by Isobel Carr
A sudden strong gust turned her umbrella inside out and snatched away her wail of protest. Within seconds, she was as wet as if she’d been tossed into the Thames. Without a word, Peter took her umbrella. He sheltered it from the wind with his body as he attempted to restore it to usefulness. It sprang back to its original shape just as a howling gust ripped away Livy’s hat and sent both hat and umbrella tumbling down the street.
The indignant expression on her footman’s face nearly sent Livy into whoops. “And the dish ran away with the spoon,” she said with a laugh that verged on tears. “Never mind, Peter. It’s not as though it would actually help at this point.”
The coach stopped a few feet past them, and the door flew open. The comtesse de Corbeville leaned out. “Get inside, my dear!” she yelled over the wind, beckoning frantically. Livy ran for the coach, the soles of her shoes slipping and sliding over the wet cobbles. Peter all but tossed her into the waiting carriage. The door slammed shut behind her with a resounding thud that was almost as loud as the clap of thunder that followed it. Livy collapsed back onto the squabs. The coach swayed as her footman joined the driver on the box.
Livy twisted her wet hair back from her face and tied it into a knot. A rivulet of water snaked down her neck, making her shiver.
“You have impeccable timing, Madame.”
Devere’s sister grinned back at her, looking even more like her brother than usual with that impish expression lighting up her face. “Happy to be of service,” the comtesse said, pulling a large, lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket and holding it out. “Let us get you home and dry before you catch your death.”
“I’m not such a delicate flower, I assure you,” Livy insisted, taking the proffered handkerchief.
The comtesse pushed the hot brick warming her own feet toward Livy. Livy toed off her wet shoes and put her stocking-clad feet on the brick with a sigh of contentment. “Besides,” Livy said, peeling off her wet gloves, “it would take more than a little rain to make me miss the regatta tomorrow.”
“It would be a shame if you had to travel to Ranelagh with your father and me in the coach rather than joining Rolly and his team in the shallop,” the comtesse said, her tone lively and filled with innuendo.
“A shame for whom?” Livy said from behind the handkerchief as she mopped her face dry. The coach rocked, buffeted by the wind, and Livy dropped the embroidered scrap of linen onto the seat beside her gloves and braced herself, not entirely sure it wouldn’t careen over like a beached ship ready to be scraped clean of barnacles.
“For us both, I think,” Devere’s sister replied with perfect aplomb, dark eyes dancing with mischief.
Livy realized with a start that her mouth was hanging open. She shut it with a snap, and the comtesse let loose a long trill of laughter.
“Forgive me,” the comtesse said as the coach lumbered to a halt. “Eventually I’ll remember how to school my tongue like an Englishwoman again. But one of the magnificent things about being a widow—English or French—is the freedom it accords you. N’est-ce pas?”
Livy nodded, feeling gauche and provincial and incredibly envious in the face of the comtesse’s bald declaration. The coach door opened, exposing them to the tumult of the storm, and the steps fell with a reverberant clang.
“Au revoir,” Devere’s sister called after her as the wind battered them both and Livy bolted for the house.
The coal in the grate crackled, and Livy stretched out her feet to get them incrementally closer to its heat, wishing for a good, roaring wood fire such as she was used to having at Holinshed. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to get warm with just a tiny brazier full of coal, and she couldn’t stop thinking about her encounter with Devere’s sister.
Livy cradled her cup of tea and brandy, sipping at it as she attempted to warm herself from the inside, too. She had been her father’s de facto hostess since before she was out of the schoolroom. She’d had the male half of the ton at her feet while she took her sweet time deciding whom to marry. And in all those years, she’d never felt at a loss.
Even when the news of the ruin of her marriage had struck, she’d known exactly what to do. And not that she could ever admit to it, but her first response, her first emotion, had been a profound sense of relief.
Souttar had been a mistake. A handsome, wealthy, titled mistake. She’d been miraculously set free, and that freedom was worth every snub, every witticism, and every insult. It was even worth the guilt she’d felt after his death.
It was certainly worth the risks inherent in the gamble she was taking now with Devere. Keeping him close and yet under control was rather like playing keeper at the Tower menagerie: If the leopard wasn’t stealing umbrellas and hats, the monkeys were biting people, or the bear had slipped his chain and swum off up the Thames to harass the fishwives at Billingsgate.
And the comtesse was no easier to predict or contain. The Devere siblings simply didn’t play by the same rules as everyone else, even the rest of the ton. It was as if they’d been given some other rule book than the one she’d been privy to her whole life.
One that was decidedly more interesting.
Livy pushed the thought away. More interesting or not, if she joined in, she’d lose. It would be like attempting to join a cricket match if one had only ever played rounders on the village green. Both games required a bat and ball, but there the similarities ended.
And the day after tomorrow, assuming the rain let up, was the regatta, and afterward, a grand supper with fireworks and dancing at Ranelagh Gardens. She was committed to spending the entire day with her press-ganged swain.
A shiver of anticipation ran through Livy. She wasn’t as immune to Devere’s charms as she would like to be, as she should be. She knew him for exactly who and what he was—rogue, rake, seducer—but there was still a kindling spark when he touched her, and a flare of curiosity that was becoming almost irresistible.
No. Livy bit her lip and sat up to add more brandy to her tea. Devere didn’t even need to touch her. A look was enough to set her pulse racing and make her body ache and throb, wanton as a mare in season. And he knew it.
That was the true problem. Not that he wanted her. A man’s ardor cooled quickly enough if one gave him no encouragement. Nor was the fact that she wanted him impossible to overcome, if she were left with the distance and time to master herself. The simple fact that he knew she wanted him, however, was dangerous in the extreme.
CHAPTER 11
Roland employed the brass knocker on the Bence-Jones’s front door with rather more force than necessary. He’d attempted to call on the ladies of the house the previous day, in the driving rain, but had found them not at home. He’d tracked Sir Christopher to Tattersall’s, where the man had taken one look at him and all but disappeared in a puff of smoke.
What did Sir Christopher think he was going to do to him? And more importantly, what had the man been up to that he thought might elicit a wrathful response? Roland had a very bad feeling about the situation, and Blakely was clearly right to be suspicious.
After an interminable wait, the door finally opened. “Are the ladies at home?” Roland said, holding out his card.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” the butler said, the phrase sounding rote, as if it had been employed time and time again, “but the family is not receiving visitors today.”
Over the man’s shoulder, Roland could clearly see Miss Bence-Jones peeking out of a doorway. She looked poised for flight, as though she might throw caution to the winds and admit him in spite of whatever orders her brother or mother had given.
Roland met her gaze and waited silently, willing her to take action. Blakely deserved a woman who was willing to take a chance for him, who was willing to fight for him. Miss Bence-Jones bit her lip and shook her head, her expression not just pained but frightened.
What the hell had Sir Christopher done? Miss Bence-Jones had always been too sweetly ladylike to appeal to Roland, but she’d certainly had enough spiri
t that he had understood why his friend had asked for her hand. The stricken girl frozen in the doorway was a ghost of the lively one he’d last seen before her father’s death.
“Could you please tell them I called,” Roland said, pitching his voice to carry to her, “and that I hope to see them at Ranelagh tomorrow night? Or failing that, perhaps at my mother’s at-home next Tuesday?”
Miss Bence-Jones nodded, glanced furtively over her shoulder into the room behind her, and disappeared from sight. Roland reclaimed his calling card and took his leave. Her family had clearly made a prisoner of her, which meant that Reeves and Blakely were right to be worried, and whatever was going on, it wasn’t a simple illness or a change of heart on Miss Bence-Jones’s part.
The previous day’s storm had blown through, leaving behind just a few scattered clouds. As the sun slid behind one, Roland turned up the collar of his greatcoat and quickened his pace. He skirted a puddle as he crossed the street and turned south toward St. James’s Street and The Red Lion.
Damn Sir Christopher. Roland swung at a rotting apple in the street with his sword stick and sent it bouncing down the gutter. Blakely couldn’t possibly ask to come home at the moment, which meant that it fell to his friends to sort it out, to The League.
Thane would want to go slowly and keep things quiet. Reeves and de Moulines—fire-eaters, the both of them—would act first and repent at their leisure, more than likely causing a huge scandal in the process. Blakely’s career wouldn’t stand up to that sort of thing. The diplomatic corps frowned upon scandals, at least among their junior aides. The ambassadors themselves always seemed to be embroiled in one imbroglio or another: political, financial, amorous, or some combination thereof.
Roland’s best allies for such an undertaking were Vaughn and Sandison, who’d come at it sideways with all the skills and deception they’d learned at their fathers’ knees. Except Vaughn had raced home to Dyrham because one of his prize mares was due to foal any day and Sandison was mired in Kent with Vaughn’s sister, who was in much the same condition as the mare.
Roland sidestepped a pile of horse dung, swung at the apple again, and came to an abrupt halt as his gaze came to rest on the sight of Lady Olivia being driven in a curricle by Carlow. All thought of Blakely and Miss Bence-Jones fled, burnt away by a flash of anger that set Roland’s blood boiling.
Olivia had skipped their morning ride, sending word with her father that she was too unwell to join them. She’d also begged to be excused from their plans to meet at Lady Picford’s ridotto that evening. Supposedly she was spending the day abed, attempting to ward off a chill she’d taken when caught in yesterday’s storm. Except there she was, clearly doing nothing of the sort.
Roland watched the curricle roll merrily down New Pye Street and turn up into Mayfair. He knew damn well that Carlow wished him at Jericho, but having his place usurped by the likes of Henry Carlow was more than Roland was willing to stand for. Olivia had demanded a show of fidelity for the farce they were enacting, and she’d damn well better be offering him the same. It was going to be bad enough being publically jilted in a few months’ time; having anyone think that he’d been thrown over in favor of Carlow, that was asking too much.
What would Olivia say if he called to check on her? If he caught her in her habit, clearly just come in from her drive? Would she beg his pardon, make some excuse, or merely stare him down as though he’d no right at all to lay claim to her?
Indignation and anger fueling every motion, Roland lengthened his stride. If he hurried and cut through the mews, he could reach Arlington House before they’d even had time to climb down from the box.
Livy clambered down from Henry’s curricle without assistance, sweeping her skirts clear of the step with a practiced twist. She’d hung herself up once, as a girl of twelve, and the humiliation had been enough to set her practicing the maneuver until she had it down to an art.
Henry handed the reins of his curricle to one of her father’s grooms, signaling his intention to stay at least long enough to see her inside. She hadn’t intended to go out at all today. She’d been huddled near the fire in her bedroom, still trying to thaw her bones after yesterday’s dousing, when Henry had burst in and demanded that she accompany him to look at a small suite of rooms he was thinking of letting for the remainder of the Season.
He’d been so excited about it that she hadn’t the heart to say no. So even though the last thing she wanted to do was set forth into the blustery day, she’d dutifully pulled on her redingote and gone with him. The hot brick inside her swansdown muff had gone cold while they were debating furnishings and making lists of warehouses. It was merely a heavy weight in her arms now.
When Henry had first arrived in London, he’d thrown out hints that he’d like to be invited to stay at Arlington House, but the earl had proved remarkably deaf. It had been almost comical to watch Henry drop hints about the mean size of the rooms and the uncomfortable nature of the beds at Ibottson’s Hotel while her father commiserated and pretended not to understand the purpose of Henry’s comments.
Henry was too proud to ask outright and risk a rebuff, and her father was too polite to simply tell him to go to the devil. It wasn’t that her father disliked Henry per se, but the earl had certainly never encouraged his presumptive heir to act like a true son of the household. Henry had never run tame about the estate or been given an allowance by the earl as some presumptive heirs were.
Livy studied Henry in the dappled light thrown by the fast-moving clouds. It was hard to imagine him in her father’s place, even if he did have the Carlow coloring and the Carlow nose.
Would she feel the same if Henry were her brother rather than a somewhat distant cousin? Livy turned the question over in her mind while worrying her lip with her teeth. Yes. She’d known all her life that Henry would inherit, so in that way he was very much like a brother, but it still seemed impossible that someday people would address him as Arlington.
“When they’re cool enough, give them a drink,” Henry said, patting the closest horse on the shoulder. “I’ll be back for them after I’ve seen Lady Olivia in.” Henry held out his arm, and Livy allowed him to escort her out of the mews.
Did he know that her father meant to leave Holinshed Castle and Arlington House to her? That he’d inherit the title but very little else? The most recent entail had been broken by her grandfather, and the estate that had been conferred with the title was little more than a rocky hundred acres on the Welsh border.
Livy shifted the muff from one arm to the other and shook her arm to get the blood flowing freely again. Henry obligingly held out his hand.
“Give it here, cousin,” he said, sliding the muff from her arm and tucking it under his elbow like a package. “So what do you think of Chapel Street? It’s not the most fashionable address…”
“But is such a thing really all that important when it’s only for the Season?”
“I suppose not,” Henry replied with a shrug that clearly implied that it was but he was resistant to admitting to such a prejudice.
Livy held her tongue. She’d nearly forgot how important appearances were to Henry. He always wanted to do the right thing. And by right, he meant that which would be most favorably looked upon by Society, that which would garner him the most praise, the most prestige. It was why he’d gone to Italy with Sir William, rather than take holy orders as his father had wished.
The ton might like him more for his supposed love of king and country. Livy did not. She’d seen his father’s face when Henry had announced that his calling lay outside the church. He’d been devastated. They’d both known what Henry had meant was that life as a vicar wasn’t grand enough for him.
She and Henry emerged from the narrow alley that led from the mews to the street to find Devere waiting on the steps, looking as though he’d been stationed there some time. His expression was one of benign patience, but Livy could clearly make out the faint signs of annoyance. His lips were ever so slightly clam
ped and one brow quivered as though it would fly up at the slightest provocation.
Good. He shouldn’t place the slightest confidence in his right to monopolize her time or control her movements. It would serve as a useful lesson to him not to try.
Devere pushed away from the area’s iron railing, and Livy felt her bravado falter. She’d canceled their plans today—twice—and now she’d been caught abroad, the picture of health. She knew precisely how it looked. The question was, how best to respond?
An explanation and apology would imply that he had a right to one, which under normal circumstances—which these clearly weren’t—he would. Brazening her way through it would likely enrage him, but it would leave her in a stronger position. And maintaining the upper hand had come to feel vital.
“Mr. Devere.” Livy pasted a bright smile on her face and moved toward him with both hands extended. “As you can see, I’m feeling better.”
“Clearly,” Devere said, bending over her hand after casting her a look that put her immediately on her guard.
Livy fought back the rising urge to explain. How did his sister and the other masterful women of the ton manage to restrain themselves? To always remain cool and calculating? To make flirtation seem effortless? It was galling to find herself constantly having to remember that she and this charming man were essentially at war.
The door opened on well-oiled hinges, and Devere dropped her hand and motioned her inward. Henry shoved past him to lead her into the house. Livy glanced back and nearly burst into laughter at the look of disdain on Devere’s face. He might be annoyed by her outing with Henry, but he didn’t consider him a threat of any kind. He caught her gaze as he followed in Henry’s wake, idly swinging his swordstick.
Livy took a deep breath and ducked her head as she removed her hat. She’d chosen her path, best to stick to it. If she gave ground, she’d never make it up.
