by Mary Balogh
“And the story would be almost entirely true,” Lord Francis said. “Except that we were laughing. Relief on her part that it was all over, I suppose, and genuine amusement on my part. She has a way of amusing me.” He spoke rather sadly. He would not be able to allow himself to be amused by her ever again.
“Yes, well, it will be done,” his grace said, reaching for his snuffbox even though he had not quite finished his breakfast. “And no more nonsense about offering for her, Kneller.”
Lord Francis got to his feet again, pushed his chair under the table, and grasped the back of it. “I am much obliged to you, Bridge,” he said, “for her sake. If there is any scandal, it is entirely my fault. She is far more innocent than her years would lead one to expect. I believe she had no notion at the time that there was anything worse in the situation than a measure of embarrassment. If there is no way of smoothing all over, you will make sure that I know?”
“Indeed,” his grace said, his snuff-bedecked hand poised before his face. “But if that happens, Kneller, we will send her quietly home. Scandal would not follow her there into her own world, you know.”
Lord Francis drummed the fingers of one hand against the chair for a moment before nodding curtly and taking his leave.
He felt considerably better, he thought as he hurried away down the street on foot. He had been very much afraid that Bridgwater would have a marriage contract all drawn up to wave beneath his nose as soon as they met. Not that Bridgwater had any authority to draw up any such document, of course. But even so …
Perhaps he had escaped. Perhaps she had escaped.
But one thing was sure. He was not going to be seen within half a mile of Miss Cora Downes for what remained of the Season.
The thought was strangely depressing.
For the first time in several weeks Lord Francis quite deliberately conjured up a mental image of Samantha Newman, now Samantha Wade, Marchioness of Carew. Quite deliberately he tortured himself with images of her walking hand in hand with Carew about Highmoor Park in Yorkshire. Quite deliberately he reminded himself that she was increasing.
Quite deliberately he forced himself into an agony of loneliness and self-pity.
His heart no longer felt as if it were in the soles of his boots. It felt as if it were six feet beneath the ground.
Damnation, but life was an unpleasant business these days.
9
HERE WAS, OF COURSE, NO SCANDAL. CORA HAD NOT expected there would be. How foolish! All that had happened was that she had been seen laughing helplessly in Lord Francis Kneller’s arms—Lord Francis of all people. It had been embarrassing to be so caught, but nothing else. No one with any sense would have suspected anything else. And apparently no one did.
For the next week she was besieged by admirers, both old and new. She had two marriage offers and declined them both. None of her gentlemen admirers referred to the incident at the Fuller ball—at least not to that incident. A few were dazzled by the fact that the Prince of Wales had actually spoken with her.
A few of her lady acquaintances made oblique reference to the incident, it was true. One of them told her she was fortunate indeed to have Lord Francis Kneller as part of her court. Apparently he added something called tone to it. With Lord Francis as a member of one’s court, it seemed, one was assured of attracting many more members. If that was true, Cora thought, then he had been extraordinarily successful. Of course he was not really paying court to her, but perhaps he had intended to bring her to the attention of other gentlemen. She must remember to ask him about it the next time she saw him. They would have a laugh over it.
The Honorable Miss Pamela Fletcher—who had not taken well at all this year, largely because of a nasty disposition, in Cora’s estimation—was a little less kind.
“Lord Francis Kneller has attached himself to Miss Downes’s court,” she explained kindly to one young lady, “because he is so accustomed to being part of someone’s court, poor gentleman.” She sighed.
No one then present cared to feed her the lines that would enable her to enlarge on the observation. But neither did anyone start talking furiously about the weather or any other innocuous subject. Everyone looked mildly embarrassed, except for Cora, who looked mildly interested. And so Miss Fletcher continued uninvited.
“Lord Francis was a part of Samantha Newman’s court for years, you know,” she said, speaking to Cora, though it was obvious she thought Cora did not know. “He was devoted to her. It was rumored that he was heartbroken when she married the Marquess of Carew earlier this Season. But who could blame her?” She looked about the group with a smile, inviting agreement. “The marquess is lamentably lacking in good looks and he is a cripple, though one does not like to use such a vulgar word aloud, but he is said to be worth more than fifty thousand a year. I might have been tempted to marry him myself if he had asked.” She tittered merrily.
Miss Fletcher, Cora concluded, was seriously deficient in brain power. If Lord Francis had been a member of a lady’s court for years, was not that indication enough that he had had no real romantic interest in her? Lord Francis heartbroken because his lady love had married another man for his fortune? What nonsense. She stored up this little tidbit of gossip to share with him too. She was going to tease him about Samantha Whatever-her-name-was, now the Marchioness of Wherever.
But the trouble was, even though the week following Lady Fuller’s ball was an extremely busy one, and even though there were more gentlemen than enough to dance with Cora and drive with her and walk with her and converse with her, there was never the only one with whom she could enjoy doing those things. During the whole week she did not exchange a single word with Lord Francis Kneller. She saw him only twice—once at the theater when she was there with a party made up by the Earl of Greenwald, and once when she was shopping on Oxford Street. On neither occasion were they close enough to each other to exchange more than a distant and cheerful wave.
It was most provoking and most dreary. She had decided she wanted nothing to do with suitors, yet she dealt with nothing but suitors all day and every day. She wanted only a friend for the final two weeks she was to spend in London—a friend with whom she could relax and chat and laugh. She saw nothing of the only real friend she had in London—though that seemed an absurd and disloyal thought when she had Jane and even Elizabeth to be her friends.
She had known she was going to miss Lord Francis when she returned to Bristol. But she had not expected to have to start missing him so soon. Of course, he owed her nothing. He had been far kinder than could have been expected of a gentleman of his rank. He had tired of taking notice of her. He did not even think of her as a friend. How could she even have thought he might? The realization was a little humiliating.
There was just a week left in London. Apart from the usual daily rounds of entertainments, there was one in particular to which she looked forward. She was to go to Vauxhall Gardens one evening, again as part of the Earl of Greenwald’s party. She had not been there before and was excited at the prospect of seeing the famous pleasure gardens at night, when they were reputed to be magical with their lamp-laden trees and shady walks and pavilion and music and food and fireworks.
It would be one last thrilling memory to store away before she went home again. How she longed to be at home! How she longed to boast to Papa and Edgar about all she had seen and done. How she longed to tell them about meeting the prince. She had mentioned in her letter only that he had attended the Fuller ball, at which she had been a guest. She had hugged to herself the main detail—that he had spoken to her personally—to tell them face-to-face. She wanted to watch their expressions when they heard it.
Oh, yes, she longed to be home. But first there were Vauxhall and a final week of merrymaking.
HE DID NOT know quite what he was doing still in London. There was no real reason to stay and the Season was all but at an end. Several people had already left. But where would he go? He had an estate of his own in Wiltshire, left h
im by his mother, but he always felt restless, even lonely there unless he took a house party with him. He did not feel like organizing a house party. He could go to his brother’s for a few weeks—there was always a standing invitation for him there, and the children would be delirious with joy. Or he could go to either of his sisters’. Both of them would go into instant action trotting out before him all the local eligible hopefuls. No, he was not in the mood for family, especially the matchmaking members of the family—and even his sister-in-law was not entirely blameless in that department. He could go to Brighton, where the entertainments of the Season would continue almost unabated in new surroundings. But he did not feel like more of the same. He could go to Chalcote in Yorkshire to visit Gabe and Lady Thornhill …
No, he could not. Highmoor adjoined Chalcote and they visited back and forth almost every day, Gabe had written. He could never go back to Chalcote—not for a long, long time, anyway, until he could be sure of doing so without making an ass of himself. He certainly did not want to see her with a growing womb. The very thought invited something near panic.
And so he stayed on in London simply because there was nowhere else he fancied going. Besides, for a few days he was not certain that scandal had been averted in that unfortunate affair at Lady Fuller’s ball. He could not understand what had got into him on that occasion. He could not recall laughing helplessly over nothing since he was a boy, and he certainly could not recall ever clinging to a female while he did so. And they had been seen. It was alarmingly humiliating. He was not at all sure that Bridgwater and his mother, even with all their consequence and influence, would be able to persuade the ton that what had been witnessed by so many had not been a passionate embrace.
He stayed so that he might offer for the woman if worse came to worst. It was another alarming thought. Fairhurst would have his head, Bridgwater had said. It was perfectly true—but his head would be had by chewing more than by chopping. Even a younger son of a Duke of Fairhurst was expected to be rather high in the instep. Even Samantha would have been somewhat frowned upon as his bride.
Samantha—he wished he could stop thinking about her. He was weary of doing so. He was tired of nursing a broken heart.
There was no scandal. Either the ton was far more sensible than it usually was—surely no one would seriously believe that he had been either courting or dallying with Miss Downes—or it was so dazzled by the honor Prinny had just paid her inside the ballroom that it readily forgave her minor indiscretion in celebrating her victory with an exuberant hug with her partner of the moment. Or Bridge and his mother had accomplished a very good day’s work in deadening the growing gossip.
Lord Francis did his part by staying in case he was needed, but by keeping his distance from the dangerous person of Miss Cora Downes. It meant ducking out of ballrooms whenever he saw her in them and scooting down streets when he spotted her, so that they would not meet face-to-face, and doing an about-face with his horse in Hyde Park one afternoon, leaving the park only a few moments after entering it because she was there driving with Pandry. It meant being watchful and devious.
It meant being a little depressed.
He was missing her bright chatter and gay laughter. He was missing the expectation of farce in her company. There had been something farcical even in the fact that rollicking laughter had almost precipitated them into scandal and a forced union. He had to admit to himself at the end of one week that the high points of the week had been the two occasions when he had been unable to duck out of her sight and had been forced to lift a hand in acknowledgment of her. Both times she had smiled brightly and waved gaily.
Just as if she really cared. He remembered his discomfort at the ball and his growing conviction that she had allowed her feelings for him to grow too warm. He hoped she was not in love with him. But he had to confess on both occasions that she did not look quite like a woman who was pining over an elusive lover.
He danced with Lady Augusta Haville once during the week—the first time he had done so, even though he had been thinking about it for some time and she had been signaling her willingness for an even longer time. The morning after, he received an unexpected invitation from Lady Augusta’s mama to make one of an evening party to Vauxhall. Why not? he thought with a shrug, the invitation still in his hand after he had already decided to refuse. Why not? He had been to Vauxhall only once this year. It was always worth a visit. And if there was any lingering gossip about Miss Downes and him, then he would put it finally to rest by appearing in public with Lady Augusta and her party.
He penned an acceptance.
VAUXHALL WAS INDEED magical. As soon as they entered it from the river entrance, Cora knew that it would be this place above all others she had seen in London that would remain in her memory and in her dreams. It had been a hot day and the evening was still warm, with just enough of a breeze to set the lamps to swaying in the branches of the trees, sending their colored circles of light dancing over the paths beneath.
An orchestra played in the pavilion and a few couples were already dancing in the space before it. Vauxhall was the place for lovers, Jane had said earlier, blushing and making sure that she was out of earshot of her mother—and even of Elizabeth. There were broad paths for strolling and there were a few narrower, darker paths along which a couple might lose themselves for a few minutes if they were clever enough to arrange it and discreet enough not to be gone long enough to be missed.
Perhaps, Jane had said, her hands clasped to her bosom and her eyes closed, so that Cora knew that really she was thinking aloud—perhaps at Vauxhall she would be kissed for the first time. Jane and the Earl of Greenwald, Cora guessed, were hotly in love and were finding irksome the fact that their wedding must wait until after her elder sister’s.
It must feel good, Cora had thought, to be hotly in love. She thought so even more when they arrived at Vauxhall. Although they sat down first in their reserved box to eat supper, she longed to dance and to walk along the shady paths. She wished there were someone a little more romantic than Mr. Corsham with whom to do both—she wished there were someone with whom she would wish to steal a kiss. But she intended to enjoy herself anyway.
Her spirits were dampened somewhat when she spotted Lord Francis Kneller in another box not far distant from her own. He had not seen her yet. He was with a party that included the very lovely Lady Augusta Haville and several other ladies and gentlemen, all of whom, Cora realized, had titles. Just a few weeks ago she would have been terrified of all of them just on that count alone.
He was seated next to Lady Augusta and was deep in conversation with her. He looked his usual elegant, just slightly to-the-left-of-masculinity self. His coat was lavender, his waistcoat silver.
In fact Cora’s spirits were a little more than dampened. She felt downright depressed, if the truth were to be told. She was not jealous—Lord Francis would not flirt with Lady Augusta any more than he would flirt with her or any other lady. But she was envious. She wanted him to be seated next to her, looking at her, deep in conversation with her. Oh, dear, she thought, she was jealous. She wanted him for her friend. She did not want to share him.
Share? She almost laughed aloud even though Mr. Corsham was in the middle of a very serious description of a pair of grays he had almost bid upon at Tattersall’s this very week. There was no question of sharing Lord Francis. He was not interested in her any longer. He had not spoken to her in a week. He might have come to Lord Greenwald’s box at the theater during the intermission to pay his respects to her. He might have hurried down Oxford Street to greet her. But he had kept his distance both times. Now tonight he had not even noticed her though she had already stolen at least twenty glances at him.
Supper was over finally and she danced, first with Mr. Corsham and then with a viscount who was the unfortunate possessor of two left feet and the inability to feel rhythm. Then she walked with Mr. Corsham and two other couples, including Jane and her earl. The duchess and the earl’s mama st
ayed in the box.
It was all so very beautiful, Cora thought as they strolled. She tried to imagine that she was walking with someone very special. Though it did not really matter that she was not. The place and the evening were lovely in their own right. Peaceful. Soothing. She tipped her head back and tried to see the sky and the stars beyond the lamps and the swaying branches of the trees.
Lord Francis had also walked along this way. He had had Lady Augusta on his arm and another couple had gone with them. They had not yet returned. Perhaps, Cora thought, they would meet farther along the path. Perhaps they would stop and converse. Though she did not really want to do that. She knew now that he had been deliberately avoiding her during the past week. She would not force him into a meeting. And she would not be able to talk or laugh with him, anyway, when he had Lady Augusta on his arm and she was on Mr. Corsham’s.
No, she hoped they would not meet.
Jane and the earl had slipped to the back of the group. Soon enough, Cora noticed, they disappeared altogether. She smiled to herself. They would as quietly reappear after a few minutes, she was sure. They were ever discreet, those two. The other couple had got a little way ahead.
And then there was a distraction, just at the moment when Cora thought she saw Lord Francis and his group approaching from a distance. A rather poorly dressed woman—anyone who could pay the admission fee could get into Vauxhall and perhaps there were ways of getting in without even having to pay—said something to Mr. Corsham and caught at his sleeve. He spoke gruffly to her and tried to shrug off her hold, but she clung tenaciously and launched into a tale of woe that would doubtless have caught Cora’s interest and sympathy if she had been at leisure to listen. But she was not.
