford's Venus," he murmured over her hand.
As the Beau always seemed to tread a thin line between manners and malice, Elinor was uncertain as to how to answer him. But knowing that Arthur would never forgive her if she did not attempt Brummell's approval, she smiled.
"I should not say Longford's," she responded, "for I scarce know him."
"My dear lady, you were quite the only female to acknowledge him at Maria's."
As Arthur tensed by her side, Elinor's smile deepened, warming her amber eyes, and she dared to touch the Beau's arm with her fan. "I try not to refine too much on old scandals, sir."
She could almost feel her husband's relief when Brummell smiled back. "You are possessed of a kind heart, Lady Kingsley."
"I hope so."
"Venus," he murmured, considering her. "Longford was right—it suits you better than Titian Beauty. I shall have to remember it." He leaned closer as though he spoke to her alone. "Have you heard the latest, my dear? It's said that Bell Townsend is pursuing a certain lady. I wonder..." He let his voice trail off speculatively.
Brummell shrugged. "Unless it's entered in the books."
"Then I should think the lady would cut him, costing those foolish enough to wager a great deal of money," she answered smoothly.
It was obvious that he'd learned what he wanted to know. "Oh, I am more like to wager over which duck will cross the road first than on a lady's honor," he assured her. Turning to Arthur, he nodded. "My congratulations, sir—your wife is indeed an Original."
After the Beau moved on, turning his gossipy interest to Lord Alvanley, Arthur beamed. "You are made, my dear," he whispered proudly.
"Fiddle. If words can make so quickly, I am sure they can destroy also." But when she looked up, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell favored her with a frosty smile, a singular distinction that did not go unnoticed. "Nonetheless, I am glad you are pleased, my lord."
"Pleased? I should count it nothing less than a triumph."
"Yes, the Beau is not noted for admiring kind hearts, is he?" she murmured, exasperated by her husband's open pandering to a man she could not quite like. "One day his rudeness will go too far, and no one will care a whit what he thinks—or what he bathes in—or even from whence comes the shine on his boots."
"Lady Kingsley," a masculine voice drawled behind her, "do you waltz?"
Charles, who'd gone to procure glasses of the weak lemonade for them, moved quickly to intercept Lord Townsend. "Hallo, Bellamy." As the viscount's eyebrows rose at the perceived familiarity, Charles thrust a glass into Elinor's hand. "Waltzing with me," he declared importantly. "Family."
"The second dance, then?" Townsend addressed Elinor.
"Well, I—"
"Belongs to m'grandfather. Her husband," he added almost truculently.
Elinor choked on her first sip of lemonade, for it was commonly known that Lord Kingsley did not dance. But the viscount continued to regard her expectantly.
"If it amuses you, my dear—," Arthur began.
"It don't," Charles insisted brusquely. He looked to Townsend. "Sorry for it, but you got a bad rep with the females, don't you know, and we don't want her name bandied about."
"Charley!" Elinor gasped.
"Truth of it," the younger man declared. "No sense in trying to wrap it up in clean linen, is there? Plain as a pikestaff what he's up to."
Afraid of a scene, Arthur Kingsley sought to intervene. "Er—don't you think it's up to Elinor to decide, Charles?" Turning to her, he added mildly, "I shall not refine too much upon it, I assure you."
"Then you are a fool, Grandpapa!" Charles protested. "Pays her too much attention already—wouldn't surprise me if it was on the betting books."
"Charles!" Her face reddening, Elinor apologized to the viscount. "Your pardon, sir—I am sure he did not mean—"
"Every word," Charles muttered.
"That will be all," the old man told him sternly. "You are drawing unnecessary attention."
"No, I ain't—he is."
A quick glance about the room revealed a number of interested stares. Afraid for the consequences should his grandson irritate Arthur further, she held out her hand to Townsend. "I am sorry, my lord. Perhaps another time-when I have learned the steps better." Smiling up at him, she tried to mollify him. "But I shall be at home tomorrow. Perhaps Hyde Park?"
"Done, dear lady—shall we say four?"
"Yes."
"Until tomorrow, my dear," he murmured, kissing her hand gallantly. He bowed toward Kingsley. "My lord." Then nodding stiffly toward Charles, he said, "Good night, Mister Kingsley," an obvious reference to the boy's lack of title.
Charles flushed, then as the viscount walked away, he muttered something about "drawing his lordship's cork for him," under his breath.
There was a strained silence between the three of them, until the old man finally spoke to his grandson. "Perhaps you ought to get Elinor a bit of cake."
"It's stale. And there ain't anything else but bread and butter to be had. Ain't even a supper," he added, disgusted. "Don't see what—"
"No doubt you would have enjoyed White's more." There was no mistaking the ascerbity in the old man's voice. "I had supposed you came to inspect the Season's beauties, but I can see I was quite in error."
"Bunch of empty-headed ninnyhammers!" the boy snorted.
Arthur opened his mouth to say something, then closed it as Lady Jersey approached them, her still-handsome face wreathed in a smile. "There you are, my dear Elinor! Shocking squeeze, isn't it? Fortunately not all our little assemblies are so well-attended." She held out her hands, possessing both of Elinor's, then turned to the old man. "Is she not lovely tonight?"
"Quite."
"Ravishing," Charles declared sincerely.
For a moment, the woman was nonplussed, then she recovered, lifting an eyebrow questioningly. "I'm afraid you have the advantage of me—?"
"My grandson," Arthur supplied quickly. "Home for the Season." He looked down to his ebony cane briefly, then added, "Company for Elinor, you know, as I cannot dance. Bad knee."
"Oh, yes—of course. It is an old complaint, is it not?" Before he could answer, she faced Elinor. "I do hope you have learned the waltz, my dear, for if you have, I can think of at least a dozen gentlemen willing to oblige. And as you have been out an age—"
"Been practicing with me," Charles answered. "Take her out onto the floor myself—family, you know."
"Sally!"
Lady Jersey was diverted by a mama eager to push her daughter, and as she turned away, the old man hissed, "Don't make a cake of yourself, boy!"
"Well, I ain't going to stand here and watch 'em ogle her, if that's what you mean," Charles muttered.
La Jersey fluttered away, her silk scarves trailing after her, as the musicians began to strike up the first strains of the highlight of the evening—the scandalous, seductive waltz that everyone had been waiting for. As "Cupid" Palmerston appeared to be headed their way, Charles grasped Elinor's hand firmly.
"You heard her—you been approved. Come on before the floor is too crowded."
But somehow practicing at home and executing in public were two very different things. As he counted out his steps to get started, he felt stiff, awkward, and graceless. To make him more at ease, Elinor leaned into him, whispering, "Remember the first time we danced at Stoneleigh?"
"When you told me spirit compensated for style?"
"Yes. And it still does—you have but to pretend you like it."
Her gloved hand was warm in his, her body alive beneath his touch. As the sweet scent of roses wafted from the soaked cotton tucked in her bosom, he lost his awkwardness and thought of the woman in his arms instead. For the moment, he would forget she was his grandfather's wife, that she was beyond his touch. With a passion born of youthful idealism, he pulled her closer, savoring the exquisite intimacy.
"I think I have always loved you," he murmured, his lips scandalously close to her ear.
She missed her step and nearly tripped. "Oh, Charley—I pray you will not—"
Jarred back to reality, he recovered, saying gallantly, "Deuced pretty, you know—ain't a fellow out here as don't envy me right now."
But he was too late, for his grandfather had been watching, his face wooden, and he was not watching alone. As Charles twirled Elinor about the floor, Arthur overheard Lady Jersey remark, "For all that Bell thinks otherwise, I should say that Baron Kingsley is more like to be cuckolded at home."
When the music ended, there was a sudden awkwardness as Charles dropped her hand. He stood there, his blue eyes intent on her. "I know I should not have said it," he spoke finally, "but I'm not sorry."
"Lady Kingsley—?"
"Lord Palmerston," she murmured, relieved.
"May I?"
She did not look at Charles. "Yes—of course."
"Get you some lemonade," the younger man promised. "Thank you.
"
Heartsick, afraid now that the words had been spoken that somehow Arthur would know and blame her, she tried to divert his attention by dancing not only with Palmerston, but with Lords Sefton, Alvanley, Roxwell, Barrasford, and half a dozen others. To the chagrin of a dozen mamas and at least as many acknowledged beauties, she could truthfully have been described on this night as the Reigning Toast. Even Brummell deigned to dance with her, not once but twice. She had finally given
Arthur Kingsley his greatest social triumph, and she hoped he'd been too exhilarated to note anything else.
"Exhausted, my dear?" he asked solicitously during the carriage ride home.
"Yes."
"Ain't no wonder—it's nigh to three o'clock, and you didn't miss a dance," Charles muttered. "Only one as you did not dance with was Bellamy Townsend, and he went home early."
"You were much admired—everyone remarked it," the old man told her proudly, ignoring his grandson. "You are a credit to me." His hand closed over hers, squeezing it.
Despite the darkness, she blinked. It was perhaps the first time in her marriage that he'd ever paid her her due. Always before, it was he who had made her.
"It was your money," she said simply.
"No—it was breeding. They only note those bom to it."
"Well, if you was to ask me, I'd say it was her looks," Charles offered.
"I do not recall asking you," Arthur said coldly.
It was as though Elinor's hands had turned to ice. He knew. She groped for some means to save Charley from the old man's wrath and could find none. An abrupt, nearly deafening silence descended within the elegant coach, leaving only the sound of the wheels against the cobbled streets. And the steady beat of her dreading heart seemed to reverberate in her ears.
Once home, Charles mumbled "good night" and started up the stairs, only to be stopped by his grandfather's clipped, curt voice.
"A word with you—it will not take long," Arthur told him. Looking to Elinor, he added, "You go on to bed, my dear—there is no need to wait up for me."
Exhausted, Elinor dispensed with everything but undressing, then slipped between cool sheets to lie listening in the dark. Oddly, there was no sound of an argument— only footsteps on the stairs, a slammed door down the hall, and finally nothing. For once, she was torn between dreading Arthur's Wednesday night visit and a need to know what he had done.
