He agreed with a careless shrug.
“Then he would ask me to marry him again. And I don’t believe I could bear to see his face once more when I tell him no.”
“Euh, so, you think he will have Lady Langton once believes you are gone? Dommage, Lise. You are too cruel. Why do you not just marry the poor man?”
“Geordy, what is my name?”
“Alysia Rivard?” When Alysia tossed her brush down and laughed he added, “I may try, ouais? Do you like it?”
“Certainly. But I should warn you: I demand a child every year and a new dress every week.”
“Alors! I cannot afford you! Take your English lord, après tout.” He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “Je comprends, you are the daughter of the famous Violet Villier, and so you think you are not good enough for him. Il n'est pas juste, mais c'est la vie.” It is not fair, but such is life.
“Exactly. He is the only soul who doesn’t comprehend that.”
Geordy’s butler paused in the doorway. He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and seemed so nervous he might faint. “Sir, ma’am; the Dowager Marchioness of Courtenay, Her Grace the Duchess of Belmont, and Lady Devon have arrived to speak with Lady Alysia.”
Alysia gasped and stared, her mouth agape for a moment before she could regain control. How on earth had they found her? Geordy looked to her, she shook her head, then he answered, “We are not at home to visitors. Take their cards and send our regrets.”
The butler wrung his hands and wiped his forehead again. He stuttered once before admitting, “With apologies, sir… they are already in the drawing room. There was nothing to be done for it, sir. They would not be gainsaid, and I am not certain how.”
“It is all right.” Alysia sighed, dipping her brushes in turpentine. “The Dowager Marchioness alone has the wherewithal to mow over a council of admirals. The three ladies together are a force of nature.” She wiped her hands on a rag and removed her apron. “Take them some tea, and inform them I shall come down presently.”
“What shall I do, ma chére?” Geordy looked thoroughly entertained, much to her irritation.
“Do come down with me, Geordy. How would you like to meet the true rulers of England?”
He offered his arm.
The butler opened the door to the drawing room, and Alysia locked eyes with Andrew’s grandmother, whom she hadn’t seen in years.
“Come here, child,” were her first words. To the Dowager Marchioness, Alysia was always child, and a reprimand or command usually followed.
“Lady Courtenay,” Alysia greeted solemnly and dropped low in a formal curtsey.
Before Sophia or Elizabeth had a chance to greet her, the dowager complained, “So, you are living in sin.” She inclined her head toward Geordy, who couldn’t help looking both poetically handsome and disreputable. He nodded in greeting, nonplussed.
“Lady Courtenay, please meet my dear friend Georges Rivard. His Aunt Marguerite, Contessa de Montpensier, has been so kind as to accommodate me.”
The dowager rapped her fan on the armchair. “I know who the poet is, child; everyone is talking about his work. When not whispering about you, that is. Now sit down. I wish to speak with you.”
Alysia obeyed, and Geordy took a seat, wisely remaining quiet, but he seemed to preen at the dowager’s compliment.
Lady Devon caught her eye. “You are well, Alysia? It is wonderful to see you.”
“And you, my lady.” Alysia could hardly believe how demure and sophisticated Andrew’s sister looked, like a different woman. Hopefully it was wisdom and not worry that had aged her. “Your Grace — Elizabeth, hello. It has been too long.”
The dowager cleared her throat then blurted, “Preston has run wild long enough.”
“What we have come to say, Alysia,” interjected Lady Devon, “Is that we wish to show our support.”
For a moment Alysia expected an Austen-esque scene, with Andrew’s grandmother as Lady Catherine deBerg. Except, unlike Elizabeth Bennett, Alysia was prepared to agree whole-heartedly with the dowager.
Alysia wasn’t prepared when she announced instead, “I have decided to sponsor you for a Season.” Alysia stared in surprise. “Regardless of what you are, once the ton understands you are under the protection of myself, the duchess, and Lady Devon, none will contest it.”
Outrageous. After a loaded moment of silence, Alysia said, “I thank you kindly, my lady, but I am far beyond rescuing.”
“You shall be whom I say, child, and I intend to make use of your title. It is our desire to elevate you, and this is the quickest way.”
Elizabeth grimaced at her grandmother’s bold manners, and Lady Devon smiled placidly, allowing her elder to take the lead.
“As I said, Preston has run amok. When it is not one thing with him, it is another. As a bachelor, he is an unholy menace!”
Alysia swallowed a bubble of laughter and trained a neutral expression on her face. It was, unfortunately for Andrew, a blunt but fair assessment.
Lady Devon explained,” We are concerned about Lady Langton—”
“We loathe her!” clarified the dowager.
“And we wish to set you up properly. Then you would have equal claim to—”
“You must marry Preston instead, child.” The dowager spoke solemnly, with the attitude of a judge passing a sentence.
Alysia had been holding her breath and let it out in a rush. Had she heard correctly? “That is quite impossible, I assure my lady.” She hated the slight tremble in her voice. “If the whole of the ton does not demand my head, Lord and Lady Courtenay—”
The dowager shook her folded fan at Alysia. “I already told you. Never mind the ton. They will follow as I dictate. I am the ton, child.” She leaned forward, still pointing the fan. Wielding it, more like. “You have one thing in common with Lady Langton, and it is that you are both assumed to be the opposite of what you really are: You are thought a whore, and she is presumed a lady.”
Elizabeth gasped.
The dowager softened. “You are good for him; you always kept him in check. Preston needs a practical, steady woman, and one who will hold his attention.” Her unspoken meaning was clear: He will stray otherwise, like his father.
She tossed her head in a curt nod. “It is not your fault you are ineligible, but I shall remedy that in a trifle. You shall marry him; or else I fear what he will become.”
Alysia struggled to keep her voice even. “I thank you, my lady, but Lord Courtenay is still the head of the family and my legal guardian. He has made it plain he will not allow it.”
The dowager clucked. “I am his mother. Big brute that he is, he cannot stand against the combined forces of myself, his daughter the Duchess of Belmont, and the House of Montegue.”
Elizabeth finally spoke, “I understand I owe you a great debt of gratitude, dearest Alysia.” She stared earnestly, communicating that she had been enlightened of her husband’s ways. “Andrew told me.”
Alysia wished she had a private moment to assure Elizabeth she never even considered accepting the Duke of Belmont as a protector.
Then Elizabeth announced, “I pledge my full support of the match. Andrew loves you, Alysia. I wish you both happy.”
“We can help persuade Lord and Lady Courtenay,” offered Lady Devon. “The world is changing. The old ways already give way to more democratic ideals. I believe Wilhelm can bring Lord Courtenay around to his point of view.”
Alysia couldn’t help a wry smile at Lady Devon’s words. Alysia had heard nearly the same speech from Andrew.
“It is true!” proclaimed the dowager. “Already this season half a dozen titled lords have engaged themselves to American heiresses. Nouveau-riche, all of them, and perfectly dreadful. But I welcomed them, mind you. It is to be the way of our society now. Not all of the beau monde accepts it, but that matters not.”
“Lord Preston predicted wealth and merit will soon exceed rank and title in importance.”
&
nbsp; “Mostly the wealth, child. Preston is young and optimistic. He is correct, nonetheless.” The dowager swept her head to capture the attention of everyone in the room. “Mark my words — when I am finished with Lady Alysia, there will be no great scandal when she marries my grandson.” She gave a short laugh. “Intrigue, and uproar, to be certain, but not scandal.”
She turned a stern eye on Alysia. “There. Now. Do I have your cooperation?”
Alysia was all astonishment, and touched, to say the least. “I confess I am overwhelmed.”
“Well, recover from it soon, child. I expect an answer shortly. We must begin circulating the right kind of gossip at once, now with that distasteful lawsuit discharged—”
“Perhaps…” trailed Lady Devon in a polite attempt to interject. “Alysia, you might consider returning to Rougemont. It is near Andrew’s estate in Somerset.” She nodded to the dowager. “Lord Preston is in no great hurry to marry Lady Langton; therefore we have the luxury of time ourselves.”
Elizabeth added, “Meanwhile, we can work on the ton, since much may be done with rumors to help our cause.”
The dowager narrowed her eyes, then proclaimed, “Agreed. It is settled, then.” She held a hand out for Geordy to help her from the chair, and he leapt up to comply. “You have pretty manners, boy, but take care that you behave yourself,” she scolded.
“Yes, madame,” Geordy agreed soberly, and Alysia perceived he found the entire episode rather entertaining.
“Come, child. Give me a kiss and call me grandmama. I shall send for you soon, mind you.” Alysia obeyed then embraced Lady Devon and Elizabeth, who both promised they would call again soon.
Once they were alone again, Geordy joked, “Tiens, ma Lise, it seems your fate is decided for you!” He walked her up the stairs and back to the room she had commandeered for her painting.
“I warned you she is the sort to run one over.” Alysia sighed. “I didn’t have the heart to explain that I am beyond merely ineligible—I am The Great Whore, who ruined The King of Threadneedle Street. If I were to show my face in public, I would quickly attract every rotten vegetable in the vicinity.”
“Mais, non. It cannot be so bad?”
“Vraiment, it is.”
“Euh. It seems you have troubles, en effet. What will you do?”
“I think I will go to Devonshire and hide at Rougemont until my birthday in August. But please keep that confidential, Geordy. I already have my hands full dealing with Grandmama. If the Tilmores, Lady Langton, and Andrew were to descend upon me as well, I don’t think I could handle it.”
****
August 8, 1873, Dunsbury Castle in Somerset, England
Andrew felt a sort of sympathy for his father. He sat at his desk piled high with documents. Alysia. They had been in neat stacks earlier that morning, but after scouring the papers and wiring messages to his managers, discussing the property with his steward — crop rotation, labor, improvements and repairs on the house, rent from the tenants… Alysia.
Social correspondence required more patience than he possessed; invitations, letters, rumor control, and such. He had Lord Devon to thank for putting the right kind of pressure on the Lord High Chancellor to abandon their ridiculous court battle, and his own mother to thank for Lady Langton’s blasted persistence.
Unwise of him to underestimate the desperation of the former, and the injured pride of the latter. He had learned the hard way how dangerous a woman’s spite is. Wasn’t there something in the Bible about that? He wanted them both gone from Dunsbury, but no gentlemanly means would accomplish it, so he ignored them as best he could.
Owning a title was one thing, but managing an estate was entirely other. And at the moment, with a headache blurring his vision and pounding behind his temples, he nearly wondered why he wasn’t off playing in London like every other heir his age waiting to inherit.
Alysia, lowering her eyes to his mouth, tracing her fingers over his neck… Ah, that was why. Of course.
His mind crowded with worries. Sell the grain now or store it for next season? Will Dunsbury be ready for hosting by fall? Convert farming equipment for the new crop. The church needed a new roof before the rains began. What about the rumors of a cholera outbreak in the village?
Oh yes, and he needed to confirm the source on the tip about the DeBeers mining syndicate in Kimberley… his mind seemed as far away as Africa. He would be delving into the most complicated tangle of international market speculation, then imagine Alysia’s lips on his instead of analyzing the gross national product. He was useless.
The demands of his estate had claimed the bulk of his attention the past several months, and it was all for her. He needed to prove he was not too young and foolish to marry, but established and sober-minded. Ready and able to take a wife and support her in the style fitting a countess — a queen, even, when all his plans came to fruition.
However, it had been too long since he had seen her, and it was driving him to distraction. The demure set of her lips when she knew he was about to kiss her. Her surrendering sigh when he nibbled along her neck. The downy soft feel of her skin under his hands.
Andrew left the desk and headed for the back entrance. He whisked off his shirt, and his feet carried him to the excavation project at the stream. He needed some mindless occupation to keep himself sane.
The men digging in the trench greeted him heartily, and one tossed him a shovel without stopping to harangue him. Before long his muscles pulled and burned as he shoveled mud hour after hour. Dig, turn, toss; a blessedly simple task. His mind wandered.
His workers had even quit pestering him for daydreaming, once he proved he could work as hard and as long as the rest of them. They had also tired of teasing him, postulating how “bonny” his lass must be if she drove him to such extremes. He let them wonder.
After lunch Christian joined him. He was a good worker too, which made Andrew proud. He understood the age-old appeal of working one’s own land. It felt good. The work made it easier to imagine sharing this place with Alysia.
“Tell me, Lord Preston,” said a tinkling, pampered soprano voice. “What would the society papers say to the King of Threadneedle Street tramping about in the mud?”
He didn’t give Lady Langton the satisfaction of a startled reaction. He even failed to acknowledge her with a bow — the minimum requirement for a gentleman. Today he was a field laborer.
“The same rubbish as always, I suppose. And I would pay it the same heed as always.”
“I am not entirely certain I approve,” Lady Langton complained, undaunted.
Andrew ignored her and turned to shout instructions across the trench to the wheelbarrow brigade, then resumed his work.
He could feel her eyes boring into his back. “You are quite a sight, Preston.” She ogled him, sans shirt and hat, bronzed from the sun and dirty. “I don’t exactly object to that.” She raked her eyes up and down his form. “But why must you engage in manual labor? It seems highly inelegant.”
Christian turned to shoot her a disdainful look he had mastered quite well for his age.
“I like it,” Andrew answered with a grunt as he lifted a load on his shovel. “A welcome distraction.”
Lady Langton leaned on the fence post, the profusion of lace on her hat draping forward. She intentionally displayed her exposed and lifted décolleté, so Andrew purposefully looked elsewhere. It drew the attention of the other men in the trench momentarily before they checked themselves.
She said darkly, “I could be of assistance, Preston. Distractions are my specialty.” That earned a few calls and whistles from the men.
Disgusting harlot. “No, manipulation is your specialty.”
She winked. “And yours, true? Although a different kind. We are the same, you and me.”
“If that were true, I assure you, I would waste no time hanging myself.” What had he ever found attractive in her before? He must have been a first-rate idiot three years ago.
She scoff
ed through her nose, an irritating sound.
It made him lose his temper. “You are demon spawn in my estimation. Does that make it clear?” Christian snorted at his use of Alysia’s pet term. Andrew felt no remorse at Lady Langton’s shocked expression. “If you are here, my mother can’t be far behind.”
“At one time you held a very different opinion of me,” she purred. “I remember clearly — in fact I haven’t forgotten a single night of it.”
“That was so long ago, I can’t remember a thing about it. Must not have been so spectacular.”
“Oh, but it was. Any chance I might refresh your memory?”
“I have an aversion to claws and fangs. Go back to London, Lady Langton.”
“If I do, you’ll run to your little mistress.” She twirled the feather in her hat with her fingers. “No. I think I shall stay here.”
Andrew dug the shovel into the mud, feeling unaccountably wary. “This grows old. Why do you bother? It is over, don’t you understand? You gambled and lost.”
“You are a challenge. I find it stimulating.” She said stimulating as though it was a dirty word. “And because I have publicly laid claim on you. I will not be denied.” Strange how quickly her voice turned from menacing to provocative, and back again. Was she lunatic?
“And also because you are the most gorgeous creature I have ever laid eyes on.” She seemed to relish the guffaws from the workers, many of whom had stopped to lean on their shovels and observe the exchange.
Andrew turned his back and resumed shoveling, determined to ignore anything else she said. If she had any comprehension of all she had spoiled, of the loss and grief he had suffered because of her little game¯
“You need me Preston. I don’t see why you make yourself ridiculous over that little whore—”
He was out of the muddy trench and towering over her in an instant. “If I ever…” He paused to inhale, struggling valiantly against the urge to slap her hard. “If I hear you refer to Lady Alysia, my future wife and Lady Preston, in such a manner again, I will break your nose, lady or not.”
His voice sounded low, a false calm belied by his irate gestures spattering mud on her white clothes. “Have a care, using that word, Lady Langton. Hypocrisy wears poorly on you.”
The King of Threadneedle Street Page 21
