“Still, not many women would shy away from the chance to be a marchioness,” said Lydgate. “I expected her to fall into your arms.”
Xavier said nothing.
“You did, too, didn’t you?” accused Lydgate. “You didn’t even try to exert yourself to please her.”
“Why should I? It’s not as if I have to court her. Legally, she is mine.”
“Ho!” said Lydgate, “you will not get very far with Miss Allbright if that’s how you think.”
“That shows how much you know about the female sex,” said Xavier.
“I know enough to see at once that she means to lead you a merry dance,” said Lydgate. He sounded bloody cheerful about it, too.
“That, I had already gathered,” Xavier replied. “But before the music has stopped, Miss Allbright will be dancing to my tune.”
Chapter Three
… My deepest condolences on the death of your husband. I would call the manner of his death untimely but cannot feel that to be appropriate; it has occurred at quite the most opportune time—from every point of view other than his own, of course.
You will be fascinated to know that a pair of untimely deaths occurred here in England, too, leaving a sad dearth of heirs for your esteemed son.
You behold me heir presumptive. And his lordship on the scramble for a bride …
The vicarage at Little Thurston was a rambling, comfortable home, built to accommodate a large family. Its furnishings were plain and unpretentious, but the late Mrs. Allbright had a secret yen for pretty things, which she indulged by decorating her own boudoir with the palest blue hangings and swags of silver and blue brocade.
The good lady wished to extend her talents to Lizzie’s chamber, too. But Lizzie, riddled with guilt over her deception, had politely but firmly refused to allow her to alter a thing. Mrs. Allbright had always longed for a daughter to spoil, but Lizzie felt that accepting anything above necessities from the Allbrights would be reprehensible.
Perhaps it would have been kinder to let the dear lady have free rein, Lizzie thought now with a rush of remorse. She contemplated her plain room, with its simple wooden cross above the narrow bed. The dressing table at which she sat was neat and serviceable, unadorned by ribbons or yards of satin and gauze.
On the whole, she could not regret her decision. She hadn’t needed frills and furbelows to know she was loved.
The acceptance she’d found in this village made Lord Steyne’s sudden intrusion upon it alarming and disorienting, too. She was not the same girl who had so meekly accepted her new husband’s stated intention to leave her.
What did he intend by coming here? He’d not wanted her eight years ago. Perhaps he did not want her now. Perhaps he merely wished to satisfy his curiosity, or make sure she had indeed lost her memory so he might cut ties with her and marry some other woman.…
But the way he’d looked at her today rose up in her imagination. No, that was not the look of a man who wanted to sever his connection with her.
The notion made her pulse quicken almost painfully. She was all fingers and thumbs getting ready for the assembly that night.
Lizzie stared at her reflection and wished she owned a gown to rival the silks and satins fine London ladies wore. Sadly shallow of her, no doubt, but she’d feel more confident facing Lord Steyne if she looked the part.
If only she had a fairy godmother who might wave a wand and transform her outmoded and often worn figured muslin into a gleaming dream of aquamarine sarcenet.
Still, the silk shawl Clare had given her for her birthday was very fine and had a satisfying float to it when she moved.
“Thank you, Peggy. That is very becoming,” she said as the maid finished arranging her hair.
Lizzie’s pale locks were caught in a knot on top of her head, and Peggy had trained a couple of ringlets to frame her face. Unsophisticated, perhaps, but well enough.
A knock sounded on the door. Peggy went to open it, bobbed a curtsy, and departed.
“Ah,” said Mr. Allbright, coming into the room. “You look splendid, my dear.”
She turned away from the looking glass to smile at him. He was a man of about sixty years, tall and lanky, with a full head of iron gray hair.
The vicar was a naturally gregarious man, but since his wife’s passing two years before, Mr. Allbright had altered. Sadness lingered about his dark eyes, and he’d grown thinner despite Lizzie’s cajoling and Cook’s best efforts to tempt his appetite.
“I wish you would come with me tonight, sir,” Lizzie said impulsively.
Not only did she want the dear vicar to have the company, but she could have used the moral support, as well. Facing Steyne again would take all her courage.
The vicar shook his head; the creases around his eyes multiplied and deepened as he chuckled. “Ah, you are thoughtful, child. But dancing is for the young.”
She made as if to rise, but he gestured at her to remain where she was. “Sit yourself down, there, my Lizzie. I have brought something for you.”
She’d noticed he carried with him a slender box covered in Prussian blue velvet. He opened it and drew out a short string of pearls.
She began to protest, but he held up a hand to silence her. “No, my dear. I won’t hear another word. It is high time you learned to accept gifts with good grace. Mrs. Allbright did not have many jewels, but she left this pearl set for you.” He eyed her with mock severity. “I cannot think she meant me to wear them, can you?”
She could not even laugh at this mild jest. “I do not deserve it. Truly, I—” Lizzie felt the sting of tears behind her eyes.
But the vicar deftly clasped the pearls about her neck. He put his hands on her shoulders to give them a brief, comforting squeeze. “There. You look very fine, my dear.”
There was a husky catch to his voice that tugged at her heart.
Lizzie blinked hard. It seemed beyond churlish to protest further, though guilt squirmed through her like an eel. Rising, she took his hands and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
I miss her so very much.
The sentiment passed between them in a long, shimmering look.
Lizzie knew that if she tried to voice her sorrow, she’d weep. So she gave a determined smile and said, “I will think of her whenever I wear it.”
“You were such a joy to her, you know, Lizzie,” he said simply. “And to me. Never forget that.”
There was something faintly valedictory about this speech. A cold finger of presentiment stroked down her spine.
She longed to confess everything to him. The truth of her history and of her elaborate charade. That the past eight years had been happy beyond the wildest imaginings of that young girl whose innocence had been taken long before she’d met the Marquis of Steyne.
But as happened whenever she tried to formulate the words, her throat closed tight like a fist. She imagined the vicar’s astonishment, his sense of betrayal, seeing the hurt reflected in those warm brown eyes.
She could not do it to him. The truth about her would be too much for him to bear on top of the loss of his wife. But what if he found out from Steyne? She must find a way to open the subject. But not now. She couldn’t do the confession justice now.
“Don’t forget the earbobs, my dear,” said Mr. Allbright. With a gentle pat on her hand, he left her.
Lizzie stared at the doorway through which the vicar departed. The strange exhilaration she’d experienced after her meeting with Lord Steyne was now tinged with a horrible guilt.
* * *
“I cannot believe you did not come at once to tell me,” whispered Clare as they moved through the antechamber to the assembly room they had decorated not so many hours before. “I had to hear it from my maid.”
“Tell you what?” said Lizzie. Her mind was so occupied watching for Steyne that she had only a sliver of attention left over for conversing.
“That you’d met Lord Lydgate and Lord Steyne this afternoon, of course. Everyone is talking about them
.” When Lizzie didn’t answer, Clare squeezed her arm. “Are you well, Lizzie? You looked queer all through dinner.”
“Perfectly well, thank you,” said Lizzie, though her stomach rolled and pitched like a tiny boat in a storm-tossed sea.
“Well?” demanded Clare. “What are they like?”
“Who?”
“Lizzie!”
“Oh, er, Lord Lydgate is … is very handsome and personable. Charming, you know.”
“And the marquis?” said Clare. “I cannot wait to meet him, for I hear he is quite the wickedest man alive. And to think of him visiting Little Thurston. I wonder what can have brought him.”
“The marquis accompanies his cousin,” said Lizzie, fiddling with her fan. “I believe Lord Lydgate had a commission to execute for Lady Chard.”
“And what is the marquis like? They say he is sinfully handsome.”
Lizzie swallowed hard. She wanted to tell Clare the gossip had lied. But the blatant falsehood would make her friend suspicious when she laid eyes on Steyne’s magnificence.
So many times, she’d yearned to tell Clare the truth about her origins and her escape. She’d hoped her friend would understand her motives for pretending to lose her memory. But she’d told herself she couldn’t confide in Clare while leaving the Allbrights ignorant. It wouldn’t have been right.
Now, when she teetered on the precipice of exposure, she wondered if her friend would be so forgiving. Clare was loyal and truthful to a fault. How would she feel about being duped all this time?
Lizzie struggled to pick up the thread of their conversation. She forced out, “I do not think I have ever seen a more striking-looking gentleman.”
There. She’d done it.
Clare gave a crow of delight. “Do tell. Is he dark or fair?”
But Lizzie felt unequal to speaking more of Lord Steyne and his charms. “Listen, Clare. Both gentlemen asked me to save them a dance tonight.”
Ignoring her friend’s excited squeak, she added, “I said yes to Lydgate, but as for the marquis, I—” She gripped her fingers together. “—I told him I was engaged for the rest.”
Clare’s mouth fell open. “You must have taken him in great dislike to do such a thing. Was he mean to you, Lizzie? Oh! Did he say something improper? I’ve heard the most dreadful things about him.”
Lizzie shook her head. “No, he was merely … arrogant. It was the way he asked me. As if he had only to command it and I would obey his slightest wish.”
He was perfectly right, of course. He was her husband, after all. But she did not mean to make it that easy for him, no matter how much she might yearn to throw herself into his arms and beg him to make her his wife in truth.
She must discover what he wanted from her first.
If Steyne was here merely to return her to her father’s house, she would fight him with every weapon at her disposal, including her story of amnesia. How could he prove she was Lady Alexandra Simmons, after all?
That a man like Lord Steyne would hardly count her consent as prerequisite to carting her away occurred to her. Well, she would cross that bridge when she came to it.
“I must dance every set, Clare, or insult Lord Steyne gravely,” she said.
“Very well,” said her friend, taking Lizzie by the hand. “We must find you partners, and quickly.”
There were distinct advantages to having the toast of the district as a bosom friend. Before the musicians had struck up for the first set, Clare had filled Lizzie’s commitments by ensuring her own partners were obliged to ask Lizzie to take the floor with them also.
“How charming to see you this evening, Miss—ah—Allbright.”
Lizzie turned and saw that a young lady, very finely dressed in pale blue sarcenet, stood behind her.
Miss Worthington was younger than Lizzie, and they had known each other since Lizzie’s arrival in Little Thurston. Yet, somehow, they had never progressed to first names.
In fact, Miss Worthington always said “Allbright” with pointed emphasis that reminded Lizzie she was not entitled to the vicar’s name.
Lizzie curtsied and murmured a greeting and would have turned away, but Miss Worthington said in her bored voice, “I see you are wearing that charming figured muslin again.”
And I see you are wearing that sour expression again, Lizzie wanted to say. But she bit back the retort, as she always did. Miss Worthington was the daughter of gentry who had lived in this district for centuries. Lizzie Allbright was a foundling and must never be allowed to forget the fact.
“How kind of you to say so,” she answered, as if Miss Worthington had complimented her rather than pointing out the limitations of her wardrobe.
“I hear that you have met the newcomers,” observed Miss Worthington, her gaze scanning the crowd. Her fine eyebrows rose. “Stealing a march on the rest of us?”
“Indeed, no,” said Lizzie. “It was mere chance that I met the gentlemen at Lady Chard’s.”
Dancing with Lord Lydgate would make Lizzie a target for malice from Miss Worthington and her set. Lizzie knew perfectly well that she might be tolerated and even lauded for her good works, but if it seemed she’d attracted the attention of one of these matrimonial prizes, she’d soon be put in her place.
Good Heavens, what would they do if they found out the truth? She, plain Lizzie Allbright, was a marchioness. Miss Worthington would probably expire of an apoplexy. A bubble of hysterical laughter caught in Lizzie’s chest. The thought almost tempted her to confess.
“Do excuse me,” she said hastily before the horrid girl could question her further. “I must check that everything is in order for the dancing.”
“You are endlessly obliging,” murmured Miss Worthington. “What would we all do without you, Miss Allbright?”
“Spiteful cat,” remarked Clare as she came up to slip her arm through Lizzie’s and cart her off. “Do not let her bother you. I can see you are all on end.”
She was flustered, but not over Miss Worthington’s ill-natured comments in particular. The implications of her deception seemed to crowd in on her from every side.
Lizzie made herself shrug. “If I am not inured to her little barbs by now, I never will be.”
She expected a far more devastating attack from a different source. Lizzie glanced up at the musicians, who were assembling in the gallery above the ballroom. She could not even take pleasure in the thought of dancing tonight.
Tom Beauchamp had claimed the supper dance that Steyne wanted, to Lizzie’s relief. Tom was Clare’s brother and a dear friend. He’d fancied himself in love with Lizzie once, but that was many years ago and he’d grown out of it since.
As for her own feelings, a hasty ceremony and a soulless coupling had ruined her for any other man—and not just in the conventional sense. The knowledge made her want to flay herself for rank stupidity.
She wanted a family. Children and a household of her own. To expect or even hope for more from Steyne was to engage in air-dreaming.
“Tom,” said Clare frostily, curtsying as Tom approached. She possessed herself of a nearby masculine arm, which happened to belong to Mr. Perkins.
“Hello, brat,” said Tom with a wry quirk to his mouth.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” Clare turned the full force of her most melting expression upon her faithful admirer. “Do I look like a brat to you, Mr. Perkins?”
The young gentleman flushed pink. “N-no, indeed. Anything less like a brat than the divine Miss Beauchamp would be difficult to imagine.”
Tom glanced down on Mr. Perkins from his superior height and said, “That’s because you don’t know her very well.”
Clare ignored Tom’s interjection, exclaiming instead, “Tom, that reminds me. I want you to sign your name to my petition before I take it to Mr. Huntley tomorrow.”
“Dear God,” muttered Tom. “Can’t you leave the poor fellow alone, you little hornet? All he wants is a quiet life.”
“Then he ought to step down at
the next election and let someone else run.” She eyed him speculatively.
“No,” said Tom. “Absolutely not.”
She frowned. “You didn’t even hear what I was going to say.”
“I know what you were going to say because you’ve said it a hundred times. And I repeat: I will not stand for election in Huntley’s stead. Even if I did, I would not be your puppet, Clare. Now, be a good girl and run along. I want to talk to Lizzie.”
Clare went with something of a flounce.
Throughout this exchange, Lizzie had been scanning the crowd, watching for Steyne. Her nerves hummed with tension. She barely heard a word Tom spoke to her until he put a hand over hers. “My dear Lizzie. Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? No, of course not.” She collected herself as best she could, withdrawing her hand from his. “I apologize if I seem distracted. I am concerned that the ball should run smoothly, that’s all. My mind always picks over a hundred little details.”
“These assemblies always run smoothly,” said Tom, a twinkle lurking in his dark eyes. “With Miss Allbright at the helm, would the evening dare go awry?”
She pulled a face. “You make me sound disagreeably managing.” She only wished that were the truth. Then she might manage her way out of this mess.
“No, not managing,” he said. “Clever and competent, rather.” He tilted his head. “Are you feeling quite the thing, old girl?”
She pressed her fingertips to her temple. “Sorry, Tom. I—I have the headache.”
“Then you must sit while I fetch you lemonade,” he said, making as if to lead her to a chair.
No, she couldn’t be seen sitting out dances. It would give the lie to her carefully supported alibi.
“Indeed, I am well.” She offered him a determined smile. “Or I will be in a trice. Ah, and here is Mr. Taylor to claim the first set.”
Lizzie loved to dance, but tonight the amusement failed to take her mind from her troubles. Steyne and Lydgate hadn’t arrived yet, but excited anticipation hummed in the air. The young ladies glowed with pink cheeks and sparkling eyes, preening and laughing in an almost determined way. All seemed eager to appear to best advantage should the honored guests choose that moment to walk in.
The Wickedest Lord Alive Page 4
