Guilty Series

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “Not at the moment, no.” She glanced around and put a finger to her lips. “I am hiding,” she confided in a whisper. “They have exhausted me.”

  This did not sound promising. Ian sat down beside her on the bench and decided to take the gentlemen in question one by one, starting with the most eligible parti. “What did you think of Lord Blair?”

  She thought it over for a long moment before she spoke. “He is a good man, I think. But his cousin—” She broke off and made a sound of contempt.

  “You wouldn’t be marrying his cousin,” Ian pointed out.

  “You should,” she countered. “After all, Lady Sarah is the loveliest young woman of your acquaintance. A stunning beauty, if I recall your opinion.”

  Ian remembered their conversation about Lady Sarah, and he couldn’t help smiling at the asperity in her voice. “I did rather embellish her attributes, didn’t I? But,” he couldn’t help adding, “she is lovely to look at.”

  She gestured to their surroundings. “So is a garden. But one cannot have a conversation with it.”

  Ian gave her an innocent look. “Is conversation important?”

  “Not to a man, I suppose, though I should have thought better of you than that. However, if you wish to admire a woman as dim as a firefly and as malicious as a wasp, Sir Ian, that is your affair.”

  “Perhaps you do not like Lady Sarah because she has as many admirers here today as you do.”

  Lucia made a sound of derision, and Ian decided it would be best to leave off further discussion of Lady Sarah Monforth. “Lord Blair is the eldest son of a marquess. The family is one of the finest and wealthiest in Britain. He seems to like you very much.”

  She considered for a moment before she spoke. “He has one fatal flaw. He is too nice.”

  “That is a flaw?”

  She looked at him as if he were as hopelessly brain deficient as Lady Sarah. “I told you what sort of man I want. Do you not remember?”

  How could he forget?

  “I could twist Lord Blair around my little finger,” she went on. “He would be one of those husbands whose favorite words are, ‘Yes, my dear,’ and, ‘Of course, my dear.’ I want to be happy with my husband, and I want him to be happy with me.” She thought it over for a moment, then she said, “I do not believe Lord Blair is right for me. We should not make each other happy.”

  Ian gave up on Blair for the moment. “What of Lord Montrose?”

  “Ah,” she said, nodding with what might have been approval. “He made me laugh, that one. And he is handsome.”

  Ian had no time to be encouraged by that comment, for she immediately went on, “Yes, very handsome, indeed. And he knows it, too. The entire time I spoke with him, he was preening for me and strutting like a peacock. I do not think I want to marry a peacock.”

  So much for that hint of approval. Ian tried again. “Lord Haye?”

  Miss Valenti shook her head. “Weak chin.”

  “You would dismiss a man for something as trivial as a weak chin?”

  “But I hate a man with a weak chin.”

  “One is too nice, one is too handsome, one has a weak chin,” he said with a hint of irritation. “Good God, are you going to dismiss every man you meet on such trivialities as these?”

  “A weak chin is not trivial. I do not want sons with weak chins.”

  It was then that he perceived the smile curving the corners of her mouth.

  “Think of the family portraits,” she went on.

  Impudent baggage, he thought, striving not to laugh, for it would only encourage her. “Do be serious and give an honest opinion, if you please. Haye is an earl. He has a fine estate in Sussex with very beautiful grounds. His sisters, I can assure you, are very fine young ladies and are not at all like Lady Sarah. I know Haye personally, Miss Valenti, and despite his chin, I know him to be a sound man. Do you truly dislike him?”

  She became serious again. “I did not dislike him,” she said with a sigh. “Dislike would have been preferable.”

  “I do not understand what you mean.”

  “I felt nothing when I looked at him, when I talked with him.” She lifted her hands, fingers pressed to thumbs in a purely Italian gesture of exasperation as she tried to explain. “Nothing. No excitement, no spark.”

  “A first meeting can be deceiving. You might change your mind once you know him better.”

  She considered that. After a moment, she nodded. “Very well,” she said, but her voice was doubtful. “You believe Haye is a good man, so I shall not be too quick to judge. We shall keep him on our list and see. As you say, perhaps I shall change my mind about him if I get to know him better.”

  Ian did not want to trust Miss Valenti’s unpredictable moods. Haye could not be the only possible candidate. “What did you think of Lord Walford?”

  She frowned. “Which one was he again?”

  “He was the one in the marquee with you. You seemed rather taken with him.”

  “Oh, that one!” she cried in a tone that did not bode well for Walford’s chances. “He cornered me to tell me all about this new rose he is breeding. How could you think I was taken with him?”

  “How could I not? You spent an hour talking with him.”

  “It took me an hour to get away, for I did not want to be rude and hurt his feelings.” She made a sound of exasperation and stood up. “If he corners me again, Sir Ian, please come to my rescue. Save me from another lecture on rose pollination.”

  Ian grinned as he stood up and followed her. “I see your point,” he said, falling in step beside her on the gravel path. “The man is, perhaps, a bit dull.”

  “Dull?” she repeated. “That is not the word I would use.” She halted and looked at him. “Sir Ian, I ask you this: When a pretty woman—and I like to think I am pretty enough—when a pretty woman is sitting in front of a man, why would he be talking about the breeding of roses?”

  Ian looked at her mouth, with its cupid’s-bow upper lip and pouty lower one, and conceded himself equally baffled. Realizing he was headed into dangerous territory with thoughts like that, he returned his attention to the subject at hand. Being a diplomat, he tried to be diplomatic. “Perhaps Walford was so overwhelmed by your beauty, it was the only thing he could think of to talk about.”

  She was not mollified. “Then he should have complimented me, do you not think, instead of his newest flower creation?”

  “So that is what you want of a suitor?” he asked, genuinely curious. “Compliments?”

  “Better a discussion of my hips,” she countered, “than a discussion of rose hips!”

  She walked away. Ian stood back, studying her figure for a moment, and he could not disagree with her about that. “Walford is, I take it, out of contention?” he asked, and started to follow her.

  “It wasn’t only him. All of them were the same. What is it about you Englishmen?” she demanded, lifting her hands in exasperation. “Have you no passion?”

  She halted and turned around so abruptly he cannoned into her. Without thinking, he brought his hands up on either side of her hips to prevent her from falling. Beneath his palms, he felt the shape and curve of her, and all that passion Englishmen supposedly lacked flared up inside him with the quickness of a lit match. They were standing so close, he could smell the fragrance of her hair. Apple blossoms, he realized, inhaling deeply. His hands tightened their grip, and he wanted to pull her that last bit closer, but this lascivious intent had barely crossed his mind before he was jerking his hands away. He took a step back and clasped his hands behind him, reminding himself that he was a gentleman and cursing himself because such a reminder should not have been necessary.

  “We may not demonstrate it, Miss Valenti,” he said, fighting to regain his control, “but Englishmen are capable of the deepest passions, believe me.”

  He could hear the harshness in his own voice. She heard it, too, for she leaned back to look up into his face. “I am sorry if I have offended you,” she murmur
ed, her eyes wide as she stared into his.

  Ian turned away. “We’d best return to the party,” he said as he started back toward the marquee. He didn’t look behind him to see if she was following. There was only so much temptation a man could endure.

  Lucia soon discovered that Sir Ian’s strategy for finding her a husband seemed akin to throwing mud against a wall. Some would have to stick. The mud, alas, was not the sort her lusty Italian heart was hoping for.

  During the fortnight following Lady Kettering’s concert, Lord Haye, Lord Montrose, Lord Blair, Lord Walford, and about a dozen other possible suitors frequently found their way to Portman Square. Lucia was not inclined toward any of them, and though Grace assured her that familiarity often changed one’s mind in matters of the heart, two weeks of calls by these gentlemen did not change Lucia’s.

  She was inundated with enough male attention to satisfy any woman, but as much as Lucia enjoyed flirtation, she began to refrain from it. She did not want to encourage any of these men or hurt them. She tried to be more aloof and distant, but it was an aggravating truth about men that the less interest a woman displayed in them, the more enamored they became.

  Even more aggravating to Lucia was the fact that the man responsible for this bachelor parade was nowhere in the vicinity. Telling Grace he had important diplomatic matters to handle, he gave over full charge of Lucia’s launch into society to his sister-in-law. When she did chance to see him, he was so aloof and stuffy that she became certain any spark of fire in that man’s eyes had been a trick of the light or her imagination.

  Despite the admiration she received from many bachelors of London society, the ladies were not so generous, a fact that those two weeks made painfully obvious. Though some invitations came their way, and she was included in those invitations along with the Moore family, Lucia felt the coolness of other women everywhere she went. She did not want to admit how much it hurt to be ostracized, but she found herself confiding her feelings to Isabel one evening over a chess game.

  “Why should you care what they think?” Isabel asked.

  “It would be nice to have female friends in this country, since I am going to live here for the rest of my life.”

  “They are just jealous.” Isabel moved a knight to take Lucia’s bishop. “You are prettier than any of them. And much more fun.”

  “Grazie, Isabel.” Lucia made her next chess play, fully aware that it was an unwise move that put her in danger. She smiled at her petite defender across the table. “That is the nicest compliment I have ever received.”

  “From my daughter, it is high praise,” Dylan said from his place at the writing desk where he was composing a letter. “She is very chary of granting her good opinion to anyone. It took me forever to gain it. Grace, too. And Ian.”

  “Mr. Moore, I suspect it is my ability to teach her the Spanish guitar that is at the heart of her liking for me.”

  “Not true!” Isabel protested. “I do like you, really. You’re not silly like most ladies. You don’t twitter or fuss or say mean things behind other people’s backs. Lady Sarah is the worst of the lot.”

  “Isabel!” Grace said, lowering the embroidery in her hands with a laugh. “You mustn’t say such things. It isn’t proper.”

  “My niece is misbehaving again?” Sir Ian entered the drawing room, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He smiled at the little girl as he crossed the room to Dylan’s side. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I’m not misbehaving, Uncle Ian, honestly. It’s just that the ladies are being mean to Lucia, and it’s not right.”

  “Mean?” He paused beside Dylan’s chair and looked at Lucia. “What are they doing?”

  “It’s nothing,” she answered. “Isabel exaggerates.”

  He took her at her word and turned to his brother, handing him the papers. “Dylan, take a look at these expenditures from Plumfield. Are they comparable to what you are paying at Nightingale’s Gate, or do they seem high to you?”

  While Dylan complied, Ian returned his attention to his niece. “Are you exaggerating about this, Isabel?”

  “No! They are mean.” She moved her bishop, just as Lucia had known she would. “Checkmate!”

  “What?” Lucia stared down at the board in pretended amazement. “How did you manage that?”

  Laughing, the child turned toward the man on the other side of the room. “Look, Uncle Ian. I beat Lucia at chess. I never beat you, but I beat her, and she’s good. Really good.”

  He gave Lucia what might have been a glance of puzzlement, but it was gone before she could be sure. “Yes, Miss Valenti is very skilled,” he agreed. “If you defeated her, Isabel, that is quite an accomplishment.”

  Lucia returned her attention to the child opposite her. “I could swear I had you trapped.”

  “Not for a second.”

  “You distracted me,” Lucia accused her. “We started talking about the ladies, and you distracted me from the game.”

  “I didn’t!” Isabel grinned, clearly delighted with her victory. “I beat you fair and square. Didn’t I? Admit it.”

  She sighed, slumping in her chair. “You did,” she confessed in her best discouraged fashion. “And I never saw it coming. I should have paid better attention.”

  “Got distracted during the game, did you, Miss Valenti?” Ian’s voice once again entered their conversation. “You seem to let that happen often.”

  “I am afraid I do,” she agreed mildly, biting her lip.

  His frown deepened. He started in their direction as if to study the board, and Lucia felt a pang of alarm. He might start asking questions about the way play had gone, and Isabel would realize the truth. He hadn’t taken more than one step toward them, however, before Dylan spoke. Ian returned his attention to his brother, and with a silent sigh of relief, Lucia began rearranging the chess pieces to hide the evidence of her deliberate loss.

  “These expenses seem reasonable to me,” Dylan told him. “Prices have been rising these past few years.”

  “I need to come home more often, it seems.” Ian once again started toward the chess table, but when he saw that Lucia had already returned the chess pieces to their original places, he turned to his sister-in-law instead. “Grace, perhaps you should tell me what is going on with the ladies of the ton.”

  Grace looked up from her needlework, but she hesitated before replying. With a glance at Lucia, she returned her attention to Ian, and said, “Perhaps we should discuss this another time.”

  Knowing it was her presence that caused Grace to hesitate, Lucia spoke. “I want to know. Why do they dislike me?”

  “Jealous cats,” Isabel pronounced.

  “Isabel,” Grace said, “I want you to go upstairs and tell Molly it’s time for your bath.”

  The child started to protest, but Grace cut her off. “Dinner is in an hour. Go.”

  Isabel slid out of her chair. “I never hear any of the good gossip,” she mumbled as she headed out of the room.

  Grace waited until she could be sure Isabel was upstairs before she spoke. “Dylan and I usually receive numerous invitations during the season, but matrons are not issuing very many to us at present.” She shot Lucia a look of apology. “So there is a lack of acceptance. Some of it is due to Miss Valenti’s position.”

  “That I am illegitimate?” Lucia’s chin lifted. “Or that I am Francesca’s daughter?”

  “Both, I’m sorry to say. I also agree with Isabel’s point about jealousy. It is somewhat understandable. They resent that Lucia, a foreign girl with a courtesan mother, has had so many gentlemen callers, and that she is admired by them. Everywhere we go—bookstores, parks, the art galleries—men express the wish for an introduction to her.”

  Her husband groaned. “And those are the ones who haven’t met her. Grace, my darling, the men who have already been introduced accost me in Brooks’s to talk about Miss Valenti.”

  “They do?” Lucia asked. “What do they say?”

  “They ask me ques
tions about you,” Dylan replied, turning in his chair to look at her. “What flowers you like and who your favorite poets are—as if I know any of these things! I suggest they ask you. Or, if they can’t work up the nerve for that, to make these inquiries of Grace. They rhapsodize, Miss Valenti, about your beauty and your wit and your delightful accent. If I hear one more description of your chocolate eyes and your cherry-red lips, I shall be forced to retreat to the country.”

  “They are saying things like that?” Ian asked, his voice sharp.

  “All the time. Stop working long enough to get about town, and you would hear it for yourself.” He paused, looking up at his brother. “I’d have thought you’d be happy about this, Ian.”

  “So I am.”

  “Then why are you frowning like thunder?”

  He took a moment to answer. “The situation of the matrons concerns me,” he finally said. “It must be resolved. But I am pleased to hear Miss Valenti has so many suitors.” His frown vanished, and he gave her a nod as he walked by her chair. “It bodes well.”

  Lucia frowned at his back as he walked away. Being inundated with men would only bode well if she had a speck of desire for any of them. And did Sir Ian have to be so pleased about it? Really, she thought, aggrieved, a man with any passion in him would have been just a little bit jealous.

  Ian paused at the door and turned. “Grace, to entrench Miss Valenti into the ton, she must have the good opinion of the matrons, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  He tapped the sheaf of papers in his hand against his palm, lost in thought. Lucia wondered what scheme he was coming up with now, but she was not kept in suspense long. “Dylan, I believe that, for once, you have given me sound advice.”

  “I always give you sound advice. You just don’t listen very often.”

  He ignored that. “I do need to get about town more. I believe it might be time for me to call upon some of the matrons and start mentioning Miss Valenti’s half brother.”

  “Antonio?” Lucia stared at him, bewildered. “What could be the purpose of mentioning him?”

  “Prince Antonio is a very important man. He is the future ruler of Bolgheri, and a grandson to the King of the Two Sicilies. He has always wished to come to London, of course.”