by Diane Gaston
‘Would you like me to stay?’ he asked.
It was as if he’d read her mind.
‘Yes. Please, stay.’ She turned to the coachmen. ‘You may take the carriage back to the mews. That will be all for tonight.’
‘G’night, ma’am,’ the coachmen said.
Trask opened the door and they walked in.
‘We were not successful, Trask,’ Lorene told him.
The butler frowned. ‘I am sorry for it, ma’am.’
She handed him her cape. ‘Could you bring some brandy to the drawing room for Lord Penford and some claret for me? And see if Cook left us anything to eat?’
She and Dell entered the drawing room. She sat on a chair and he slumped on to the sofa.
‘I failed you.’ He rubbed his face. ‘If I had not kissed you in that box, we might have found her sooner.’
She rose and sat next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘If you had not kissed me, perhaps we would not have seen her at all. We cannot know. All we can hope for now is that her escapade does not reach the newspapers, but I do not hold out much hope.’
She put her feet up on the sofa and curled against him. His arm draped over her shoulders. He was her port in the storm. Next to him she could feel calm and peaceful and safe. Odd that what she sought in a small cottage somewhere was a place where she could feel calm and peaceful and safe.
Trask brought in the brandy and claret and some pieces of cheese and cold ham. As Dell sipped his brandy, Lorene told him of the day her mother drank too much.
‘It was because of von Osten leaving her, but she drove him away,’ Lorene said. ‘She does not want to marry; that is the root of the problem.’ And Lorene could understand that in her mother. A lover gives; a husband controls.
After a while they merely sat together until they dozed off.
* * *
When they roused, Dell said, ‘I must leave or I’ll be here all night.’
Lorene did not want him to leave. She wanted to fall asleep in his arms and wake up the same way, and this, perhaps, would be her only opportunity. Was that how her mother felt? Wanting to be in her lover’s arms, but not wanting to be bound to him? A wife was the property of her husband; in the law, a wife had no identity separate from her husband.
But never had he spoken of marriage. Theirs was an affair, taking place in stolen moments. Tonight, however, she might have more.
‘Stay with me,’ she murmured. ‘Just this once.’
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning Dell woke with the sunrise. He’d slept not more than an hour or two after making love with Lorene. Each moment of lovemaking drew him even closer to her until he felt incomplete when not in her presence. How foolish he’d been to deny how much she meant to him. She was as essential as the air he breathed.
He did not want to part with her. With Lady Alice’s Gretna Green wedding, he was free. Perhaps now he and Lorene could forge something permanent between them. Perhaps he could overcome her determination never to marry again. Perhaps he could have a family again—with Lorene.
He watched her face, illuminated by the rising sun, relaxed and girlish in sleep as if nothing had ever caused her pain. He wished it was in his power to make it so, but the truth was he’d failed to do what he’d promised her—he’d failed to find her mother at the masquerade.
He should rise now, return to the Duke’s house and change his clothes, then set out to purchase a copy of every morning paper. He tried to slip out of the bed quietly so as not to wake her, but her eyes fluttered open.
Her gaze fixed on him. ‘Good morning,’ she murmured.
She was too alluring, with her mahogany-coloured hair spilling across the pillows. He pulled her into a kiss and almost instantly he forgot anything else but the taste of her lips, the smoothness of her skin, the faint scent of rosewater that clung to her.
She climbed atop him, her legs straddling him, her breasts touching his chest as she leaned down to deepen the kiss. He guided himself inside her and they moved together as if this were a dance they’d practised over and over, instead of a new one danced the first time.
Dell lost himself in her, in the sensuality of her, building towards his release. His pleasure came in a crescendo and, with a cry, she joined him in her own release.
She melted atop him afterward and he held her, stroking her hair, until sounds of the servants moving about the house reached his ears.
‘I must dress,’ he said. ‘I’ll go home to change my clothes and bring back the newspapers to see what they’ve printed.’
She slid to his side. ‘I feel I have woken from a lovely dream, back to the same problems. Do come back to me, Dell. I would like you to be with me when we discover what the newspapers say.’
* * *
Dell dressed quickly and hurried out without encountering any of the servants. They knew, of course, that he had stayed the night with her, but she trusted them to be discreet, so he would trust them, too.
The early morning was brisk and the several streets’ walk to the Duke’s residence felt bracing. When he entered the house, the footman attending the door, the Duke’s butler and Dell’s valet were all clustered together, worried looks on their faces.
‘Thank goodness you are here,’ the butler said.
Dell was alarmed. ‘What has happened?’
‘Lord Brackton,’ the butler said. ‘He showed up a few minutes ago insisting on speaking with you, saying I was to wake you and direct you to come down no matter what. But we discovered you were not here and were at a loss as to what to tell him.’
Dell supposed he should not be too surprised that Brackton called on him so early.
He blew out a breath. ‘I suppose I must see him, then.’
Dell did not bother to change clothes or shave, but went straight to the drawing room off the hall where the footman had asked Brackton to wait. When Dell entered the room, Brackton, who looked ashen and distraught and totally without sleep, strode up to him.
‘Where is she?’ Brackton demanded.
‘Where is who?’ Dell knew precisely of whom Brackton spoke.
‘My daughter!’ The man sounded frantic.
Dell was suddenly filled with pity for this man. It was a cruel joke his daughter played on him and her mother.
‘I do not know where she is,’ Dell said, keeping his tone mild. ‘She is not home?’
‘No.’ The man collapsed in a chair and put his head in his hands. He lifted his gaze again. ‘She is not here?’
Dell sat in a chair across from Brackton. He leaned forward so he was close to the man. ‘She is not here. I assure you, sir, that I have no personal contact with your daughter. I have no connection to her, but if you tell me what this is all about, perhaps I will be able to help.’
Brackton nodded. ‘She left the house last night without our knowing. Her maid found her missing. We suspected she had gone to that masquerade ball at the Argyll Rooms—’ He stopped abruptly and seemed to notice Dell’s appearance for the first time. ‘Where have you been? Have you been with her?’ He seized the lapels of Dell’s coat. ‘You have been with her. Where is she? By God, you will make right by her.’
Dell put his hands on Brackton’s and gently pulled him off. ‘Lord Brackton, upon my honour I was not with your daughter. I was with another lady, but I will not be so ungentlemanly as to name her.’
Brackton searched his face and must have believed him. He collapsed into a chair and rubbed his face. ‘Where could she be?’
‘Have you checked with her friends?’ Dell kept his voice mild. He was genuinely concerned, more for the father, not the daughter. Sweet-faced Lady Alice was causing her father agony.
Brackton shook his head. ‘I was certain she attended the masquerade with you.’
Dell lowered his voice further. ‘She did not. I am nothing to your daughter.’ Nothing but a tool to help her get what she wanted. ‘I assure you.’
‘Then something terrible must have happened to her.’ The man fought tears.
Dell reached over and touched the man’s arm in sympathy. ‘It is more likely she is with a friend.’ Her equally foolish Mr Holdsworth. ‘Come. There are pen and paper in the library. We can make a list of her friends.’ Perhaps with luck one of them would divulge Lady Alice’s cruel plan and put this poor man out of this misery—and on to another one.
The scandal of a Gretna Green elopement.
After Brackton left, Dell went to his bedchamber to shave and change clothing. As soon as he could, he left the house again, this time to purchase as many morning newspapers as he could find.
* * *
Lorene was at breakfast when Dell arrived with the newspapers. The two of them sipped tea and pored through each paper to see if there was any mention of her mother. The masquerade was mentioned as the site of much debauchery, and most papers wrote about the frantic Lord B—who trolled through the crowd looking for his daughter.
‘I cannot help but feel sorry for Lord Brackton,’ Lorene said. ‘His search for his daughter is now known to everyone.’
Dell lowered the paper he was reading. ‘I saw him. The poor man was distraught. He came to the Duke’s house, looking for me, thinking she was with me. I believe I finally convinced him I’ve had nothing to do with her.’
‘Did you tell him she eloped?’ she asked.
‘I dared not,’ he said. ‘Lest he think I arranged it.’
‘Those poor parents.’ She remembered when Tess had gone missing. It had been terrifying.
They turned their attention back to the newspapers.
Lorene scanned the Morning Post.
‘Oh, dear!’ she exclaimed. ‘Here is something—“Lady S—once more entertains with outrageous escapades. Dressed as Iphigenia in sheer white muslin draped loosely about bare skin, she left nothing to the imagination except the identity of the gentleman who quarrelled with Lord Alvanley and won the lovely Iphigenia. And was that her daughter, Lady T—, disappearing into a box with another mysterious escort? Like mother, like daughter.”’
Lorene’s face burned. Someone had recognised her and connected her to her mother.
She hated this. Hated seeing her name in the newspapers, knowing she would be discussed over breakfast tables and in gentlemen’s clubs all over town.
She dropped the paper. ‘Why could the Morning Post discover my mother when we could not?’ She glanced up at him. ‘And me. Why did they have to mention me?’
Dell looked distressed. ‘I should have been more careful.’
She waved a hand. ‘It is not your fault.’
She blamed her mother. If not for her mother, would any reporter have cared who she was? Certainly if not for her mother she would never have been in such a debauched place.
But her time in the box showed she was wanton enough to deserve such a mention.
She took a sip of tea. ‘At least you are not identified.’ That was some consolation.
He gazed at her, his blue eyes looking soft and loving. ‘Do not concern yourself over me.’
She remembered the feel of his arms around her and wished she could be enfolded in his embrace at this moment. She wished he would kiss away all this unpleasantness.
But it would never go away.
She stared into her teacup. ‘My whole life I’ve lived under this cloud of scandal caused by my mother and my father—and then by me for marrying Tinmore. I hoped it would end. I hoped everyone would forget about me. I’ve wanted that more than anything.’
He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘It will pass in time.’
But in her experience it never passed entirely. Someone always remembered. Someone would always say, Isn’t she the daughter of that scandalous Lady Summerfield? Didn’t she marry that elderly Lord Tinmore for his money? Did she not attend that scandalous masquerade ball?
She averted her gaze. ‘I wish my mother had never come here.’
She thought his expression turned somewhat disapproving. ‘Have you no fondness for her?’
Had she not? She’d felt sorry for her when Count von Osten left and even when Genna spoke so harshly to her. But fondness? ‘I do not know. It seems I have spent more time worrying about what she has done or will do than—than—’
‘Getting to know her?’ he offered.
She blinked, feeling a little guilty. ‘Perhaps.’
Of course, her mother expended very little effort getting to know her or her sisters.
‘Any word from your mother?’ he asked, lifting his teacup to his lips.
‘None.’
‘Are you worried about her?’ he asked.
She could easily answer. ‘Not worried. I’m more angry than anything else. Does she think it is of no consequence to me to have no idea where she is or who she is with?’ That rather sounded as if she did care about her mother.
He squeezed her hand. ‘I promise to do whatever I can to help.’
But, really, what could be done?
* * *
After breakfast they retired to the drawing room. Lorene sat on the sofa and Dell joined her, putting his arm around her.
‘We should think of what to do next,’ he said.
Lorene sighed. ‘What is there to do?’
He felt he must do something. ‘I could ask at Brooks’s. Try to discover where she has gone and who she is with.’
She shook her head. ‘That would only encourage more talk.’ He felt her body tense. ‘I do dislike this. I cannot make plans until I know hers. I cannot leave this house, until I know whether she means to return or not.’
That was some consolation, Dell thought. She would not leave London.
‘I want you to stay, Lorene.’ He turned so he could look directly in her eyes. ‘Now that this business with Lady Alice is resolved, I am free. I want us to be together.’
Her eyes flickered. ‘What are you saying?’ Her voice rose. ‘Are you proposing marriage, Dell? Because I do not want marriage!’
He knew that, but if he could change, perhaps she could as well. ‘We could be a family, Lorene.’
Her expression turned to panic. ‘No, Dell! No—’
At that very moment, the sound of voices came from the hall.
Lorene stood and said impatiently. ‘Who is it now?’
The door opened and her mother burst into the room, clad in a bright red cloak that opened enough to reveal she was still in her costume. Behind her came the biggest surprise of all—Count von Osten.
‘Mama!’ Lorene cried. ‘Count!’
Dell rose. ‘We were concerned about you.’ He extended a hand to the Count. ‘Good to see you, sir.’
The Count accepted the handshake with a smile. ‘I have had quite the journey in more than one way of conceiving it.’
‘Where were you, Mother?’ Lorene demanded.
Lady Summerfield glided over to her and gave her a hug. ‘Let us sit and we will tell you.’
The Count sat next to Lady Summerfield on one of the sofas and she twined her arm through his. ‘My Ossie is the most splendid man.’
‘Just tell us what happened,’ Lorene said.
Her mother looked into the Count’s eyes. ‘Forgive me, Ossie, my love. I do not know what came over me. To be here—in London—I hardly knew myself.’
‘You are back with me.’ The Count patted her hand. ‘That is what matters.’
‘You came back,’ she said. ‘That is everything.’
‘Mother,’ Lorene tried again. ‘Tell us why you went to that horrid masquerade.’
‘Oh.’ She drew out the so
und dramatically. ‘I was despondent about Ossie leaving me. That was losing everything to me.’
Lorene and her siblings were apparently not part of Lady Summerfield’s everything, Dell thought.
Lady Summerfield straightened in her seat. ‘Lord Alvanley was pursuing me; there is no other way to say it. I—I was amused. Playing along, you might say—’
Landing her name in the newspapers, you might say.
‘Then everyone started telling me what I should and should not do. I felt quite like I used to feel when I was married. I could never do as I pleased when I was married—’
Dell’s impression was that Lady Summerfield had always done as she pleased, even when married.
She went on. ‘Then Ossie left me. What did anything matter then? The invitation from Alvanley came and I thought what did it matter what I did? Besides, I was angry and hurt. I’d be outrageous. That would show him.’ She gave Count von Osten a contrite look.
‘Is that why you chose this costume?’ Dell asked.
‘Oh, yes!’ her mother said brightly. ‘I wanted the most scandalous costume I could think of and I remembered the stories about the Duchess of Kingston. I said I’d dress as Iphigenia and have everyone wonder if I would bare my bosoms!’ She laughed and wrapped her cloak around her a bit tighter. ‘In any event, Alvanley was not a gentlemanly escort, I must say. He desired all sorts of debauched things. Honestly! With a woman of my age. I could not get away from him. I did not know what I would do!’
‘Here is where my part comes in,’ said the Count. ‘When I left London I was determined to return to Brussels. I expected Hetty would chase after me and beg me to take her back.’ He smiled. ‘I made it all the way to Ostend before I woke up to the fact that Hetty would never beg anyone for anything. If I wanted her—and I wanted her desperately—’ He took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips. ‘Then I would have to go back to her.’ He turned to Lorene. ‘I did not come here, not knowing of my welcome. I secured a room at Mivart’s Hotel and went in search of Lord Alvanley with the intention of making him give up his pursuit of Hetty or see me in a duel—’
Lady Summerfield gave him a worshipful look.
