“Lady Barrymore, so glad you could join us,” Adeline Carlington, Marchioness of Morganfield, said with a brilliant smile when Lydia emerged from the French doors at the back of the house. A small group of ladies were assembled near a table set up with champagne flutes and trays of biscuits and tiny sandwiches.
“Oh, call me Lydia, please. Thank you for the invitation. Word of your tulips had me visiting my own gardens to discover if mine might have bloomed, as well,” she replied as she curtsied.
“And? Have they?” Adeline countered, one dark eyebrow arched in query. The Italian daughter of a count always looked far more exotic than any English miss ever could.
“A few, along with some very late daffodils. I cannot believe how uncooperative the weather has been for flowers this year.”
“No one can,” Adeline agreed, hooking her arm into Lydia’s so that she could lead her newest guest to the group of ladies already assembled near the refreshment table on the back lawn. “Lady Devonville claims her husband knows a man who can explain why we’re not having a spring—something to do with volcanos—but I have yet to learn the particulars.”
The comment had Lydia’s eyebrows arching up.
Volcanos?
She frowned in concentration, wondering where a volcano might have erupted that would cause the inclement weather they were experiencing in England. She shook her head when she realized the marchioness had paused before a group of women.
Lydia immediately recognized everyone there. Adele Slater Worthington, sister to William Slater, Marquess of Devonfield, and a widow herself, hurried to join her. “So glad you have finally put away the widow’s weeds,” she said in a quiet voice.
Lydia nodded and then angled her head. “I hear best wishes are in order for you. Is it true you’ve become a countess?” she asked in a voice she didn’t intend to be overheard by the others. “To my cousin?”
Adele nodded. “Indeed. Grandby proposed in March, and we married in April. I still have to pinch myself in the mornings when I wake up.” She paused a moment and then arched an elegant eyebrow. “At least, I do on the mornings when Grandby hasn’t done it first,” she added with a grin.
Giggling, Lydia felt her cheeks grow warm at the implication of the countess’ words. At least Adele had married for affection this time. No one knew if she had done so with her first husband, Samuel Worthington. The man had been a pioneer in steam ship design and production, capitalizing on the invention at the perfect time to make a fortune. Taking a marquess’ daughter as a wife was considered a coup for the man.
Worthington enjoyed squiring Adele to ton events and spending his money on a large mansion in Park Lane as well as on the accoutrements to decorate it. Before he could fully enjoy the fruits of his labors or sire an heir, though, he had died unexpectedly.
Adele had barely ceased wearing widow’s weeds when James Weston, a cousin of the renowned tailor to the ton, started paying calls. A whirlwind courtship followed, and the two were only weeks from their wedding when Adele learned the true reason Weston wished to wed her.
He needed her fortune to cover his excessive gambling debts.
Adele called off the wedding, well aware of how it would make her look in Society’s eyes. She found she didn’t care—that she didn’t need to care what might happen as a result of her spurning the rogue.
Her brother, William Slater, Marquess of Devonville, was rather surprised to learn she had quit the engagement, but assured her he would support her decision. It’s not as if she needed his wealth to help her situation. She had her own fortune thanks to her first husband, and that fortune meant she had a bit of leeway when it came to censure.
A good deal of leeway, actually.
Thinking she would simply remain a widow and enjoy life as an independent woman, Adele was quite surprised when someone else had plans for her.
Most of the ton wondered if Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington, would ever take a wife—he was well into his forties—and most thought that when he did, it would be to a woman much younger than he. Perhaps even to one of the one-and-twenty daughters of the aristocracy for whom he had taken on the honor—and responsibility—of godfatherhood.
He surprised them on both accounts by courting Adele, a woman only a few years younger than him. He stood by her side as she hosted her annual musicale, and he escorted her to any number of ton events during the early months of the year. By April, they were married, although no one could claim to have paid witness to the vows. Given his earldom was in Northumberland, most thought Grandby had simply whisked her off to Gretna Green and eloped and then taken her on a wedding trip to the seat of his earldom.
Lydia thought it a rather romantic story, one she never thought possible for herself. How often could a lady of the ton find love the second time around?
When their hostess was suddenly called away by another guest, Lydia allowed Adele to lead her to the other group of women in attendance. Clarinda Fitzwilliam, Countess of Norwick, appeared rather elegant in a long-sleeved teal gown of superfine. Elizabeth Carlington Bennett-Jones, Viscountess Bostwick and daughter of Adeline, bore the unmistakeable posture of a woman growing round with child. Patience Comber, Countess of Aimsley, older than all of them, was the proud mother of two grown sons—one of whom Lydia knew had reported to Chamberlain during part of his service—and a daughter who was attending finishing school in Switzerland. And Caroline Fitzsimmons, Viscountess Chamberlain, displayed a glow that Lydia knew quite well—that of a woman who had been thoroughly tumbled and who had loved every minute of it.
Bravo, Lord Chamberlain, she thought, reminded that she really needed to pay a call on the viscount. Later today, she decided.
The women exchanged pleasantries until a chilly wind had several deciding to move their conversation indoors. Lydia would have followed, but Adele continued to hold onto her arm.
“I wonder if you might be amenable to an introduction?” Adele murmured as they moved to the other end of the refreshment table. “I shouldn’t want you thinking I am attempting to play matchmaker, because I am not, but a gentleman has requested a formal introduction to you, and I find I’m a bit curious as to his intentions.”
Lydia angled her head, rather surprised by the countess’ words. What gentleman could have asked for an introduction? “Of course, I don’t mind,” she said with a shrug, rather amused at Adele’s claim she wasn’t playing matchmaker. A thrill of excitement shot through her at the thought that a gentleman had asked about her, though. A counter thought that he might be an opportunist simply after her fortune dampened the thrill. “Who is it?”
Adele brought them past a hedgerow and into part of the gardens somewhat hidden from the hardy guests who still milled about the freshly cut lawn. “He’s an acquaintance of Torrington’s,” she remarked, nodding her head to indicate the secluded area in which several tulips were in bloom.
There, a man of about thirty leaned heavily on a silver-topped cane, his attention on a red tulip he held between a thumb and forefinger. At the sight of Lady Torrington and Lady Barrymore, he quickly straightened.
Adele took the opportunity to make the introductions. “Lady Barrymore, I’d like you to meet Sir Donald Truscott. He’s actually scheduled to be knighted tomorrow morning—”
“It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, my lady,” the man interrupted, seemingly oblivious to Adele’s attempt at a complete introduction, his gloved hand reaching for Lydia’s before she could even offer it.
Lydia could barely form the words, “And yours,” for she quickly realized that the knight who stood before her was the man who claimed his name was Adonis.
The man who had been in the museum just the day before.
The man she had offended with her verbal guess as to how he had gained the scar on his otherwise perfect right cheek.
Sir Donald.
Adonis.
Well, it made sense in a way, she supposed.
Her hand was suddenly in his, and despite the silk fabri
c of her gloves and the kid leather of his, she had a moment when she was quite sure her skin made contact with his, as if they had actually touched one another. A pleasant shiver of shock raced up her arm, nearly to her elbow.
His lips pressed the knuckles of her gloved hand before he straightened and said, “I forgive you, of course. I fear I was too fast in removing myself from your presence yesterday to put voice to my... forgiveness.” This last was said after a moment where he seemed to struggle to find the appropriate word. Indeed, he seemed to have difficulty keeping eye contact, as if he were embarrassed—or completely unsure of himself.
Lydia blinked, stunned at the knight’s words and well aware of how Adele must have wondered at them, and at the man’s odd behavior. Faith! What must the countess think?
Lydia finally reclaimed her hand from the knight’s gentle grip, noting the fine leather of his black kid glove. She glanced over at Adele and gave a slight shrug, hoping the countess would find a reason to leave them alone, and then hoped she would not.
What more could she say to the gentleman?
At least she now knew he was a gentleman and not some rogue intent on taking advantage of a woman who wasn’t in the company of a maid or a chaperone.
The countess’ attention was on someone to her left, though, and she suddenly gave a quick curtsy. “Pardon me for a moment. Lady Morganfield is summoning me,” she said, managing to give Lydia a look that suggested she would still be nearby should her presence be required.
Lydia nodded and lowered her eyes before turning her attention to the knight. “My words of yesterday were unpardonable. I am not usually so rude, I assure you,” she murmured, noting how the man still seemed to have difficulty making eye contact. “Not ever, in fact.”
“You are pardoned, my lady,” Sir Donald replied with a nod. “I realize now I should have first requested an introduction. Accosting you in the museum as I did was... inappropriate. I have been away from polite Society for far too long, and...” He paused and shook his head, as if he were struggling to come up with the correct words to complete his explanation.
“Away?” Lydia prompted.
The man who had claimed his name was Adonis suddenly made eye contact, his brown eyes wide. “Yes,” he replied with a slight nod. “On the Continent, in fact,” he said in a quiet voice. “I was a... soldier.” His gaze suddenly dropped to the tulip he held.
Lydia’s slight inhalation of breath was barely audible, but she knew he heard it when he suddenly lifted his eyes to hers. A warm, rich brown, his eyes still appeared as sad as they had in the dim museum. “So, the scar on your cheek is from a war wound,” she guessed in a quiet voice.
Adonis swallowed before allowing a nod. “Indeed. Probably a good thing, though.”
Her eyes wide from his odd response, she shook her head. “How can that be? You could have been killed!”
The expression on the knight’s face changed in an instant, the sadness suddenly gone from his eyes at hearing her words. “Aye,” he agreed. But someone had plans for me. “My mum wouldn’t be too pleased, you see. Always thought I had a perfect face.” He suddenly sobered. “Can’t have her making that claim about me now, which is just as well.”
Lydia angled her head to one side. “I’ve never been a mother, but I rather think she prefers a son with a scar than have you dead from a war wound,” she countered.
Adonis allowed a nod, his brows furrowing. “Truth be told, I have no idea of her preferences. She died whilst I was in—”
The two were interrupted when a footman approached with a tray of champagne. Adonis—it was hard for Lydia to think of him as ‘Sir Donald’—took two flutes from the tray and handed one to Lydia, not even asking if she wanted one. She thanked him with a nod.
“To new friends?” he offered as he lifted his glass in her direction.
Lydia paused a moment before touching the rim of her glass to his. “New friends,” she murmured before taking a sip.
“I’m of a mind to kiss you.”
Lydia blinked. And blinked again at the man’s bold comment. “Here?” she managed to get out when she found her voice. “Now?” Faith! They had just a moment ago been formally introduced, and now he wanted to kiss her! “We’ve only just...”
Adonis shook his head. “I apologize. I didn’t mean it,” he claimed suddenly. “I mean, I did mean it, of course. I just didn’t intend to say it out loud like that,” he added with a shake of his head. He took a deep breath and allowed a long sigh. “Now I suppose you’ll not accept an invitation to ride with me in the park for fear I’ll...” He allowed the invitation to trail off, his eyes downcast.
Having no idea how to respond—everything about the knight seemed odd—Lydia merely allowed a shrug. “Mayhap when the weather improves,” she finally replied, managing to make her reply sound encouraging.
The sadness returned to his mournful eyes, his disappointment apparent. “Of course. It is a bit chilly these days.” His eyes suddenly widened and he held out his champagne glass. “Hold this, please.”
Startled, Lydia took it and watched in wonder as the knight quickly doffed his topcoat and settled it over her shoulders. The scent of sandalwood and spice cologne wafted past her nostrils, and his blessed warmth, trapped in the superfine of his coat, seeped into her shoulders. “That’s very kind of you,” she said. “I wore a pelisse, of course, but I left it in the vestibule with the butler. It didn’t seem proper to wear it during a garden party,” she explained, wondering if she sounded like a ninny. “Seeing as how it’s supposed to be springtime and all. I feel rather bad for Lady Morganfield. I know how important this party is to her favorite charity.”
Adonis reclaimed his glass from her hand. “Your beautiful gown would have been hidden from view had you worn it,” he countered. “On your second day of not having to wear widow’s weeds, why, it would have been a shame to leave it covered.”
Lydia had to suppress the urge to blink again. How did Adonis know her mourning was over? Before she could wonder too much, she realized Adele had probably said something to the man when he requested the introduction. “Thank you for saying so,” she replied before taking a sip of champagne, closing her eyes as the bubbles burst on her tongue and the liquid dribbled down her throat.
There was something positively decadent about drinking champagne in the light of day, out in the open, where anyone could see. A slight buzz seemed to settle in her knees even before she felt it in her head. She suddenly wondered how she must look, standing in a secluded part of the garden with a glass of champagne in one hand and a strange man’s topcoat draped over her shoulders.
A half-second later, she was wondering far more, for Adonis suddenly leaned forward and kissed her on the corner of her mouth.
Her gaze immediately went to his, her brows furrowing a bit.
There were at least two of three things she probably should have done just then. Admonish the man for having taken advantage—they were out in the open, for goodness sake!—for anyone could have seen him kiss her.
Slap the man across the face—except that to do so might leave another mark on an otherwise almost perfect face.
Or simply take her leave of him and return to the cluster of other matrons who still chatted around a metal lattice table. She would have to give up his topcoat, of course, which may have been part of the reason for her reaction, for Lydia did none of these.
She simply stared at Adonis for a moment, holding her breath when she realized she wanted the sadness gone from his eyes. Another moment passed before she stepped forward and returned the kiss. She didn’t place it on the corner of his mouth, though, but directly on his lips. Quickly—just a peck—but a kiss nonetheless.
As she expected, the sadness in his eyes changed to something else. A light seemed to bloom in his irises. Was that hope she saw? Or simply a randy man’s realization that he could get what he wanted?
She rather hoped it was the former, for if it were the latter, she would be slapping the
man across his almost-perfect face. With any luck, the sapphire on her wedding ring would scrape his left cheek and leave a scar matching the one on his right cheek.
“You honor me, my lady,” he murmured, lifting her free hand to his lips.
Lydia was left with the impression that if he hadn’t been holding a champagne flute, he might have used the fingers of both his hands to peel the silk glove from hers and have his way with her fingers. Her knuckles nearly jerked at the thought of his lips touching them directly, of what it would feel like to have the firm pillows of his lips make contact for longer than a brief brush-of-a-kiss.
Suddenly embarrassed at her actions, Lydia dipped her head. “I am no longer fresh from the schoolroom, but even so, I should not have done that,” she whispered.
Adonis allowed a crooked shrug. “Possibly not,” he murmured, although Lydia was relieved when the sadness didn’t return to his eyes.
Another thought had hers opening wider, though. “Do I have the pleasure of knowing your wife?” she asked, suddenly sounding prickly again. Part of her hoped he would deny having married while another hoped he had a wife. Then she could admonish him...
Faith! What is wrong with me?
At his violent reaction—the man took nearly an entire step backwards and had to recapture and use his cane to keep from stumbling—Lydia had her answer before he could say, “I don’t see how that is possible given there is no Mrs. Truscott,” he replied with a shake of his head.
Truscott. The name was familiar, but she couldn’t place just why at the moment. Rather surprised at the sense of relief she felt, though, Lydia worked hard to keep her expression impassive. “Are you new to London?” she asked, realizing just then that he might have arrived during her mourning period. She certainly hadn’t seen him at any ton events prior to Jasper’s death. Perhaps he had been attending the ton events for the past year whilst she had stayed home, minding the dictates that Society placed on widows.
The Enigma of a Widow Page 5
