Lady Langton tried to catch her eye, but Alysia let her wait a while then raised her eyebrows as if to say, A bit dim, are we?
“Oh yes, it was the theater, in Paris. You were an actress, on the stage. I remember now. That is it, with the wings. Was it A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Miss Villier?”
“A shame for Mr. Shakespeare it failed to inspire you, but your memory for detail is admirable,” Alysia replied gravely.
Nervous twitters came from the guests. That would only anger Lady Langton.
She cocked her head, her jewels glinting an impressive halo. “Oh, and then it was regrettable you seemed to have disappeared from the Parisian scene. How unfortunate for your admirers. Tell us, Miss Villier, whatever took you away from Paris?”
Compared to Lady Langton’s pampered, nasal soprano voice, Alysia’s alto sounded like an angry viola to her own ears. Making an effort to come across as sincerely amused, she said, “One does enjoy a good disappearing act every now and then, my lady.”
“Mmm, yes. The rumor mill can be quite a bother, can it not, Miss Villier?”
“I suppose there are those who amuse themselves with rumors and those who fabricate them, and yet those who twist them to advantage.” She managed this without the slightest hint of accusation. Alysia added, “Personally, I prefer to ignore the institution altogether. I regret I am quite in the dark as to your exact meaning.”
Lady Langton’s perfect rosebud lips pursed in well-concealed menace.
Checkmate. Lady Langton had only two choices: spell out her accusations or retreat. “Actually, I was rather wondering if you could tell me where Lord Preston has gone?” Her pointed tone implied she thought Alysia had been holed up with him somewhere.
Alysia was honestly surprised. “He doesn’t answer to me. I suppose he is wherever he pleases himself to be.” Alysia finished her glass of champagne, and blessedly, Philip arrived as if on cue and offered his arm. She excused herself from Lady Langton, and Philip took her into the ballroom.
He twirled her once then stepped into a waltz in one continuous motion. Philip looked formidable in full dress uniform, rustling and clinking with medals and ribbons. Nowhere to place her fingers on his shoulder without touching rows of gold stripes. His dashing mien proclaimed Navy hero! The men slapping him on the back and calling him Pirate Slayer was excess, in her opinion, as were the scorching jealous glares she had been fielding all evening. An eligible widower fresh out of mourning was a prime commodity in London. Adding her status as the designated pariah, she and Philip were a conspicuous pair.
Quite at ease in the London scene, suave Philip impacted her, supplanting his casual country-dwelling alter ego. She realized she had placated herself by imagining him harmless. He was humble — not meek. Not at all.
“And how do you find your assortment of potential husbands?”
“Reclusive,” she replied, and he chuckled. She saw Lord Courtenay watching them from the stairs, or scrutinizing them, rather. She wondered what he thought of Lord Devon’s nephew openly accepting her when he wouldn’t allow the same for his own son. He couldn’t possibly be pleased.
“I know why, but I doubt you would care to hear it.”
“You couldn’t possibly shock me or injure my feelings. Tell me, is it because I am a wicked Parisian courtesan, or have I been deceived in believing I have tolerably good looks?”
Philip lowered his voice, “Neither. I was recently asked by one of your eligibles if I didn’t fear being gunned down at dawn. When I asked him to explain, he said I am bold to court you, and that Lord Preston is certain to call me out. He wished me luck in the impending duel.”
“What?” Alysia made a great effort not to shout. If she appeared to be discussing anything more interesting than the weather, she would attract unwanted attention. Philip had been doing an admirable job of gossiping with a placid expression. “What on earth is that about?”
“Apparently, word has it that you belong to Lord Preston, and the gentlemen here don’t dare come near. They fear his wrath. Their words, not mine.”
Alysia laughed in spite of herself. She had failed to consider that these people wouldn’t bat an eye at a nobleman publicly keeping a mistress while engaging himself to a peeress. She likely caused all sorts of gossip for Philip.
“You may be amused to know the truth, Philip. I am not now, nor ever was Lord Preston’s mistress. Ironically I might possibly be the only virgin in the room.”
She did shock Philip, but then he smiled. He humored her, his eyes sweeping the room. “Knowing this crowd, I don’t doubt it.” He said soberly, “But you need not explain yourself to me, Miss Villier. I don’t judge you.”
“You will likely regret your loyalty, but I thank you for it nonetheless.”
She didn’t know why she confided in him. “If Lord Preston thinks he will marry his horrible heiress and keep me on the side, he is mistaken. He knows I refuse to come between any husband and wife. For that reason I am certain I couldn’t live as a courtesan. It is awful enough as a ruse.”
“Then what will you do?”
She explained how Lord Courtenay would release her inheritance when she came of age.
“Well, it seems you have escaped Lord Courtenay’s scheme.”
“Good. Then I shall collect a dozen cats and live in a country cottage, where I shall draw and paint to my heart’s content.” She was pleased with how convincing it sounded.
“Oh.” Philip said stiffly, and it took her a moment to realize his attention had gone elsewhere.
It was Andrew.
He marched down the stairs, adjusting his collar and straightening his sleeve cuffs, dressed in a perfectly tailored, black silk suit. His usually untamed hair was styled smartly in subtle waves, and his deeply set eyes seemed to flash with dark fire in the lamplight. He looked tired but riled, and his eyes had locked on Alysia before she had seen him.
“Breathe,” Philip prompted, followed by an indignant huff probably not directed at her. He twirled her in step with the waltz to help her recover herself. “What do you want me to do?” He seemed hostile. Indignant, at least.
She despised how her heart fluttered at the sight of Andrew, who pushed through the crowd toward her.
“Keep dancing,” she answered and tried not to watch Andrew, but it was nearly impossible to look away. He entered the ballroom in long strides but thankfully was accosted by a crowd of guests, Lady Langton among them. Alysia saw him watching her dance with Philip, rudely ignoring the conversation around him.
The crowd turned to watch, no doubt wondering if Lord Preston and Captain Cavendish would have it out. She suddenly felt remorseful for dragging Philip into the mess.
He was up to it. The waltz ended, and Philip led her from the floor and handed her a glass of punch, all the while standing guard, by the look of his posture. He exchanged bold glares of challenge with Andrew from across the room. They reminded Alysia of two bucks locking horns.
She was grateful when the next waltz sounded. “Philip, I hope you wouldn’t mind another waltz?”
“Not at all.” He shot her a charming dimpled smile mixed with cocksure triumph and held out his arm. They had nearly reached the floor when Andrew caught up, stopping them short. She was too late.
“Do be so generous as to allow me to cut in, Captain Cavendish,” Andrew said with a shallow bow and held out his hand for Alysia.
Philip kept his hand on her arm, holding her in place. “The lady asked for the dance and I must obey,” he replied genially but with the pointed tone of a Naval captain. “That is,” he amended, “for Miss Villier to decide, of course.” He turned his head expectantly for her answer.
“Lisa,” Andrew breathed. “It has been far too long. I am desperate to speak with you.”
Aggravating, how her heart leapt, and her expression surely betrayed her. She was in no mood to hear his explanation or apology, whichever it was, about his supposed fiancée. And she would rather die than humiliate either Andrew or Philip
by publicly choosing one over the other.
“Thank you, Lord Preston, but I believe I will ask Captain Cavendish to take me home after all. Suddenly I feel exhausted.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Home? Where might that be, may I ask?” His brimstone eyes leveled at her, then icily at Philip, which meant he suspected she stayed with him, alone, as his mistress.
Alysia was frankly tired of being branded a strumpet. She nearly snapped, “It was a simple way of referring to Sir Mandley’s house in Belgravia. We are staying with Lord Devon’s aunt and her husband.”
He nodded, his relief thinly disguised. He shot another jealous glare at Philip.
“I am here at Lord Courtenay’s bidding,” she reminded Andrew. “And Captain Cavendish has been so kind as to accompany me. I didn’t wish to come alone.”
“Of course,” Andrew replied coldly. “My thanks, Cavendish, for taking care of her.”
“She takes care of herself, Preston.”
“Well, goodnight,” Alysia interrupted, pulling subtly on Philip’s elbow. The room simply wasn’t big enough for the two of them. London was too small for them both.
Before she could move away, Andrew took her hand and kissed it slowly. He held her palm to his face, closed his eyes, and inhaled at her wrist, grazing his nose on the sensitive skin there. Leaning to press his lips to her cheek, he not-quite-whispered, “You are mine, Lisa.” He kissed her again, inches from the corner of her mouth. “You must hear me out. Soon, my love.”
He stepped back and watched her with baleful eyes while Philip scoffed, no doubt offended by Andrew’s shameless public display. Andrew, looking both exhausted and furious, glanced around and seemed to concede it was neither the time nor place for a contest with Philip. He also saw his father’s livid, disapproving glare, which he unabashedly returned with a defiant one.
Probably to rankle his father, Andrew winked at Alysia and shot her a vainglorious, suggestive smile. It was so intimate, and so apparent what he was thinking, it made her heat. Philip made a sound like an agitated bull then muttered a terse formality as he led her away.
The carriage was underway before she collected herself. She began to apologize to Philip, who interrupted, “Please, Miss Villier. There is no need. I expected precisely what took place. It is I who should apologize.”
“What ever for?” she asked, incredulous.
“I had no right to behave as though I have a claim on you. I am merely your escort for the evening.”
“No, you behaved perfectly. You defused the situation. I was not at my best, I regret.”
“I will not comment on Lord Preston’s behavior,” he said, jaw clenched.
Alysia was too conflicted to address it. The confrontation with Andrew left her feeling drained; she moved so she could lean on Philip’s shoulder. He didn’t seem to mind.
“Thank you.” After passing a few streets she added, “Let us go home tomorrow. I am through with London.”
****
Alysia lay in bed, staring in the dark and trying to make sense of the zoo that had been Lord Courtenay’s party.
It seemed Andrew still fought a battle that was already lost. Accustomed to getting his own way, Andrew was also tender-hearted and loyal to a fault. As she drifted to sleep, she remembered the first time his obsessive nature had frightened her. She would never forget it, the hunting expedition gone wrong.
She had tried to catch up to the dogs, following their agitated bellowing, when she heard the report of rifle fire. She rode on to see who had caught the fox. She found Andrew before the others did, and an unpleasant sight.
Andrew knelt on the ground with his head hung low. He had discarded his rifle nearby. She approached and saw Charlotte, his oldest mastiff, lying dead in a puddle of blood. Daisy arrived next and circled the fallen dog, whimpering. Alysia left her horse to graze with Andrew’s and knelt beside him. He wept into his hands. She could see he had hit Charlotte squarely in the chest — had missed the fox and shot his dog instead.
One by one Andrew’s friends made their way to the scene and she waved them away, asking them to regroup at the lodge. Once she and Andrew were alone, she tried to console him. “I am sorry, but it was an accident, Drew. You didn’t mean to do it.” She was only fifteen and not sure of what to say.
“Stop that! I should feel rotten.” He dropped his head onto Charlotte’s lifeless neck. “I hate myself!”
She remembered watching, helpless as Andrew cursed and wept and shouted at himself. He hurled rocks and sticks in fits of temper. The other mastiffs bellowing and howling over Charlotte made Andrew feel even worse. It was some time before she convinced him to go back to the house. She led both of their horses, because Andrew insisted on carrying Charlotte in his arms — no small feat. Although Andrew was tall and strong at age eighteen, Charlotte the mastiff weighed ten or eleven stone, and they were a few miles from home.
He confessed to his father what he had done, then buried the dog under a tree near the family mausoleum. He was taciturn all that day and fell asleep in her lap in the library that evening, still covered in blood, not having spoken another word. She found him in the field first thing the next morning, engrossed in target practice with his rifle.
When he stopped to reload she suggested, “Andrew, I know you feel remorseful, but you mustn’t be so hard on yourself.”
He snorted in dissent.
“And we really shouldn’t have been hunting with mastiffs. They are not hounds and don’t know to keep out of the way.”
He sneered, but she knew it wasn’t at her. “No, Lisa. I will never again cause suffering because I lack skill and judgment.” He took aim and fired. “Never again.”
He practiced with the rifle day after day until he hit dead center with every shot, then at greater distances, and finally on horseback. He wasn’t satisfied until becoming an expert marksman in every possible scenario.
Some days he shot several hundred rounds and didn’t return to the house until his face was dusted black with powder and his shoulder splotched with bruises. Lady Courtenay despaired over his blackened and callused hands, but he ignored her. It took weeks before Alysia coaxed him out of his grim self-loathing.
That same obsessive passion made him successful at whatever he set his mind to.
She considered herself warned.
Chapter Thirteen
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
Much Ado About Nothing, William Shakespeare
Summer of 1872, Rougemont Park in Devonshire, England
Lord Courtenay visited Rougemont. He wanted to check on Christian, no doubt. He likely wanted to keep Alysia under his thumb as well. He conversed with Lord Devon after dinner, and the two old friends were being quite candid. They obviously had no idea Alysia could hear them. She held baby Jacob, who had fallen asleep. She had laid her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes for feeling drowsy, but she wasn’t sleeping. She kept her breath slow and relaxed her face while she listened from across the room.
“That is true, Wil, but it seems the same sort of trouble is brewing for you as well.” She knew Lord Courtenay meant Philip’s attentions to her. She held his son at the moment, aptly illustrating the marquess’ argument.
Lord Devon answered, “I am sympathetic of the trouble that results from marrying for anything other than love.”
Lord Courtenay defended, “I was not much older than Andrew when I married. I did what was demanded of me by my elders. I did my duty.”
“Then perhaps you might admire Preston’s fortitude. Happily married, one assumes he would ultimately avoid the problems you face.”
“But she is the daughter of a courtesan!”
Lord Devon countered stiffly, “Careful, Courtenay. So is my wife, strictly speaking, and you were eager to support me. Why not do it for your son?”
“Sophia is a peeress, an heiress, and properly brought up,” Lord Courtenay argued.
“Violet Villier was a countess, and Alysia has you to
thank for her proper upbringing. Her fortune shouldn’t matter, but I understand it is more than adequate.”
“But Sophia’s father was a viscount—”
“Sophia’s father was deposed as a traitor and murderer. I don’t see how that is better than an unknown father, Courtenay.” Lord Devon’s voice sharpened, and she worried the two old friends would fall out over her. It was a sensitive topic now that Lady Devon was concerned.
Lord Devon continued, “I prefer to judge by one’s character. Alysia is a delight, and I would gladly give my blessing if she wanted Philip.”
Alysia nearly seized with shock for his boldness. Lord Courtenay scoffed.
“The world is changing, Courtenay. By degrees tradition gives way to democracy and capitalism. The empire as we knew it is gone.”
She heard a thud; Lord Courtenay must have struck the arm of his chair. “I cannot toss my legacy to the wind.”
“Andrew will do as he pleases.”
“True. I was too indulgent. The damage is done.”
“I get the impression she is capable of keeping him out of trouble. And think of your grandchildren, Courtenay.”
Just then Philip approached to take the baby, and he apologized when he thought he woke Alysia. She made a show of blinking, trying to look disoriented and groggy. She knew she was being watched while Philip helped her up and escorted her from the room. She was still reeling from hearing Lord Devon speak so kindly of her.
****
Alysia and Madeline sat on the bed in Madeline’s room with baby Jacob lying between them. They had been trying to get him to sleep for half an hour. He watched their conversation back and forth and quit fussing, so they turned their talk into a fantastical bedtime story. The only tales Alysia knew well were from Greek and Roman mythology, and Madeline didn’t know any bedtime stories either.
The King of Threadneedle Street Page 15
