My Lady's Pleasure

by Julia Justiss

  Riverton swept a gesture toward the door. After an irresolute moment, Montford nodded. Giving Teagan a look of loathing, he followed the cabinet minister.

  While Teagan stood watching them, a heavy woman in a puce gown, her headdress rising several feet above her elaborate coiffeur, bumped into him.

  “Why, Mr. Fitzwilliams,” she cried in shrill tones, latching on to his arm. “How nice to meet you again. Lady Amesbury, you’ll remember! You must come take tea with us tomorrow, must he not, Marianne?”

  She jerked forward a thin, plain brunette with the frightened expression of a cornered rabbit. “Y-yes, Mama,” she replied in a barely audible voice.

  “Marianne has been in raptures over you, Mr. Fitzwilliams! Now, surely you cannot wish to disappoint a lovely young lady, eh? Do say you will come tomorrow.”

  A scarlet flush mounted the girl’s pale cheeks. “Please, Mama,” she said in an urgent undertone.

  “Pish-tosh, Marianne, sometimes a girl needs to take the lead—and a gentleman don’t mind knowing he’s appreciated, does he, Mr. Fitzwilliams? You will be there, won’t you?” Her grip on his arm tightened, as if she did not intend to release him until she’d obtained his consent.

  Her daughter had turned pale, and she looked as if she were about to expire on the spot from mortification. Vulgar and encroaching as Teagan found the mother, he could not help but feel sorry for the girl.

  “Should you like me to call?” he asked Miss Marianne.

  She goggled at him, as if astounded he’d actually deigned to address her. “I, ah, y-yes,” she stuttered.

  Already regretting his momentary chivalry, Teagan could do nothing but bow and agree to present himself the following day. Shaking free of Lady Amesbury’s arm, he made his way toward the refreshment room, determined to find his aunt and beg her to let them depart.

  As it was, he had to endure several more dances before he at last made his escape. His head pounding more painfully than with the worst of cheap brandy hangovers, he sank thankfully into a corner of the coach.

  “Aunt Charlotte,” he groaned, “I believe I was mistaken. I don’t wish to be reinstated, after all.”

  Riverton chuckled. “You’ve only begun, my friend. You do realize you are expected to call tomorrow upon every one of the young ladies with whom you danced tonight.”

  Teagan groaned again. “Do you not have some urgent assignment for me, sir—preferably to the Outer Hebrides?”

  “You’ll be wishing it were to the Straits of Magellan once you’ve taken tea with Lady Amesbury,” his aunt said.

  “I felt sorry for the daughter,” Teagan admitted.

  Riverton grinned. “By the time tea is concluded, you will doubtless have confirmed the old adage that no good deed remains unpunished.”

  The carriage slowed before the Mount Street town house, sparing Teagan a reply. As the hour was late and he’d been in the saddle for nearly the whole of the day, he excused himself from having brandy in the parlor with his aunt and Lord Riverton. Though as he mounted the stairs, he could not help throwing a speculative glance back at Riverton, his dark head bent over Lady Charlotte’s blond one.

  Fatigue was only partly responsible for Teagan’s need for solitude. The degree of attention he’d been accorded was, as he’d told Insley, unsettling, and made him speculate that except for the stain it cast upon his reputation, his banishment had perhaps been more boon than bane. Certainly he’d had more intelligent and stimulating conversation in half an hour with Valeria than in that whole evening with a mansion full of people.

  Valeria. His thoughts returned to her like a lodestone to the north, but for the first time since he’d left her, worry clouded the purity of his longing to end their separation.

  His aunt’s and cousin’s words echoed in his head.

  His parents’ love had been deep and mutual, Aunt Charlotte said. Certainly his mother had believed Michael Fitzwilliams’s vows of affection, abandoning her privileged place in English society to run off with him.

  And then had been left by him to die alone and destitute in a Dublin hovel.

  How could his father have loved Gwyneth Hartness—really loved her, as Teagan loved Valeria—and disappear, leaving her ill and penniless, with a young son to care for? Had time and proximity and poverty degraded that deep emotion? Or had he not been capable of love that endured?

  Teagan was his father’s image, as even Aunt Charlotte had told him. If he persuaded Valeria to pledge him her love, how could he be sure he too did not possess some flaw deep within his character, a weakness that might lead him to one day leave her as well, heartbroken, if not penniless?

  Every instinct protested. He loved Valeria with all the strength his soul possessed, and would gladly lay down his life for her.

  But could he live a lifetime with her?

  What, after all, did he know of love or permanence? His sole previous grand amour had endured a mere matter of weeks, and the casual relationships he’d had with women since weren’t worthy of mention.

  An excruciating memory, perhaps the most devastating of his life and one therefore that he rigidly suppressed, forced itself into consciousness. The look on the face of his Oxford mentor when he’d walked in to find Teagan in flagrante delicto with his son’s wife: horror succeeded by sorrow—and deepest disappointment.

  Teagan would rather shoot himself than ever bring such a look to the face of Valeria Arnold.

  How could he know for sure he would not? Until he could convince himself he could never subject her to that abomination, he must not return for her.

  Chapter Twenty

  V aleria sat in the estate office trying to force herself to concentrate on the ledger before her. Sighing, she reached over to sip Mercy’s special chamomile tea, beside which reposed a basket containing two of Cook’s best jam tarts fresh from the oven. Adding their sweet scent was a vaseful of summer’s first roses, just delivered by Sissy.

  All the staff were so solicitous, trying to cheer their listless mistress, that she would have to at least nibble at a tart, although it seemed her appetite had vanished with her enthusiasm weeks ago. One drizzly morning that was turning to sunshine as Teagan Fitzwilliams rode away.

  For a fortnight after his departure she had been so ill she could not eat at all. Half defiant, half terrified by her folly, she had shared Mercy’s unspoken fears. Yet with the relief that came with her courses had also come an unexpectedly deep sense of disappointment.

  She had not conceived his child. She would not carry within her a part of him that would belong to her forever. She did not have reason to call him back.

  Though that latter thought had occurred only to be contemptuously dismissed. Teagan had promised to return, and she would wait for him to honor that pledge. She would never stoop to trapping him with a woman’s oldest trick. Once had been more than sufficient to give herself in marriage to a man who didn’t really want her.

  Would Teagan return? In more than two months, she’d received not the briefest of notes. Though he had not promised to write, somehow she’d expected…something. Some contact that assured her that what they’d shared still meant as much to him as it did to her.

  Had he won enough to make it back to London? Was he able to reconcile with his family? Was he seeking a position, or now embarked in a new post, and if so, where in England had that taken him? Was he even now making preparations to return to her, buoyed with confidence at the success of his plans?

  Or had his family rejected his overtures, leaving him trapped in a gambler’s uncertain life, mired in a role he believed made him unworthy to approach her?

  Oh Teagan, why have you not written to me? she thought, suppressing the tears that seemed of late to come so easily. Even the worst news would be easier to bear than this uncertainty.

  At a soft tap, she looked up, to see Mercy entering.

  “We have visitors, Miss Val. No—not him.”

  Heat burned in her cheeks, followed by anger. Rage at the foolish h
ope that still caused her heart to leap every time Giddings came in with a tray that might bear a letter, or when she chanced to hear hoofbeats or the rattle of a carriage approaching up the drive.

  Mercy came over to place a sympathetic hand on Valeria’s shoulder. “I’m right sorry, chick, but ’tis even worse. Sir Arthur and Lady Hardesty are awaiting you.”

  “The Hardestys!” she exclaimed with a groan. “Whatever brought them here?”

  “Lady Hardesty says they were journeying to London, and Winterpark being but half a day’s travel off the main road, she felt she simply must stop to see you.” Irony colored the nurse’s tone.

  “How did she even know I resided here?” Valeria grumbled. “Ah, yes. Maria Edgeworth, the town crier. Which means she must know all about Grandmamma’s bequest, and be even more convinced that I should make the perfect wife for her son. I don’t suppose you could say I’m out?”

  “I could, but ’twould only delay her.” A grim look came into Mercy’s face. “She was hinting that they expected to be avisiting near on a week.”

  “A week!” Valeria said, her voice rising to a squeak. “I shall be ready to do murder within a day!” An even more unwelcome memory intruded, and she groaned again. “’Tis worse than her ploy to bring me to Hardesty’s Castle. I should not be surprised if she intends to remain until she manages to throw Sir Arthur together with me in some ‘compromising’ situation that, she will insist, requires us to marry in order to preserve my reputation.”

  Valeria paced to the window. “I shall see them now. Then, while Lady Hardesty rests later this afternoon, I can figure out some means to detach them from Winterpark.”

  Smiling with gritted teeth, Valeria entered the parlor to greet her unwanted guests. “Sir Arthur, Lady Hardesty. How…unexpected to see you.”

  “Dear, dear Valeria, how could we be so close and not stop to express our condolences over your grievous loss?” Lady Hardesty exclaimed, as if they’d come for a morning call instead of from a distance of several hundred miles. “Besides, traveling is so injurious to my delicate health, I must interrupt my journey at frequent intervals.”

  Valeria cast a skeptical eye over Lady Hardesty’s stout figure and glowing cheeks. Sir Arthur, however, did look pale and uncomfortable. Not entirely, she suspected, from the motion of the carriage.

  Taking pity on him, she extended her hand. “Sir Arthur, you appear fatigued.”

  He kissed her fingers. “But you, Lady Arnold, are, as always, kindness and beauty personified.”

  “Oh, Arthur is always in perfect health!” his mother said. “Now I am feeling rather faint. Perhaps some tea and cakes would restore me. That is, assuming the cook kept here by Lady Winterdale is superior to the creature you employed at Eastwoods. And Valeria, dear, why are your entryway and mirrors not still draped in black?”

  “It has been more than three months since Grandmamma’s passing,” Valeria replied, ignoring the first remark and trying to rein in her temper.

  “Well, one must not be remiss in observing the proprieties! Appearances are important, especially before the servants. At least you are still wearing your black. Although you must tell your maid—I trust you now have someone more skilled than that elderly nurse—to be more careful how she irons the bombazine. I believe I see a shiny spot on your skirt.”

  “You must excuse me while I go see about refreshments,” Valeria said, fearing for her temper—or the nearest china vase—if she did not make an imminent escape.

  “Very well, if you cannot trust your butler to make the arrangements. After we’ve eaten you can take Arthur for a walk in your gardens, which my guidebook tells me are excellent. A walk is so beneficial for the constitution.”

  Valeria wasn’t that sorry for Arthur Hardesty. “Then he should escort you, Lady Hardesty. ’Twill help you recover from your journey.”

  Her smile disintegrating into a grimace, Valeria stalked out of the room and leaned back against the closed door with a sigh.

  Giddings approached, concern creasing his brow. “Is something wrong, my lady?”

  “N-no, Giddings. My…guests are a bit trying.

  “Please send in tea and cakes.” A thought occurred, and she added, “Ask Mercy to prepare me a pot of the chamomile, as well.”

  There was nothing humorous about the Hardestys lingering at Winterpark.

  She couldn’t endure a week of Lady Hardesty’s tactless manipulation. She must find a way to speed their departure, she thought as she reentered the parlor.

  She found Lady Hardesty examining the jade figurines on the mantel.

  “Antique, are they?” her ladyship inquired, as if inspecting the possessions of one’s hostess were part of the normal protocol of an afternoon call.

  “Ming dynasty, the registry reports,” Valeria replied, her temper once more aflame. “If you would be seated, Lady Hardesty, tea should be here momentarily.” Turning to Sir Arthur in an attempt to redirect the conversation away from his mother, she inquired, “How goes the farm work at Hardesty’s Castle? Was the shearing successful?”

  “It went splendidly,” Lady Hardesty replied for him. “Arthur, you must tell dear Valeria about the several days you spent overseeing the shearing at Eastwoods. Arthur takes particular interest in insuring your property is correctly managed.”

  I’ll bet he does, Valeria thought acidly.

  “Masters appeared more frail than ever when I visited last week,” Lady Hardesty continued. “And your housemaid, Sukey Mae, the one I often recommended you dismiss, has proved herself the trollop everyone knew she was. Ran off with the squire’s groom—and no wedding before that trip!”

  “Ah, here’s the tea,” Valeria said, as Giddings came in bearing the massive tray. A merciful space of time was occupied fixing cups and dispensing the jam tarts.

  “The small pot contains my herbal brew,” Valeria informed Lady Hardesty, who was avidly emptying her plate. “My own health has been indifferent for weeks, and I’ve had to resort to herbal infusions to settle my stomach. Indeed, my throat has been rather raw and I fear I may be developing a cough. I was…reposing when you arrived.”

  “Valeria, dear, you work too hard. Managing an estate this size is too arduous a task for a gently bred lady. You need a husband to take the burden from those slender shoulders—don’t she, Arthur?” Lady Hardesty cast an arch look at her son, who choked on his tea.

  To wrest control of an estate as wealthy as Winterpark, Lady Hardesty was apparently prepared to risk her oftproclaimed delicate health—which was not so delicate that it prevented that lady from consuming an impressive number of jam tarts, Valeria noted.

  “Oh, and speaking of bad breeding…I’ve just received the most amazing news! It seems that blackguard I warned you about last winter is now running the most astounding rig on another supposedly genteel lady of the ton!”

  “Mama, really,” Sir Arthur objected. “Lady Charlotte Darnell was first cousin to Teagan Fitzwilliams’s mother.”

  Valeria’s heart skipped a beat and she almost dropped her teacup. “T-Teagan Fitzwilliams?” she stuttered.

  “So-called ‘aunt’ she may be, but I still say there’s something havey-cavey going on. As unrepentant a gamester as ever, and out of the blue, here he is living in Lady Charlotte’s home, being introduced by her to Society and, rumor has it, even named her heir!”

  “Perhaps he has finally reconciled with his mother’s family,” Sir Arthur said. “In that case, we should commend both sides for settling their differences.”

  “Well, I think a woman of her mature years should know better than to have been taken in by such a rogue!”

  “Apparently she’s not the only one so taken in,” Sir Arthur persisted, some irritation in his tone. “Your friend Maria said in her letter that not only is Lady Charlotte introducing him about, he is being everywhere received by the first families. She even wrote that several young ladies have already set their caps at him.”

  “Set their caps at him and the
Darnell fortune,” Lady Hardesty retorted. “More fools, they! That squabby little Marianne Amesbury he’s said to be courting has neither wit nor beauty. Ha! Offspring of a nobleman and a vulgar Cit’s daughter! If she does manage to snare Fitzwilliams, I predict she’ll end up abandoned just like his mama, Lady Gwyneth.”

  “You have ever been prejudiced against poor Mr. Fitzwilliams!” her son exclaimed. “As I’ve often told you, Mama, I knew him well at Eton, and I found no vice in him.”

  For the next few moments mother and son squabbled over the merits of Teagan’s character, requiring no comment from Valeria. Which was fortunate, for she did not think she could have managed a coherent word.

  By the time an uneasy truce finally brought momentary silence, she had recovered herself enough to quickly insert, “How fatigued you must be, Lady Hardesty. Please, allow Giddings to show you and Sir Arthur to your chambers. I myself intend to seek my bed.” She rose and walked swiftly over to yank on the bell pull.

  “You do look rather unwell, Lady Arnold,” Sir Arthur observed. “Mama, I believe we are tiring our hostess.”

  Snatching up the last of the jam tarts, Lady Hardesty allowed her son to hoist her to her feet. “You’ll be able to change to half-mourning soon, Valeria dear, which will not make you look as haggard as that black. Very well, Arthur, I’m coming. We shall see you for dinner.”

  Valeria marched over and yanked open the parlor door, causing Giddings, who’d apparently been leaning into it while he turned the handle, to nearly fall into the room.

  “Please convey Sir Arthur and Lady Hardesty to their chambers,” she said, wild with impatience to be rid of them so she might sort out her shocked and conflicting emotions.

  “This way, Lady Hardesty, Sir Arthur,” Giddings intoned, and at long last led them away.

  She needed silence and solitude. Without even waiting to find a wrap, Valeria half-ran to the library, jerked open the terrace door, and fled into the gardens.