The rascal. Lily was out of doors with Grampion, and the neighboring houses would have a view of this terrace, in theory. In fact, trees shaded that view, and the servants in the house were not adequate chaperones.
“How do you endure it?” Grampion asked as a green leaf had the effrontery to twirl down from the towering oaks. “How do you endure the relentless matchmaking, speculation, and innuendo? I was married as a younger man, but the situation was…”
He flattened the oak leaf against the table, tracing its veins with a single finger. “The lady and I had known each other for some time, our families were neighbors, and there was none of this… this traveling hundreds of miles for a glorified livestock auction. The young women appraise me as a suitable husband, and the widows have a less honorable end for me in mind.”
He was genuinely bewildered by polite society’s reception of a titled bachelor. That he’d not mince words—the widows in Mayfair could be more rapacious than Corsairs—pleased Lily.
“Some men enjoy being lionized as a marriage prize,” she said. “Some women do too, but never for very long. A man may have many bachelor Seasons, and his value as a husband only increases. A woman can have more than one Season, but she does so at her peril.”
Lily’s unmarried state caused more talk by the year, all of it unkind. She was too particular, too fussy, too rich, according to the gossips.
Grampion brushed his fingers over a pot of lavender in the center of the table. “You must be very brave, then, to have withstood those perils for more than a Season or two.”
What graceful hands he had. “Was that an insult?”
“More of a compliment, I hope. I dread my evenings in polite society, Miss Ferguson. You will think that the boy who once upon a time knew everything has become quite the coward.”
A coward did not take a bereaved child under his roof and trouble over her moods and upsets, though Grampion’s comment was somewhat unusual. “Do you miss your first wife?”
“Sadly, no. I do not. I daresay if death had befallen me, she’d give the same reply.”
Grampion was being honest again, though this honesty was dreadful. For him too. “Perhaps your first experience of marriage will inform your second attempt.”
“In such event, may heaven defend the young lady involved. Shall we see what’s keeping your cousin in the mews?”
He rose, and Lily accepted his arm. “Will you hare off to the Lakes as soon as you’ve found a bride?”
“That depends on the bride. If she wants to linger in London, planning a wedding with all the trimmings, she should be indulged. The family seat is in Cumberland, and we’ll raise our children there.”
Cumberland was more remote than parts of Scotland. Lily envied Grampion the distance from London and the prospect of raising children. He would be a conscientious and involved papa, and he missed his home.
Then too, there were his startlingly blue eyes and his graceful hands. The debutantes were considering his title, while the widows were likely inspecting the man.
Lily could be concerned with neither, though she was determined to do what she could for the girl.
“You must not settle,” Lily said, halting their progress at the top of the steps. “You must not offer for a lady simply because you think she’ll say yes. Most of them will say yes to the prospect of being your countess. They’ll smile and flirt and speak of the honor you do them, while they secretly plan to leave you to your ruralizing after they present you with a son or two. Few of them will take any interest in Daisy at all.”
He led Lily down the steps at a decorous pace, as if she’d remarked on the robins flitting about overhead, rather than betrayed her entire gender.
Did Grampion never shout? Run? Curse? Would he be decorous even when consummating his nuptial vows?
“I know why Daisy trusts you,” he said. “You are forthright. I admire honesty above all other virtues, Miss Ferguson, and you must promise, as a fellow wayfarer among the perils of polite society, that you will not settle either.”
He squeezed Lily’s hand, as a cousin or brother might have, or a particularly fond friend.
“My mother married very well,” she said, “and my uncle is known to be quite well fixed. He prevents the fortune hunters from bothering me.” Uncle Walter prevented the charming, eligible bachelors from bothering Lily as well.
“Then your uncle came too late to his responsibilities,” Grampion said. “Some fellow left you disenchanted with the lot of us. I’m sorry for that. Will you promise me that only a man worthy of your regard will have your hand in marriage?”
Nobody else had bothered to apologize for Lily’s disillusionment, least of all the transgressor himself. “We will promise each other.”
Grampion paused by the dry fountain, which would need a good cleaning before it could be filled.
“Daisy has made my search for a wife more difficult,” he said. “The first time I married, I was inebriated on a young man’s version of familial duty, honor, and the not incidental pleasures resulting from attending to same.”
“Your wife was pretty, your father approved the match.” And Grampion had had at least a young man’s usual complement of lust. Where had that passion gone, and did he miss it?
“My wife was very pretty, to appearances, and entirely acceptable as a spouse to the young fool who married her. She would not do, though, as Daisy’s mama. That realization colors my willingness to propose to the young ladies I’ve been introduced to so far.”
“Good for you, my lord. Daisy will ensure you find a wife worthy of you both.”
Grampion studied the fountain, which was a simple three-tiered tower of successively wider bowls. Birds would enjoy it, and the sound would be soothing. Now it held dead leaves and twigs.
“Who will safeguard your choice, Miss Lily?”
He posed the question with a quiet sincerity that called for a humorous response. Lily hadn’t any to offer—she was responsible for her own choices, thank you, kind sir—so Daisy’s return to the garden was fortunately timed.
“My lord!” Daisy called. “Lord Rosecroft taught Ham a trick! He says yes when I ask if he loves me. He says yes for a carrot, and I can make him do it again!”
Daisy barreled straight for the earl, arms upraised. Not until the last moment did Grampion seem to grasp that the child expected to be lifted into his embrace. He caught her up and perched her on his hip.
“Well done, Daisy. Teaching a fellow to mind the ladies is always a fine notion.”
Daisy beamed at this praise, while Grampion’s smile provided an answer to a question Lily had mused upon earlier.
The earl avoid smiling to hide crooked teeth. He had beautiful, white teeth and a gorgeous smile. The first debutante to catch sight of that smile would get herself compromised as quickly as she could, and Grampion wouldn’t have a clue what he’d done to earn such a fate.
* * *
Lying to anybody did not sit well with Hessian, but lying to a lady was particularly uncomfortable—and Hessian had dissembled with Lily Ferguson, even if he hadn’t told outright untruths.
“Why in the name of all that’s dear can’t the damned Frenchie chef cook a decent beefsteak?” Worth Kettering set his plate aside and took a swallow of wine.
“Try mine,” Hessian said, switching plates with his brother. “You never used to be pernickety about your nourishment.”
The club’s dining room was nearly empty, the Season having only begun. As more families poured in from the shires, the clubs would fill up with temporary residents, and at every hour, the members would be socializing, reading, dining, and avoiding mixed company.
“I’m not pernickety,” Worth said, slicing off a bite of Hessian’s steak. “This one’s at least cooked. I’ll take the other home to Andromeda if you don’t care for it.”
Hessian was too preoccupied to be hungry. “How is Jacaranda?”
“My dearest lady wife is in a taking. She had her heart set on presenting Yol
anda to polite society this spring, and Lannie has decided next year will suit better. Lannie said to give you her regards.”
Yolanda was their younger half-sister, and she’d dwelled at Grampion Hall with Hessian over the autumn and winter. By agreement among the siblings, she was enjoying the spring and summer with Worth and Jacaranda, and at present taking a respite at Trysting, Worth’s country retreat.
“You will convey to Yolanda my approval of her decision,” Hessian said. “Polite society is a trial when one has twice her years.”
Across the room, laughter erupted at a table of young bucks who’d been drinking since Hessian had sat down to read a newspaper nearly two hours ago.
“You might consider conveying that sentiment to her in a letter,” Worth said around another mouthful of steak. “Quaint custom, sibling correspondence. Yolanda didn’t want to distract you from your wife hunt.”
Letters to Yolanda invariably descended into near accusations of abandonment, which was ridiculous. “Yolanda didn’t want to overtax Jacaranda with an infant in the house.”
Very likely, Yolanda was being considerate of all and sundry. She was a sweet young lady, and Hessian would miss her when she married.
Another prevarication. He missed her already.
“You will endeavor to find a bride sooner rather than later,” Worth said. “I’d like to depart for Trysting early this year. Town will be hot and crowded before too many more weeks go by, and my ladies will fare better in the country.”
“You must do as you please, Worth.” The wine was barely adequate, the potato as unappealing as the steak. “I cannot promise to find a bride any time soon.” In truth, Hessian couldn’t promise to find a bride ever.
Worth sat back as the swells at the table by the window went off into whoops about somebody’s attempt to serenade a young lady by the full moon and instead waking her widowed mama.
“You have to try, Hess.” Worth kept his voice down. “You can’t dismiss every woman on the first dance. Many a young widow wouldn’t mind winters in the north when there’s a title involved. We fellows all look the same in the dark.”
Worth was a financial genius, seeing opportunities where others saw only risk and sniffing out risk where others saw certain reward. He’d grown enormously wealthy on the strength of his commercial instincts, and he’d put the earldom’s finances on the path to good health as well.
In other regards, dear Worth could be a nincompoop.
“Marriage involves more than groping about in the dark, Worth. In fact, the groping part ceases to hold much interest all too quickly, and then you’re left trying to think up ways to avoid meals together.”
“I’m sorry. I hadn’t any idea your first marriage was so bleak.”
Neither had Hessian, until recently. The prospect of remarrying had occasioned some reflection, as had a certain conversation with Miss Lily Ferguson.
The need to find a step-mama for Daisy made taking a bride more urgent, but discussions with Lily Ferguson made Hess less willing to offer for just any good-natured young lady. Daisy’s needs were important, and more complicated than he’d first realized.
As were his own needs.
“My first marriage was bearable. Unlike Lily Ferguson, her ladyship never outgrew a penchant for dramatics and mischief. I’ll choose more wisely this time, and then you—”
One of the young men had detached himself from the rest of the raucous group doing justice to the club’s selection of spirits.
“Grampion, Sir Worth. Good evening.”
“Islington.” Worth spared the fellow a nod.
Islington had come down from university five or six years ago and thus considered himself quite the rake about Town. His blond hair was done in an elaborate Brutus, and his cravat had likely taken half the afternoon to tie. Neither affectation hid the fact that his waistcoat strained at every button, and his breath would have felled an elephant at forty paces.
“Noticed Grampion riding out with the Ferguson chit the other morning.”
Lily Ferguson was not a chit. “The park is lovely this time of year, and Miss Ferguson is excellent company.”
Islington remained by the table.
Hess sent Worth a look. Invite him to sit, and I shall kill you slowly and without remorse. Worth busied himself pouring exactly the same measure of wine into both glasses.
Islington grasped his lapels. “Excellent company, yes. Well. Others have thought the same. You’re new to Town, and Lily Ferguson isn’t. New to Town. You see.” He winked, or perhaps an insect had flown into his eye.
Worth cleared his throat.
“I’m not sure I take your meaning,” Hessian said, “me being new to Town and all.”
Islington leaned closer, bringing with him the stench of prolonged overimbibing. “The damned girl looks well enough, and she’s bound to have decent settlements and all, but she’s much too outspoken. Much. One of them unnatural daughters of Sappho, if you take my meaning. You’ll want to look elsewhere, whether you’re thinking to marry or otherwise keep company with the lady.”
He winked again.
Lily was honest and sensible, and among people suffering a paucity of useful ambitions, this was the thanks she got. Gossip from fools, probably years after she’d offered some buffoon a set-down for leering at her bodice.
Hessian rose, and Worth set the wine bottle on the opposite side of the table.
“Islington, you accurately perceive that I am the veriest bumpkin of an earl. I do so love my acres up in Cumberland.”
“Pretty place, Cumberland, so I’m told. Don’t think I’d care for it.”
The group across the room had fallen silent, as had the several other tables of diners in the room. That was fine. Good, in fact, for what Hessian had to say was not private.
“The benefit of all the ruralizing I’ve done is that I spend many a morning tramping about with my fowling piece, and I feel it only fair to warn you, I am a dead shot.”
“Dead shot,” Worth echoed. “I’ve never seen Grampion miss a target when sober, and his lordship is always sober.”
In fact, Worth hadn’t seen Hessian so much as lift a firearm in the past ten years, much less take aim at a hapless pheasant going about its avian business.
“I’m sober now too,” Hessian said, “while you must be given the benefit of gentlemanly tolerance, considering how assiduously you’ve been at the spirits.”
“Doesn’t do to remain sober after sundown.” Islington’s confreres hooted their agreement with that profundity.
“Doesn’t do to malign a lady’s good name either,” Hessian said. “Particularly when she’s not on hand to defend herself against the charges.”
The hooting stopped, but Hessian wasn’t finished. “In fact, Islington, were you not half seas over, I’d offer you a demonstration of my accuracy with a firearm on the field of honor. Lily Ferguson is a lady, and if dunderheaded young men speak out of turn within her hearing, then I applaud her for calling such specimens to account. How else will they mend their ungentlemanly ways before more serious harm is done?”
“Serious harm?”
The last word had come out on a gratifying, if malodorous, squeak.
“I’m glad you take my point. Perhaps a bit of fresh air will help clear your head. We wouldn’t want your drunken maunderings to give anybody reason to take offense.”
Hessian remained on his feet, several inches taller than Islington and years more willing to put his fists where his honor lay.
Worth made a little shooing motion with his hand.
Islington backed away from the table, until he bumped into the next table, which was empty. He turned and strode from the room, his friends watching his departure in silence.
“Well done.” Worth saluted with his wineglass. “The boy needed a talking-to.”
Hessian resumed his seat. “He’s not a boy, and if he gossips about decent young women, he’s not a gentleman either.”
“So,” Worth said, pla
cing the wine bottle by Hess’s elbow. “Tell me about Lily Ferguson and this little ride in the park.”
To discuss the situation with Worth was a curious relief. “Lily Ferguson is kind, honest, and practical. She’s taken an interest in Daisy, and I account Miss Ferguson a friend.”
Worth frowned at the remains of his brother’s steak. “Papa knew her Uncle, as I recall, and I have vague memories of teasing her in the park as a boy. Is she pretty?”
She was beautiful, when she was peering up at Hessian in the midday sunshine, exhorting him to choose wisely or not at all. Her hair was all dark fire and soft embers, her hands both competent and elegant. Her eyes changed color with her moods and attire, going from agate to smoky gray.
Those eyes bore the steady regard of a woman who knew who she was and what she wanted in life.
So why did that woman dress in the most unprepossessing ensembles ever sewn by a Mayfair modiste? As a girl, Lily Ferguson had been vain and fussy. As a woman, she aspired to out-nun the most devout Papists for drab attire.
“Miss Lily is comely,” Hessian said, “though she doesn’t trouble over her appearance inordinately. Do we endure the apple torte here, or cast ourselves on the mercy of your cook?”
Worth tossed his serviette on the table. “Walk me home, and I’ll introduce you to a raspberry trifle that will make you glad you’re old enough to spoil your dinner at will.”
“I do not approve of gluttony, Worth.”
Worth signaled the waiter to wrap up the uneaten meat for Andromeda.
Worth was collecting females, while Hessian had Daisy, and the prospect of bringing her up under his roof was such an unlooked-for boon, Hessian couldn’t muster any envy toward his brother.
Toward anybody.
On the walk to Worth’s town house, Hessian wondered what color Miss Lily Ferguson’s eyes would be if she decided that what she wanted out of life was to become the Countess of Grampion. When her husband made love to her for the first time, would she allow him to leave enough candles lit that he could discern the passion in her gaze?
Had he been a betting man, Hessian would have said yes. Lily Ferguson would not have allowed her husband to settle for groping in the dark. Married to her, a man would be required to make love and to acquit himself to the lady’s complete satisfaction.
His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen Book 4) Page 4
