by Isobel Carr
“Or three,” Roland said, shaking his head at his sister. “Arlington won’t chase you with such vigor when you’re plump as a nun’s hen, and I’m on the hunt for Lady Olivia.”
His sister wrinkled up her nose at him and pinched his side, hard. “You missed her at Lady Spencer’s by more than a quarter of an hour. She left for an appointment with her mantua-maker. Take me to tea, and I’ll tell you where she was going after that.”
Roland glared down at her, and she laughed, not even the slightest bit cowed. “You haven’t yet perfected father’s frown,” Margo said, ignoring his attempt to turn toward their own home and cheerfully dragging him onward in the direction of Berkeley Square.
The sign of the pot and pineapple that hung outside Negri’s came into view, though it was unnecessary at this point. The street was clogged with carriages. Waiters were busy braving death to deliver tea and cakes and ices to the ladies waiting in them and the gentlemen who stood beside them, while people trying to make their way around the square dashed by them all.
He and Margo turned into the shop itself and wove their way to a small unoccupied table in the far corner. He helped her to a seat and took the one across from her. All attempts to fold himself beneath the table failed, and in the end he twisted to one side and prayed no one would trip over his feet.
A harried waiter appeared, sniffed at Roland’s sprawl, and nodded when he ordered tea and iced cakes. “Seed cake or ginger cake, sir? We have both, iced and powdered. Also pound cake.”
“Ginger,” he and Margo said at the same time.
The waiter nodded and stepped carefully—pointedly—over Roland’s booted feet. Margo pressed her lips together, clearly stifling a laugh. “I don’t think he likes you.”
“If they wouldn’t make these tables so damn small—” Roland cut himself off abruptly when he caught the indignant gaze of the women at the next table.
“Now they don’t like you either.” Margo’s glance flicked over the ladies to their left.
“If I wasn’t a gentleman…”
“You’d turn me over your knee?” Margo said as their tea arrived. “That would be a grand sight, wouldn’t it? Don’t forget to sell tickets. You’d make a fortune.”
A second waiter appeared with a plate containing four small iced cakes. Small being the operative word. Roland eyed them with an internal sigh. He could smell the ginger and molasses, and the little cakes glistened with the sticky promise of sugary delight, but all four of them wouldn’t satisfy Margo, let alone the both of them. He stripped off his gloves and picked one up, eating it in one bite.
“Greedy guts,” Margo said as she worked off her own gloves a bit more slowly. “Though I suppose it does take a good deal to keep that great carcass of yours going.”
Roland grinned and took a second cake. His sister responded by pulling the plate toward her side of the table, her expression daring him to reach for it.
“We can order more, you know,” he said. “In fact, I think we’ll have to. These were clearly made for children.”
“But they might run out of ginger cakes,” she said as she plucked one from the plate.
“And you’d be reduced to pound cake? Or seed cake? Or, God forbid, rout cakes?”
“Precisely,” she said with a grin before taking a bite. She chewed slowly, clearly savoring the cake.
“Dare I ask if you and Olivia’s father have an understanding?” Roland said.
Margo choked and coughed into her hand. When she stopped, she wiped her mouth with her handkerchief and blinked her watering eyes while still struggling to breathe. People craned their necks and stared. Margo shook her head and reached unsteadily for her tea.
“No,” she said after she set her cup back down. “The earl and I…” She shook her head again, dark curls swishing over her shoulder. “We couldn’t be further apart when it comes to what we understand.”
Roland nodded and reached for the last cake. Margo batted his hand away. He flagged the waiter down and gestured at the plate. “There,” Roland said. “I’ve ordered more. And don’t think I believe you for so much as a minute when you tell me that Arlington doesn’t want to marry you.”
“I said we don’t agree on the path forward.” Margo picked up the last cake and ate it in two bites. Roland bit back a chuckle. So the earl did want to marry her, and Margo was, well, Margo was being Margo. Contrary to the bone. She’d have been equally miffed, perhaps more so, if the man didn’t want to marry her.
A new plate of cakes arrived, this one piled high. Roland ate another one while Margo topped off both their cups from the pot. He wanted to tease his sister, rile her up just for the fun of watching her. She’d been happier since meeting Arlington than he’d seen her in years. Maybe happier than he’d ever seen her. She fairly glowed with it, incongruous as that was with her widow’s weeds.
“But?” He let the question hang in the air.
She cocked her head. “But I rather imagine that whatever he feels for me now will disappear like fairy gold when you and his daughter put a period to the farce you’ve been enacting for us all.”
Roland opened his mouth to protest, but words suddenly failed him. She was right. He hadn’t even thought about it, but she was right.
“Margo?” He reached for her hand, gripping it hard while studying her face.
His sister forced a smile. “Don’t look so stricken, Rolly. All good things come to an end. The timing of your own affair will bring mine to a conclusion before the earl and I begin to bore one other.”
“What if I didn’t put an end to it?”
“Take me to the fair at Greenwich,” Livy said, squeezing hard on Devere’s arm as he escorted her through the echoing halls of the British Museum.
His dark eyes narrowed with obvious disapproval. “Charlton’s Horn Fair?”
Livy nodded, ignoring his scowl. She’d never been, but she could think of no more outrageous request to make of him, and this Season of theirs could well be her final chance for any and all things of that nature. The idea of spending the afternoon at a fair made famous by its tradition of cross-dressing female attendees was too appealing to pass up.
He shook his head and quickened his pace, practically dragging her past the display of black-and-white Greek vases. “I don’t think you’d like the experience.”
Up ahead, her father and the comtesse disappeared around the corner, heading for the lecture they’d all come to hear. Livy frowned down at the marble floor. Devere should be jumping at the chance for such an outing.
“Don’t want to see me in breeches?” she said. Livy cocked her head so she could see his expression. Devere’s eyes went wide for just a moment, their thick, almost girlish lashes making them appear even larger than they were. He glared down at her.
“Want? Lord, yes. You’d put Drury Lane’s current queen of the breeches role to shame in a pair of tight buckskins, but if I saw you, so would every other man on the street, and no, that I don’t particularly fancy.”
A laugh welled up inside her. Livy clapped one kidskin-clad hand over her mouth to dampen it. “What if I agreed not to wear breeches? Would you take me then?”
Devere merely glanced at her again and pulled her into the room where people were milling about, waiting to take their seats. Her father and the comtesse were across the room examining something under a glass dome, while Devere’s father was speaking with several of the more prominent members of the Royal Society.
The Duke of Portland nodded to them, and when she smiled, approached. He shook hands with Devere and bent over her hand. “Which of the presentations brought you to us today, my lady?”
“The one about the new species of bird discovered in Denham. Imagine such a thing happening today.” Livy shook her head in disbelief.
“New to science,” His Grace said, “but not unknown to the people of Denham. It was my mother who sent a specimen to Reverend Lightfoot and urged him to come and see them for himself.”
“Her Grace is to
be congratulated. Such discoveries in faraway places have become almost commonplace—I seem to see one or two every month in the Royal Society’s Philosophical Transactions—but here in England?” Devere shook his head. “I guess it’s easy to miss what’s right before you. Sometimes it just seems too ordinary to be special.”
The duke nodded sagely at Devere’s pronouncement as he was hailed by Reverend Lightfoot. He sketched a bow and strode away to join his mother’s protégée at the front of the room.
“Shall we find a seat?” Devere said. “I think they’re about to begin.”
Livy took a deep, calming breath and allowed him to lead her to a seat in the back row. The opening presentation was by Reverend Lightfoot about his new species of wren. Livy listened intently as he spoke, detailing the differences in its nests, eggs, behavior, and coloration from that of the common Willow wren.
“Anyone might see the differences for themselves after this lecture by examining the examples displayed here,” the reverend said, gesturing to the line of glass domes at the edge of the room.
Livy craned her neck but could see nothing but a few vaguely brown things within them. The reverend finished, accepted the congratulations of the audience, and retired to a seat at the front with a nod.
The day continued with a Mr. Cavendish’s experiments on air. Livy stifled a yawn behind her hand. “Does any of that make sense to you?”
Devere shook his head almost imperceptibly.
“Thank Heaven,” Livy said under her breath. She might not have the same level of education as a man who’d gone to Oxford or Cambridge, but she was very well read. Mr. Cavendish’s entire presentation made her head swim. The jumps of logic alone were staggering.
“It’s rather like listening to some of the speeches in Commons though,” he whispered back, his voice colored with humor. “Nonsense mixed with balderdash but said with utter conviction.”
“I don’t think I can take any more,” Livy said, her hand poised on Devere’s arm. “Let’s go look at ancient, dusty things under glass.”
Devere stood, and they practically raced for the door, moving as quietly as they could. Behind them, the response of poor Mr. Cavendish’s fellow scientists had become a belligerent rumble. Livy smiled to herself. At least she wasn’t the only one who thought he was spouting gibberish.
The heavy wooden door closed silently behind them, and Livy rubbed her temples as they stood poised in the corridor outside. “Headache?” Devere said.
She nodded. “I normally love lectures, but Mr. Cavendish’s made my brain feel as though it were turning to jelly.”
“Do you want to stroll about the South Sea treasures while your brain solidifies?”
“Don’t we need an appointment?”
Devere’s smile widened into a knowing grin. “I had a premonition that the lecture might prove a bit”—he glanced at the ceiling as he searched for the proper word—“dry, shall we say? I applied for tickets several days ago. They should be waiting with the porter.”
“Brilliant man,” Livy said as Devere led her down the corridor. “You’re proving far more useful than I ever imagined.”
Devere glanced down at her, one brow raised. “I do aim to please.”
Heat tinged his voice. Livy’s cheeks burnt faintly, and she turned her head away, hoping he wouldn’t see the telltale blush. The South Sea treasures would fill the time, but if she were perfectly honest, she’d much rather find a quiet, secret corner where they could be alone for half an hour.
Before she could embarrass herself by making such a suggestion, they were in the entrance hall, and Devere was claiming their tickets from the porter. One of the librarians who served as guides led them through as a private party, no other ticket holders being present and waiting for admission.
Livy was still eagerly perusing the collection that Captain Cook had brought back from his adventures when the snap of Devere’s watch opening and closing drew her attention from the most enormous pink shell she’d ever seen.
“Mr. Herschel’s lecture on the polar regions of Mars should be at an end. We should repair to the entrance hall to await the rest of our party.”
Livy gave the collection one last, longing glance. There was still so much to see. She hadn’t prowled about the British Museum since her first year on the marriage mart, and at the time she’d been rather too preoccupied with her suitor to give the collection the attention it deserved. Somehow, even though she was quite achingly aware of Devere as he followed her about, he wasn’t the distraction he might have been. The frisson of his presence felt almost comfortable. Like a promise of things to come.
“We can come back. Tomorrow if you like?” Devere said with a chuckle as he followed her gaze to the unexplored half of the room.
Livy slanted a glance at him. “I was hoping tomorrow you’d take me to the Charlton Fair.”
“Back to that, are we?” His tone was light, but the grim line about his mouth told her that the answer was still no. He could be amazingly stuffy when he wanted to be.
They arrived in the grand entrance hall of what had once been Montague House, and their guide bowed and left to return to his work. Livy slowly crossed the large expanse of patterned marble to claim one of the small chairs that lined the room. Devere leaned against the wall, looming, as was his wont.
“What if I offered to take you to the races instead?” he said. “That should be suitably outré, as that seems to be your goal. You can drink beer again, and wear one of your enormous hats, and make outrageous bets with all my friends.”
“Is there a large party going?” She couldn’t keep the eagerness from her voice. She’d never been to any of the races. Her father wasn’t addicted to the turf, and her marriage had been too brief for such an outing to occur, if indeed her husband would have thought to take her.
“A very large party.” Devere flicked out the skirts of his coat and dropped into the chair beside her. “Mr. Reeves’s family has a stud near Staines, and they have a horse running at Windsor next week. I imagine most of us have a great deal of money riding on Spigot. And since his elder brother was injured, the family likes to host events to keep Lord Carteret entertained.”
Livy found herself staring at Devere’s hand as he spoke about his plans for the upcoming trip to Windsor Great Park. Large, long-fingered, capable of great wickedness. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how it felt to be touched by him since his grandmother’s birthday party. She was consumed by it.
Her stomach fluttered. Lust. That’s what this was. Lust and wickedness and all the things the vicar spoke against every Sunday morning in church while she squirmed uncomfortably in her pew. That, too, was new. She’d never fidgeted in church before she’d met Devere. Had never seen herself as the focus of the sermon.
How wrong was it that she was coming to like the sensation?
“Would Lord Arlington be amenable to that?”
“What?” Livy blinked as she realized she’d completely lost track of what Devere was saying.
He laughed and shook his head. “To your joining the party at Bankcroft? Lady Norwich will be there to lend propriety and play duenna, as well as Margo.”
“I can’t see why he would object.”
“Really?” One side of Devere’s mouth quirked up. “I certainly can.”
CHAPTER 31
The beat of a dozen hooves smashing down at a thunderous pace echoed through Livy’s sternum. The crowd surged around her, swelling and ebbing as people fought for the best view of the race as it swept past. Cheers and screams deafened her for a moment.
Devere and his friends formed a wall, without which she would have surely been carried away or dashed to the ground. Even with them surrounding her on every side, she could feel the jostle of the gathered audience.
One of them, Lord William, the same man who’d snubbed her at the Moubrays’ ball, was now eyeing her as though she were a horse for sale. Livy turned her head away, ignoring his laugh at being dismissed. Besid
e her, the comtesse shouted to be heard. “Did you see Spigot?”
Livy shook her head. Truth be told, she hadn’t seen much beyond a jumble of bay and chestnut hides and a flash of the jockeys’ colored silks. It was a visual riot, just glimpses from between the shoulders of the men around her.
“He’s fighting for the lead with Crimson,” Thane said, his deep voice easily cutting through the babble. “It’s going to be close, but that was only to be expected.”
“Who owns Crimson?” Livy put a hand up to hold her hat on as the breeze picked up and tugged at it.
“The Duke of Grafton,” Devere said into the sudden lull, as the noise died down and the throng once again settled in to wait. “The duke has a large stud and racing is his life. It would be quite something for Norwich if Spigot were to win today.”
“Are you telling me I should have bet on Crimson?” Livy said with a laugh. She hadn’t bet much in comparison to the men, but the ten pounds she had riding on the outcome had riveted her interest in a way she’d never suspected.
“Never!” Devere’s sister said with a reproving shake of her head. “Betting on the favorite brings very little return. Betting on an unknown? Well, I hope to double this quarter’s pin money with my modest bet on Spigot.”
“Do widows have pin money?” Livy said, surprised. She did, but it was a technicality with her father, who didn’t want her to breach her principal, even though she had every legal right to do so.
“Not really,” the comtesse said, moving closer as though about to confess a secret. “But I can’t get out of the habit of thinking of it that way, especially as I’ve voluntarily reduced myself to the nursery ranks by coming home to my family.”
Sympathy burnt through Livy. She hadn’t imagined Devere’s sister to feel any of the same constraints she did. “It does feel as though one has somehow been magically transported back in time, doesn’t it?”
