The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown

by Julia Quinn

  All his thought processes stuttered to a halt, and Terrance Greyson, fourth Marquis of Darington could only stare.

  “Lord Darington,” she said as she entered the small drawing room and bowed her head. Her eyes were duller without tears, not quite the bright emerald he remembered from the theater. And God knew he had remembered them, especially as he tossed and turned and tried to sleep.

  No, he shouldn’t say they were duller, just muted.

  But her skin was still an ethereal pale pink.

  The cat Terrance had been petting rubbed its head beneath his fingers, and he automatically continued scratching behind the kitty’s ears. She, the woman, that was, stared at him as if he had just forgotten to stand in her presence.

  Dear God, he had forgotten to stand.

  Terrance stood quickly, dumping the poor cat unceremoniously at his feet. The feline made a horrible sound and shot from the room like a ball fired from a cannon.

  This was not a good way to start. With all that he had to overcome when conversing with others, the very least he could ask for was a smooth entrance so that his tongue did not get tied up in knots.

  It was not that his mind did not work, it was just that, ever since a bullet had lodged in his skull on a soggy battlefield in France, Terrance Greyson had a hard time finding the words to show that his brain worked perfectly.

  “I see you have met Miss Spit,” the lady said succinctly. “She doesn’t take to most people, usually. And I daresay she shall not be jumping up again on your lap anytime soon.”

  Lady Caroline Starling frowned, the delicate skin just above her dark brows furrowing. “That is to say…” she said quickly. And then she stopped and just looked as if she wished she might disappear.

  Terrance knew that feeling intimately. “Lady Caroline,” he said, trying desperately to fill the silence with words that were not easily recalled. “I…” Words, words would be very nice. Please? Words? English, French would suffice. Ah, Lady Caroline, your neck was made for kissing.

  No, those were not good words to begin the conversation at all.

  Lady Caroline took a deep breath and stood very straight, waiting.

  “Damn,” he said, realizing only after the word came out of his mouth that he had said it aloud.

  Good work, Terrance.

  “Excuse me?” Caroline Starling’s eyes rounded.

  It would have helped immensely if he had not been shocked to discover that the crying wood nymph of Saturday night was his fourth cousin thrice removed, Lady Caroline Starling, late of Ivy Park.

  To be shocked speechless was rather a detriment when one had to work so hard at speech in the first place.

  Terrance could not help but chuckle.

  Lady Caroline stiffened and cleared her throat. “I’m sure I do not know why you are here, Lord Darington. Especially at so early an hour. But if you think to…to tease me about what happened at the theater…”

  “I would never!”

  “Good then.”

  And they stared at each other.

  He had a whole speech prepared and memorized. He realized, of course, that he had incurred Lady Darington’s wrath when he had been introduced to her at the ball. But, for the life of him, he had been unable to find the words when suddenly faced with the dowager of the late marquis.

  And he knew that he must find the right words for such an important relationship. And so he had returned home, written a small speech for Lady Darington, and put it to memory.

  Of course, now he was faced with her daughter, so nearly half the speech had to go, and the rest altered.

  This was not good.

  Especially seeing that the daughter was making it extremely difficult for him to concentrate on words. She had the most delicate skin he had ever seen. There was a spot, actually, right at the base of her throat, which certainly needed to be explored further. Preferably with his tongue.

  Terrance closed his eyes for a moment, trying to dig through his paralyzed brain for a word. Lady Darington. That was it, Lady Darington. That was how the speech started.

  “Lady Darington,” he began then stopped at her perplexed look.

  God no, ’twasn’t Lady Darington standing before him, but Caroline. He had, of course, realized this right off. Terrance wished he could rip his tongue from his mouth and give it a good talking to. Just say the words, damn it.

  Okay, Miss—no, Lady Caroline Starling. “Lady Caroline,” he started again, and couldn’t help a twitch of a smile. Good, Terrance, you got the name right. “I come with greetings from your former tenants.” All right, that was fine. But then he had some sentences that would only sound right if said to Lady Darington.

  Oh, but he did have some letters for Lady Caroline. She seemed to have been a favorite, actually, of the Ivy Park servants and many of the tenants. “I have letters addressed to you in my command.”

  Good, good. He was almost giddy with pride since he was getting through this all so well even though he was speaking to a person he had not prepared himself for, and, even more mind-warping, that Lady Caroline was quite a vision, poised as she was in a golden splash of sunlight angling in from one of the windows.

  “Also,” he continued. “I wished to tell you that Ivy Park does very well. Miss Elizabeth Bilneth married last month, a boy from farther south. The Lawry children are all in school now, and their mother is working for the cook at the Park, she wanted me to tell you. She also said that Lady Caroline…er.” Whoops, he had gotten a bit too sure of himself and slipped up.

  “That is…I mean, you would like to know that the roses are doing beautifully and Mr. Lynch has kept them up very well since your absence.”

  Silence again.

  Caroline stared at him as if he were a three-headed snake in a freak show. Was that truly necessary? Yes, his words had come out a bit stilted; still, he had said everything he meant to say, and even though it had all started out rather oddly, it wasn’t that bad at the end, was it?

  And, though he had not anticipated his crying wood nymph—so named in his thoughts because he had first spied her through the leaves of a potted palm—to waltz into the drawing room just now, it was rather nice to have a name for the face that had stayed with him through two sleepless nights.

  Not a remarkable face, really. Not at all like Miss Rellton, who was quite incredibly beautiful, though about as scintillating as dishwater. No, Lady Caroline had a face one might overlook unless one had first met it in the throes of a passionate cry, her teary eyes like a bottomless forest pond.

  Wasn’t he turning into the poet?

  Actually, he had to admit that the reason he could not get her out of his mind was the spark in those eyes when she had stood and shoved his dirty hanky in his front pocket. She had made him laugh.

  He smiled now at the memory.

  “Oh!”

  Terrance blinked at the anger in Lady Caroline’s exclamation.

  “You are horrible!”

  It had been a rather long time since Terrance had ventured into society, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t done anything that could be called horrible.

  “You are laughing at me!”

  No, he wasn’t. “No, I’m not.”

  “How dare you, Lord Darington! I do not know what it is you think you are doing, or why you would even want to spend your precious time teasing someone as unnoteworthy as I, but I will tell you right now that I will not have it! You come in here with the obvious intent of making me squirm for the circumstances you found me in at the theater, say your little piece as if you are reading it off a note card, and then you laugh at me? Well, I never! And it means nothing at all to me that Miss Spit actually sat on your lap. Nothing at all!”

  The girl stamped her foot. “And it means nothing at all that you have hair on the back of your head or that my heart flutters. I think it flutters because I hate you!” She turned on her heel, walked through the door of the drawing room, and stomped down the hall.

  And then Terrance heard the disti
nct sound of a door slamming. He could have sworn, as well, that the door that had just slammed was the one he had come through to enter the house.

  That would mean that Lady Caroline had just screamed at him and then slammed out of the house. Her house. He had just run the girl from her own home.

  Though he had a problem with words, he knew that his mind worked just fine. But the last few minutes left him completely flummoxed.

  What on earth did his hair have to do with anything?

  Terrance glanced around the empty room, waited for a few minutes while silence pounded off the walls, and then went out into the hall.

  “Hellooooo?” he called, and then waited a bit more.

  No one came. He could spy no bellpulls, either. He did see his hat and coat on a rack at the end of a hall off the front door.

  “Excuse me,” he tried again. But the little maid who had let him in did not appear. Well, fine then. Terrance went and took his hat and coat.

  He’d quite bungled that.

  Still, he thought as he let himself out of the small town house, he had said what needed to be said. Probably he should stay well away from Lady Caroline Starling in the future.

  She made his mind feel jumbled, and he really needed to keep confusion to a minimum.

  Anyway, she did seem a bit touched.

  Why, then, did he feel this strange need not to stay away from her?

  May be he was touched.

  There was nothing like making a fool of oneself first thing in the morning. Add to that, freezing to death on one’s own stoop. In her humiliating rush out the front door, Linney had forgotten her hat and coat. She had forgotten, as well, that it was her own front door she was rushing out of. Stupid woman. She had just made a scene and stomped out of her own house.

  And now she was going to freeze.

  For she most certainly could not go back in until Lord Darington left.

  Oh, the downfall of pride. And the downfall of allowing herself to speak at all. She did much better when she kept all her queer musings tucked up inside her own head, thank you very much.

  Linney marched down the stairs to the deserted walk and spied Lord Rake sauntering up to her. He flicked her a superior glance, twitched his tail in disdain, and continued on his way. Obviously, he was just back from a night of debauchery.

  Horrid male. All males were horrid, even feline ones.

  Lord Rake went another couple of yards, and then turned about the railing and picked his way delicately down the stairs to a small alcove beneath the main entrance that hid the servants’ door.

  Well, at least she now realized how to reenter the house without being seen. Linney followed the cat and rapped on the kitchen door.

  As they waited for Cook to let them in, she and Lord Rake stood in silence. He was nothing at all like his grandmother, her very best friend growing up at Ivy Park, Mr. Winky.

  Mr. Winky had obviously turned into Mrs. Winky when Linney had discovered her ensconced on a bed made of her mother’s best satin dress, a litter of six kittens about her.

  One of those kittens had been Duchess, who, in turn, had given birth to Lord Rake and Miss Spit. And though Lord Rake rarely acknowledged her and Miss Spit was nearly always in a snit, Linney loved them all. They were, in fact, a major reason she wanted to marry Lord Pellering.

  Her dearest barn cats desperately needed a barn.

  Linney heard the front door above them open and pushed her back against the far wall. The last thing she wanted was for Lord Darington to find her shivering outside the kitchen. What a horrid way to ruin a most embarrassing, but truly dramatic exit.

  It was that damnable pride. One would think she hadn’t any pride, really, but had it she did, in spades.

  The heels of Lord Darington’s boots struck each stair sharply as he descended to the street. Linney held her breath, and then cringed when Cook finally decided to open the door.

  “And what you be doin’ out here, Lady Caroline?” she cried loudly. “You’ll catch your death!”

  Lord Rake slithered through Cook’s feet and disappeared.

  “Lady Caroline?” It was, of course, Lord Darington. It was much too much to ask that he had not heard Cook.

  Linney wished she could slither and disappear as well. Wouldn’t it be nice? But, instead, she glanced up at Lord Darington, who was now leaning over the railing, a questioning look on his incredibly beautiful face.

  At the very least he should have looked like an ogre, being one as he was.

  “I did not mean to offend,” Lord Darington called down to her with what seemed sincere earnestness.

  Cook stood looking perplexed. And Linney just wished she could go back to only a half hour before and inform her mother that she certainly could not and would not meet Lord Darington in the drawing room.

  She never said or did the right thing, ever. So she did try to say and do nothing at all. This whole horrible scene was proof that she ought to get married as soon as possible and retire to the country, forever.

  “I am sure you did not offend, Lord Darington,” Linney said quickly.

  “But…”

  Cook was obviously out of her comfort level as well, for the traitorous woman backed into the house and shut the door.

  Lord save her. Linney shivered.

  Lord Darington hurried down the stairs, doffing his coat as he did. “Here,” he said, thrusting the piece of superfine cloth at her.

  She did not want to take his coat, and they both stood staring at the article of clothing for a rather long and very cold moment.

  He shook the coat out and then tried to help her on with it.

  Oh for goodness’ sake. Linney stuck her arm in one sleeve, then bent to put her other arm in, and stopped suddenly as she felt Lord Darington’s breath upon her neck.

  It was warm and brought out goose bumps all along her back and down her arms. Lovely.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, bending closer.

  Oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord. Linney shivered again, only this time it had nothing to do with the fact that she was a few short minutes away from freezing to death.

  She shrugged into the coat and turned around quickly. Only they were now standing in a very small alcove and so there just wasn’t enough physical space between them. Linney could see the dark hairs just under the skin of Lord Darington’s jaw. She could feel his breath fan warmly against the top of her head, and she could now smell him all around her, a mingling of spice and cigar, coffee and man.

  Oh Lord.

  Lord Darington just stared at her, and then he frowned. He seemed awkward, and with all that Linney knew of him, she knew that he would never be awkward.

  She sighed. “Really, Lord Darington, I do not understand…”

  “Will you go with me to the Morelands’ skating party?”

  Now that was unexpected. Linney glanced around, wondering if maybe someone weren’t listening to this. Perhaps this was all some sort of joke or a dare or some other stupid male prank.

  “I’m engaged, Lord Darington,” she said, even though she wasn’t. “Well, at least, I will be soon.” She hoped. At least she thought she hoped.

  And then she again felt that horrible sensation burn the backs of her eyes, and her heart just felt like a stone anvil beating away at her chest.

  Lord, she was going to cry.

  She really must stop thinking about Lord Pellering and his impending request to marry her while in the presence of others, because without fail it made her wish to cry.

  And, really, it was bad enough that she was such a horrible hanky drencher in the seclusion of her room. When she started displaying her newfound weakness to all and sundry, it just did not bode well.

  Linney bit hard at her bottom lip and stuck her chin in the air. She would not cry in front of Lord Darington. Of course, she knew that her eyes were probably a bit shiny, because she could feel those tears burning and trying to be free.

  It would be awfully nice when she just got the marri
ed part over and she could be sensible once more.

  And it would have been really nice if her tears had at least waited until she was inside, and preferably alone.

  And it would have been really, really nice if Lord Darington hadn’t been standing in front of her, staring at her, watching her fall apart…again.

  No, damn it, she would not fall apart.

  Linney took a deep breath, clenching her fists at her sides and shivering again, just as Lord Darington said something.

  She didn’t really understand what he said, but then he shook his head sharply and put his arms around her and pulled her against his wide chest.

  Linney spent a tiny second shocked, a part of her brain telling her to shove the man away for he was taking liberties. And he was most probably laughing at her or something more horrible.

  But then her brain basically stopped functioning as it should entirely. Lord Darington was the only man in her whole life to hold her so, and, once her brain sort of melted into mush, she found that she most definitely liked it.

  Who knew that one could feel so incredibly warm when the world about them was gripped in the tight fist of a winter freeze?

  And was it not truly amazing to spend a few precious moments held in such wonderfully strong arms against such a nice muscular chest, listening, as she was, to the soft thump of another’s heart beating?

  She had forgotten entirely that she had been fighting to keep from crying. Why on earth had she teared up, anyway? And, oh bloody hell, what was she doing in Lord Darington’s arms?

  Linney pushed away.

  “Are you all right?” Lord Darington asked, his voice low and really very nice sounding.

  No, goodness no, she was most certainly not all right. “I must go. Immediately!” Linney turned and banged on the door with all her might.

  It opened quickly as if Cook had been standing there the whole time. Wonderful. This incident would be old news among London servants within the hour. Linney made a small sound of distress and then did just as Lord Rake had before her; she slithered past Cook and disappeared.

  Chapter 3

  Lord Darington appears to have dispensed with all semblance of normal behavior and etiquette. Upon meeting Mrs. Featherington in Piccadilly last week, he informed her that she appeared to have a dead bird on her head. (This Author shall—uncharacteristically—refrain from comment about Mrs. Featherington’s unfortunate choice of headwear.) Not to mention that when he asked Miss Ballister to dance with him at the Worth ball last week, he did so by looking her in the face and quite bluntly stating, “I want to dance.”