Mrs. Sawyer’s eyes brightened at the mention of Almack’s, as he had known they would. No doubt she was picturing herself and Prospera being received into the sacred halls of Almack’s.
“Of course, we understand completely. A man of your rank has many demands on his time,” Mrs. Sawyer said affably. “Is that not so, my dear?”
“Yes,” Prospera replied, raising her eyes to his, and then dropping them self-consciously.
Mrs. Sawyer looked around, preening herself and making certain that all present saw her daughter being favored with the attentions of such a distinguished nobleman.
A wave of contempt swept over him, but he did not know who deserved it more: Mrs. Sawyer, for being willing to sacrifice her daughter to achieve her social ambitions? Or himself, for being willing to play this game, and to sell his soul to the highest bidder?
It was not that he disliked Prospera. It was simply that he did not know her. The girl was painfully shy, no doubt to make up for her mother’s boldness. Prospera could turn out to be a pleasant, cheerful and intelligent girl. But the way things were progressing, he might not discover her true nature until after they were married. And even then, there was no certainty that once free of her mother’s control Prospera would assert herself. Perhaps her mother would always be with them, an invisible presence, or worse yet, a visible presence.
A vision flashed through his mind of his wedding night. There was Prospera, modestly dressed in a cotton night rail, lying on the bed as if a virgin sacrifice. And there he was, naked, ready to ravish her. And then in his vision he heard a voice say, “My, his lordship is most well endowed—do you not agree, Prospera?”
A cold shudder of fear swept through him, and he closed his eyes to will it away.
“There you are, Lord Kilgarvan. I have been searching for you everywhere.”
He opened his eyes to find that Lady Felicity Winterbourne had joined their circle.
“Pray make me known to your friends,” Lady Felicity prompted.
“Lady Felicity, may I present Mrs. Sawyer and her daughter, Miss Prospera Sawyer.”
The Sawyers curtsied, clearly overawed at having been introduced to one of the most celebrated women of this Season. He could see Mrs. Sawyer storing up every detail of Lady Felicity’s appearance in her mind, the better to relate it to her acquaintances on the morrow.
“I hope you do not find me rude, but I promised to fetch Lord Kilgarvan. My uncle, the duke, wishes to speak with Lord Kilgarvan to ask his advice about the Irish question and the bill that is before Parliament. I am certain you understand.”
Lady Felicity linked her arm in his, then gave the Sawyers a dismissive nod. “If you will excuse us?”
She swept him away before the Sawyers could respond. She led him out of the main salon, into the hall that led to the drawing room. There he stopped, digging in his heels.
“I have no wish to discuss politics with Lord Rutland or with anyone else,” he said stubbornly.
Lady Felicity smiled up at him. “Nor has my uncle any wish to discuss politics with you, sir,” she replied.
“Then why did you fetch me?”
“You had the look of a drowning man,” she said simply. “I could not leave you there.”
He had been wishing himself anywhere other than there, yet it was strange that she had seen his distress, when the Sawyers had appeared to sense nothing of his inner turmoil. It was a lucky guess, or she understood him too well. And he wanted neither her understanding nor her sympathy.
“I did not need your help,” he said.
“Fine. Then shall we return to the Sawyers? I am certain they would be glad of another coze with you.”
He repressed the urge to shudder. “No.”
“I thought as much,” she said. “Now, come along. My uncle is in the card room. We can observe the play, and when a decent interval has passed, we can emerge, and your friends will be no wiser.”
It was a good plan. And Mrs. Sawyer had been too clearly in awe of Lady Felicity to attempt to follow them into the card room.
“Lead on,” he said at last. “But do you make it a habit of rescuing gentlemen in distress?”
“There is a first time for everything.”
Three
Morning sunlight streamed through the windows of Felicity’s bedroom, illuminating tiny motes of dust that danced in the golden shaft. The display caught her eye, and Felicity stared at the spectacle until a passing cloud robbed the sun of its brilliance. She felt a pang of disappointment, and then laughed as she realized how absurd it was to miss such a thing. The sun would be back, and the dust motes would dance again, if not today, then surely another day.
It was a sign of how heartily she was bored that she could find herself captivated by dust specks. Felicity rose from her seat at the writing desk and began to pace. She was restless, but she knew not what for.
Pacing soon lost its charm, for though the duke’s London town house was on a scale that befitted his consequence, still this was London, and even the most spacious of bedrooms was ill-suited for pacing.
But she did not want to leave this room, for if she did, she risked encountering Lady Rutland, who would insist that Felicity join her in whatever plans she had for that day. And in truth Felicity was in no mood for either accommodating her aunt’s wishes, or for the inevitable argument that would follow when she refused.
Crossing over to the mantelpiece, Felicity lifted down a small lacquer box, then sat down in a chair. Inside the box was treasure, although not the sort that most young ladies kept in boxes.
The box was filled with remembrances of her journeys. Dozens of seashells of all sizes lay inside, collected from the shores of more places than she could easily recall. Carefully she removed a brilliant pink shell and held it in her hand, running her fingers along its delicate ridges. She could remember when she had found this. She had been a small girl playing on the shores of a Greek island. She could no longer remember which isle it had been, but she remembered clearly the joy of discovering this most perfect of shells. How proud she had been when she had shown it to her father, convinced that this delicate opalescent shell was worth more than any gem. Her father had laughingly agreed with her, and encouraged her to keep her treasure and to search for more.
As she had grown older, she eventually realized that the shells had no real value, save as sentimental keepsakes. Still, she had continued to collect small shells over the years. And there were other treasures besides the shells. Reaching in the box, she withdrew an exquisitely carved jade elephant, scarcely bigger than her thumb, an Egyptian scarab, a scarlet feather from an exotic bird, three wooden beads, a set of jeweled combs, and lastly a child’s ring of lapis lazuli.
She stared at the collection thus arrayed on her writing table. And there were other souvenirs that did not fit in the case, but which she had brought with her to London. A silk fan from Spain, a rug from Persia and a few small pieces of jewelry that her father had given her. Not to mention her ability to say “good morning,” “good evening,” “please” and “thank you” in a dozen languages.
It was little enough to show for all her years of travel. And yet each item held a memory. The jeweled combs had been the gift of Senhora Almadillo, who had lost her husband in the Peninsular War, and had set her sights on becoming the next Duchess of Rutland. Felicity had liked Senhora Almadillo, and would not have minded having her for a stepmama, but she had not been surprised when her father had chosen to end their stay in Lisbon, and thus the relationship. Her father had a knack for attracting women, but he soon grew bored and moved on.
She cast her mind back over the years. So many places, so many people. A week here, a few months there. Sometimes they spent an entire season in one place, such as the winter they had spent in Lisbon. But she had always known every place was impermanent. They could be settled for a day or a month; then the mood would take her father and he would announce, “Come along, puss. I have a mind to leave here, and it’s time we were o
n our way.” And then they would leave, with scarcely time to say their farewells. She had learned to travel with few possessions, for anything that could not be packed quickly was discarded and left behind.
Sometimes she thought of those friends she had made, and wondered if they ever thought of her. Or had she and her father been more like butterflies? Bright and gay, they had wandered into the lives of other people, and then flitted off again, leaving their acquaintances to resume their lives.
One could admire a butterfly for its beauty. But one could not touch it, nor could one grow to love it.
She shook her head, unhappy with the turn her thoughts had taken. She despised self-pity. With a quick sweep of her hand she swept the treasures back into the case, and then firmly closed it shut. The past was the past, she reminded herself. She could not change the past, but her future was hers alone to determine. She could mope here, miserable and alone in her room. She could stay on with her aunt and uncle, until advancing age rendered it acceptable for her to set up her own household.
Or she could do as generations of women before her had done, and seek out a man with whom to build a life. But she would not wait for the man to find her. She was tired of waiting for others to decide her future. She would choose her own husband and her own life. Never again would she permit herself to be dragged willy-nilly away from all she held dear.
Her feelings of restless dissatisfaction persisted in the fortnight that followed the Pelhams’ rout. She tried to find solace in her usual activities, purchasing new books to read and new vocal music to practice. She visited Mrs. Dunne, whom she and her father had met in Ceylon, and chatted about mutual acquaintances and the changes that had occurred since her visit.
But nothing was enough to satisfy her. And she could barely tolerate the company of Sir Percy Lambeth. When his servile deference became too much for her, she had given him his marching orders. She was pleased to be rid of him, and realized it had been a sign of how deep her loneliness was that she had actually considered Sir Percy as a marriage prospect.
There was no lack of gentlemen eager to take Sir Percy’s place as her suitor. Felicity treated these gentlemen with supreme indifference, showing no one gentleman any sign of partiality. Well, that was not precisely true. In these two weeks she had encountered Lord Kilgarvan more than once, and had taken advantage of these occasions to improve her acquaintance with the Irish earl. She found he had a dry sense of humor that matched her own. And unlike the fortune hunters who courted her so assiduously, Lord Kilgarvan was not afraid to argue with her, or to point out when she was wrong. He treated her with respect, but did not feign deference. And she liked him all the more for it.
By paying careful attention to the gossip, she had learned a great deal about him. For all his title, the earl was clearly not a member of the inner circle of society. His title was suitably old, but suffered from being Irish and thus not as good as an English title would have been. His estates were mortgaged to the hilt, but it was general knowledge that the debts were the fault of the late earl, and that Kilgarvan was working hard to redeem them.
It was also common knowledge that he had come to London to find a wealthy bride. Some scorned him as a fortune hunter, but most avowed that such a course of action was only common sense. And his courtship of a cit’s daughter was seen as confirmation that he had a fitting sense of his worth and his place in society.
Kilgarvan found Lady Felicity to be a welcome distraction from his courtship of Miss Sawyer. It was not that his suit was going poorly; on the contrary it was going too well. He knew that the Sawyers were waiting for him to declare his intentions, and were somewhat puzzled by his delay. Each day he told himself that today was the day he would pay his addresses to her father, and secure her hand in marriage. But one day turned to another, and still he did not speak.
He knew his time was running out, along with the funds his uncle had lent him to finance his sojourn in London. The Sawyers were growing impatient. If he did not propose, he could lose her, and he had neither time nor money to begin courting another. He told himself that Miss Sawyer was everything that he had desired. She was young, wealthy, apparently biddable, and her parents were suitably impressed with his title. She was no beauty, but that could be a blessing, since it meant it was highly unlikely that another man would form a passion for her once he left his new bride in Dublin.
His logic was flawless, and yet still he could not bring himself to the sticking point.
He mounted the steps to the Dunnes’ town house with a sense of trepidation. The Dunnes were hosting a poetry reading, and he knew that Mrs. Sawyer was planning to attend, no doubt eager to flaunt her daughter’s artistic sensibilities.
Entering the foyer he gave his coat and hat to a footman, and then moved to pay his respects to his hosts.
“Good evening, Mrs. Dunne,” he said with a bow.
“How pleasant to see you,” Mrs. Dunne replied. “But I am afraid you will be disappointed, my lord. Mrs. Sawyer sent a note around earlier saying that she was unwell, and that she and her daughter would be unable to attend.”
He forced himself to smile, although inwardly he was seething. He knew Mrs. Dunne was trying to be kind, but it was lowering to realize that she, like most of the rest of society, was treating him as if his engagement to Miss Sawyer was a foregone conclusion. “I am sure your other guests will provide sufficient diversion.”
As he moved past Mrs. Dunne, he entered a brightly lit salon. Rows of chairs were arranged in artful groups facing the center of the room, where presumably the poet would stand.
A connecting door led to a room where refreshments had been laid out.
There were about three dozen guests. A small gathering for London, but Mrs. Dunne was an unusual hostess in that she preferred smaller groups rather than a giant squeeze. But it meant there was no chance that he could slip out before the readings began. Such behavior would be most discourteous, not to mention that it would be seen as confirmation that his only motive for attending had been to please Miss Sawyer, the presumptive Countess Kilgarvan.
He accepted a glass of punch from a footman in the vain hope that the alcohol would help smooth the edges of the evening. But the punch was heavily watered, fit for ladies or even children.
Wandering back into the main salon, he saw that Lady Felicity had arrived. She was chatting busily with two gentlemen, but upon seeing him she made her excuses and then wandered in his direction.
“I would advise against the punch. If I know Mrs. Dunne, there is nothing in there save fruit juice,” she said by way of greeting.
He could not help smiling. “I had already concluded as much.” He turned his head and with an eyebrow imperiously summoned a footman, and then placed the nearly full glass on the silver tray.
“So tell me,” he said. “I have never been to a poetry reading before. What can I expect?”
“Heaven only knows,” she said. “It depends very much on the poet. Alas, there are some unfortunates who can pen the most brilliant verse, but when they read their own work aloud it loses all sparkle. If we are lucky we can expect a brilliant evening. Or it may be the most tedious evening of your life.”
A few moments later Mrs. Dunne began circulating through the crowd, urging her guests to take their seats. He held no high hopes for this event, but willingly guided Lady Felicity to a chair and sat next to her.
Her company was an unexpected consolation. He enjoyed being with Lady Felicity, because with her there was no need to carefully watch his every utterance and gauge his actions by her mood. They were clearly not a possible match, and without the need to court her he could be himself. And it was pleasant to have at least one acquaintance in London who did not seem to measure him by his Irish birth or his lack of fortune.
He did not know why Lady Felicity seemed to enjoy his company. Perhaps she was tired of the fortune hunters who followed her around. Or perhaps it was simply because he was a novelty. Whatever the reason, he was grateful for her
friendship.
Once her guests were seated, Mrs. Dunne rose and made a short speech of welcome. Kilgarvan, along with the other guests, then applauded politely as Mr. Larkin took his place at the front of the room.
The poet’s appearance was unprepossessing. A portly young man, his hair hung in long, flowing locks, but even the dimmest of eyes could see that the flaxen color of his hair was the result of dye.
The poet opened his mouth, and in a high, nasally voice said, “I will now read to you a selection from my narrative epic entitled The Doomed Lovers, a moral tale from the age of chivalry.”
Each verse that followed was worse than the one before. Even the simplest of ideas was so wrapped in metaphors and allusions that it was impossible to make heads or tails of what the poet was talking about.
He glanced around and saw that the faces of those present held looks of rapt attention. At least, those present who still had their eyes open. One gentleman had fallen asleep, his head nodding on his chest. Kilgarvan looked over at Felicity, knowing she would share his distaste. Her eyes met his, and then she nodded.
“Come,” she whispered.
He looked at her blankly.
She grasped his arm and then arose, and he was forced to stand with her. “Come,” she repeated more loudly.
He could not believe he was doing this. Leaving in the middle of the recital was the height of rudeness. And yet he could not turn down the escape that Lady Felicity offered.
He followed her into the refreshments room.
“That, my lord, was one of the worst performances I have ever heard. I vow I could not endure another minute,” she said with a shudder.
“Yes, but will not Mrs. Dunne take offense at your leaving so precipitously?”
Felicity shook her head. “No. It is one advantage of my upbringing. Mrs. Dunne will chalk it up simply as one of my odd starts.”
The Irish Earl Page 3
