If the distinction of viscount did not allow Rainsleigh to leave a party early, the notoriety of being Frankie Courtland’s son certainly did. His parents routinely left parties early, arrived late, refused to leave, or didn’t attend at all. Boorish rudeness was a Courtland family tradition.
It was also precisely the sort of bad behavior that Rainsleigh worked so hard to expunge, but he’d be damned if he would remain in the presence of an unknown niece who, clearly, could not bear the sight of him.
He hadn’t even known the countess was in possession of a niece. And now this young woman would reject him? According to Beecham, she was an on-the-shelf spinster who rarely left the house.
Rainsleigh scanned the salon, looking for the baron and his wife. He’d make some excuse. He had no idea what. I lost my head and behaved like an idiot in front of a pretty girl would obviously never do, but he’d think of something.
What lunacy had taken possession of his brain? He had conditioned himself over the years to ignore the distraction of females in general and beautiful women in particular. He was an active, virile male, well in his prime, but temptation could be (and had been) locked down for the sake of productiveness. And his reputation. And to prove a bloody point.
He would never be a slave to his own impulses as his father had been.
And now, look at him. After one exchange, it was no wonder that Lady Elisabeth had sprinted up the stairs. He’d all but chased her into the bloody kitchens.
If nothing else, it made him realize that the new wife he sought should not unleash any sort of unchecked base desire. Another reason that Dunhip was better served to sift through the early candidates. The very last thing Rainsleigh wanted, even less than a young girl or a bold girl, was a distractingly beautiful girl. Especially one who considered herself too superior to sit beside him for the length of one meal. He made a mental note for Dunhip’s file: Should pose no particular temptation.
Temptation, he thought bitterly, that’s putting it very mildly.
He located Beecham and his wife near the fire but paused just short of making an excuse. Of course he couldn’t leave now. To go before they’d eaten would be considered strange at best, rude at worst.
He should use the event to demonstrate that his manners were sufficient. That he could keep away from closed doors and servant passages. That he was in no way preoccupied with the hostess’s obviously disinterested niece.
“Ah, there he is,” called a female voice behind him.
Not preoccupied, he reminded himself, waiting a beat before he turned ’round.
Lady Banning stood smiling behind him. Behind her, stood the niece, Lady Elisabeth. Her expression read . . . concern. Concern about what, he could only guess. She would not look at him. She stared resignedly at the bobbing feather in her aunt’s coiffure with a pained look on her face. Gone was the blue day dress; the wispy, tumbling curls; the bare hands. Now she wore an evening gown of pale purple, delicately trimmed in a darker shade of merlot. Her hair had been slickly gathered into a full poof of curls on the top of her head. Silk gloves of the same pale purple sheathed her arms from elbow to fingertip. Distractions set in immediately, and he found himself staring at those fingertips, her dainty elbow, her curls. Only the faintest sense of self-preservation caused him to return his gaze to the countess.
“My lady,” he said. He inclined his head graciously.
The countess went on, “Please accept my apologies for the delay, my lord. You must be ravenous. But I have rung for dinner, and the soup is divine.”
She looked to her niece—one quick glance and then a second, longer look. “Come along, Elisabeth,” she enthused. “You’ve made the acquaintance of the viscount, so he may escort you. Lead the way, won’t you?”
Rainsleigh was given no choice but to offer Elisabeth his arm. For a long, painful moment, he thought she would reject it, her aunt be damned. But then she stepped wordlessly forward and slid her gloved hand over his sleeve. Her fingers closed firmly, and he felt her warmth through the wool of his jacket. She was so close. His body surged with awareness, like a magnet drawn to its opposite pole.
As they walked, he had some vague sense of the other guests falling in procession behind them—the plod of canes and heavy footsteps from the old couples, the rustle of gowns and giggling from the young ladies. He had intended to take in every detail of his first London party. Now his sole focus was every detail of the woman beside him. Her profile—soft skin and a serene expression. Her red-gold hair. The faint scent of her hair wafted against him, clean, fresh. Like a bloody meadow, he thought. She smelled like daylight.
“It’s just here.” She gestured to the right.
He allowed her to lead him. What else could he do while his mind swam with her nearness? In no way was he detached or measured or rational. He was totally preoccupied, and the weakness made him angry. To stem the tide, he leaned to her ear.
“Loser’s lot?” he asked softly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, come now. Let us drop the pretense.”
She missed a step. On reflex, he tucked his arm, drawing her close. He felt the warm contour of her body up and down his side. He swallowed hard.
“Pretense?” she asked.
“The quarrel with your aunt just now. You lost, clearly. And now here you are, forced to eat dinner with me.”
She stopped. “Is that what . . . ”
Her pause made him look. She stared back, her eyes large. They were blue and green, he could now see. Turquoise. A mermaid’s eyes. A flicker of a memory—some long-forgotten moment in time—danced on the edges of his consciousness. He ignored it, determined to expose her rejection of him. “Yes?” he asked.
“Is that why you . . . That is what you think? That my aunt has forced me, and I don’t wish to attend?” She stole a look over her shoulder at the other guests. They were nearly to them, filing past with sidelong glances. Rainsleigh looked up long enough to see the young women do more than glance. They stared openly, and Elisabeth slid her hand from his arm and stepped away. It felt immediately wrong, and he fought the urge to grab it back.
“We needn’t pretend,” he said, an excuse to return to her.
To this she had no response. Her mermaid’s stare did not waver. “No. Let us not pretend.”
She chuckled then, a sad, disbelieving sort of laugh, and slid her gloved hand over his arm. The other guests had trickled through, and she tugged him to catch up, around a corner and through an arched door. “Here we are,” she said.
She let him go and drifted to the table, nosing round, chair to chair. Other guests had begun to settle up and down the table, but they watched him. He felt every curious glance. The young women watched him openly. He waited to feel gratified or flattered, but his sole focus was Lady Elisabeth.
“Heavens, the outlay,” she whispered, walking back to him. The table was set with a glinting landscape of china and silver. Crystal goblets reflected the light of fifty candles. “I have no idea where I’m meant to sit.”
“You’ll sit beside his lordship, Elisabeth,” said Lady Banning, sailing into the room behind them. She gestured to two seats near the head of the table.
Elisabeth nodded and followed. Rainsleigh followed, too, watching how she maneuvered the crowded room with a silent, graceful pride that seemed to ignore the audience of onlookers. When she reached the designated seat, a footman leapt from the wall to pull out the chair. She smiled gently and murmured to him, sinking in.
In the corner of the room, a fierce, whispered exchange arose between the countess and Lady Beecham. Lady Elisabeth leaned to Rainsleigh and said, “My aunt is pulling rank. A rare sight, indeed.”
“Except in the stairwell,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“The countess forced you to attend this meal on my arm.”
“You are mistaken, my lord, about what happened between my aunt and me.” She studied him.
He raised one eyebrow.
She
looked down at the glistening place setting. “Lillian has probably shuffled the place cards.”
“To accommodate our seats,” he guessed.
“To accommodate herself—but yes, she is pulling rank to trap you between me and her. You should feel gratified; Lady Beecham would swarm you on all sides with the young ladies.” She inclined her head toward the girls casting disappointed glances in their direction from the far end of the table. “My aunt would have you less . . . encumbered.”
“Instead, she encumbers you?”
“I am not encumbered by you, my lord,” Lady Elisabeth said.
He stared at her, searching for some slight or deeper meaning. He tried to predict what she might say next, but he realized that he had no idea. Everything out of her mouth had been a surprise. He wasn’t accustomed to surprises; if asked, he would say that he wasn’t fond of them. And yet he found himself eager to hear what she might say next. Too eager.
But now the countess was settling at the head of the table and signaling the footmen to serve the soup.
“Lord Rainsleigh?” she called to him. “There are several people who would delight in making your acquaintance, and I hope you’ll indulge us. My, er, errand upstairs precluded proper introductions, but you must meet a few friends and neighbors.”
Rainsleigh glanced at Lady Elisabeth. “It would be a pleasure.”
A procession of names and nods followed, including the young ladies now relegated to the far end of the table and the elderly couples scattered between. The final guest—a marchioness, who, according to rank, was seated directly across from Rainsleigh—was presented last.
“Perhaps you already know Frances, Marchioness of Frinfrock?” the countess asked, gesturing to the diminutive old woman. “You are neighbors, I believe, in Henrietta Place.”
Rainsleigh nodded. “How do you do, Lady Frinfrock?”
The wizened old woman could barely see above her soup, but she gazed at him with suspicious, narrowed eyes. “The castle you’ve constructed in my street is a vulgarity, Rainsleigh,” the marchioness said.
Rainsleigh swallowed a laugh. “I’m sorry to hear it, my lady.”
In the same moment the countess said, “Come now, Lady Frinfrock. I’ll admit I’ve nearly starved you, but let us strive to be pleasant.”
“ ’Tis no unpleasantness,” he assured the countess. To the scowling woman across the table, he said, “Pray, your ladyship, which house in the street is yours?”
“You’d know my property if you made an effort to learn the character and population of the street before you devoted an eon erecting your Tower of Babel.”
“Yes, well, I’ve only just moved in, but you make a fair point. It’s been builders and craftsmen you’ve seen in and out. I should have called on neighbors by now.”
“Had you deigned to make the acquaintance of anyone in Henrietta Place, you would also know that your ‘craftsmen’ have hauled every manner of timber, stone, and Lord-knows-what material into the street, rendering the road nearly impassable. Pocked with trenches and pits from your delivery wagons. Strewn with spilt gravel. All the while, they raise your monstrosity higher and higher, blotting out the very sun.”
Again, Bryson swallowed a laugh. In fact, he had met with neighbors—he’d bought the house from a neighbor and friend—and he had been mindful of inconvenience and damage to the area. But this woman was enjoying herself far too much to be challenged. And it wouldn’t do to be ungracious to a lady.
“But perhaps you did not notice, your ladyship,” he said, “the repairs I commissioned to restore the road? The new road was meant to give residents—”
“Perhaps we preferred the road as it was,” the marchioness interrupted, pointing with her spoon. “Another thing you would have known if you had bothered to introduce yourself to anyone of consequence in Henrietta Place.”
“Yes,” he allowed, taking a sip of wine. He gave Lady Banning a wink and tried again, “Although were you aware that I, in fact, bought the house from a neighbor? The Earl of Falcondale? He and his lady-wife live next door; that is, when they are not traveling abroad—”
“I said anyone of consequence, and Falcondale hardly qualifies. His wife is lovely, but I take frequent issue with the earl. He offered nothing to the house but abject neglect. You are no better, burdening us with an extended construction; widening and raising and embellishing. Domed turrets, ogling gargoyles, and that ghastly tangle of iron trim. It’s difficult to say who has done more harm, you or the earl.”
“Oh, I’ll happily concede this distinction to Falcondale,” Rainsleigh said. “He may revel in it.” A footman cleared his soup, and he leaned back in his chair, smiling at the engrossed faces up and down the table. “But you make it very clear that I must make some sort of amends, my lady. I’ve no wish to embark on my new life surrounded by enemies in my own street. May I call on you in the coming days and provide a tour through the house? Perhaps you could tolerate the work if you were to see the inside.”
The marchioness harrumphed. “Doubtless I have the strength to traverse such a vast expanse or climb such a great many stairs.”
“I find that very hard to believe,” he said, eliciting chuckles from around the table. “Come now, you must be curious.”
The tiny woman set down her spoon and raised her eyebrows. “How perceptive. Curious, am I?”
A footman removed her soup and replaced it with a dish of vegetables. She muttered something disagreeable to him and then turned back to Rainsleigh. “Now that you’ve made mention, there is one thing about which I am exceedingly curious . . . ”
Something about the way the sentence trailed off, about the look of determination in her keen, gray eyes, signaled the end of their discussion about his “castle” and heralded weightier topics. Her tone, certainly, could not have been more clear. He felt the stares of everyone at the table but kept his face impassive.
“My curiosity has nearly eaten me alive over the topic of your parents, Lord Rainsleigh,” the old woman began. “Your sire is dead, of course, but tell me—what of your mother? The viscountess. Lady Rainsleigh?”
For a moment, Rainsleigh said nothing, allowing the footman to place a plate of vegetables before him. When the man was gone, he said, “My mother resides in Spain.”
“Spain?” repeated the marchioness. “She will not relocate to Henrietta Place?”
“No.”
“And you have a brother, have you not?”
“I do. Mr. Beauregard Courtland. A retired naval officer and current merchant marine. He is in residence now, actually. You may have seen him in the street. He will, I can assure you, be a guest in my home when he is not at sea.”
He had expected this, of course. Some manner of interrogation. Not necessarily here, during the meal, with a captive audience, and certainly not in front of the disdainful niece, but he had given some thought to what he might say. Direct answers. Levelness. No shame. He’d answered for his parents often enough. It was the wrong play to grow defensive. It only showed weakness and guilt, and he felt neither.
Lady Banning obviously discerned his waning patience and strove to intercept. “I know I would relish a tour of Lord Rainsleigh’s house, if the offer extends to more distant neighbors,” she enthused. “The papers describe quite a marvel of modernity and high art. Won’t you tell us of your architect, my lord? I read you had him brought over from France?”
He forced a smile. “Germany.” He turned back to the small woman now examining a hank of potato on her raised fork. “But I wish to satisfy Lady Frinfrock’s curiosity,” he said. “Please, my lady. What other questions have you for me? Not more offenses piled on my house, I hope.”
“The less I know about your German-built atrocity, the better.” She took a small, skeptical bite.
He took up his glass. She stared back, chewing. Rainsleigh went on, “But surely you do not intend to tick off every relation I have, asking if they each have a bed. Come now, don’t be shy. What do you really want
to know?”
“Very well. What I really want to know,” she said, inclining her knife at him in little taps, waving it like a composer’s baton, “is what manner of person you may be, Lord Rainsleigh. The reputations of your parents precedes you, as I’m sure you are aware. But what of you, my lord? So far, all I know is that you commissioned a towering mansion for a family of one, and that you spent a fortune to do so.” She paused, took another bite, and chewed.
Rainsleigh crossed his arms over his chest as the marchioness went on. “Your late father could scarcely keep a roof over his head by the end. He commissioned nothing, built nothing; certainly he funded nothing.” Another bite. “The obvious question from a concerned neighbor is, what of you, my lord?” A fourth bite. “Do the differences between you and your disreputable sire begin and end with houses and money? Or do you go your own way in all things? I will not tolerate a reprobate in Henrietta Place, I don’t care how much money he has, and furthermore—”
Beside him, the countess’s niece, Lady Elisabeth suddenly, inexplicably, surged to her feet and planted her hands on the table.
“I beg your pardon, Lady . . . Lady . . . Forgive me. Aunt Lillian?” She turned to her aunt. “Pray, remind me of the name of your esteemed guest.”
A table full of heads swiveled to the countess. Lady Banning appeared as shocked and speechless everyone else, Rainsleigh included. Only the diminutive old woman casually stabbed a third potato, showing no alarm.
Lady Frinfrock took a bite of potato and eyed Elisabeth levelly. “The Marchioness of Frinfrock,” she answered. “And who, pray tell, are you?”
“I am no one of consequence,” said Lady Elisabeth, “but I am a guest at this table, along with other friends and well-meaning people, and I should like to speak for all of us when I ask you, with respect, to cease your interrogation of the viscount. ’Tis uncomfortable and unnecessary and rude.”
Rainsleigh’s jaw would have dropped into his plate if his manners were not bolted so tightly in place. He stared at the woman beside him.
Lady Elisabeth went on. “You need only read the papers to learn of Lord Rainsleigh’s years of quiet work to build his shipping company and his subsequent devotion to philanthropy. Of his serious and thoughtful influence on political debate. The care with which he has rebuilt his family’s home in Wiltshire, including new prosperity for the land and tenants, advances in agriculture, and the restoration of historic relics. If these very public acts do not convince you of his character, then an extemporaneous defense of his parentage—a circumstance of which he is wholly innocent—will do even less.” She sat back down. “Now, I implore you. Please. Leave the man alone. For God’s sake. Let someone else or some other topic draw breath at this table.”
A Proper Scandal Page 6
