She could plead with her uncle to lend them the money with the promise of return on his investment. And while she was at it, she could beg for twenty-five hours in a day and a week’s worth of London sun, for all the good it would do her.
No, the only solution she could see was to marry money.
She barely had time to stomp around the floor about a thousand times before Sarah appeared again.
“Miss?” she said in surprise. “Did your uncle leave? You look a fright, what have you been doing?”
Titania’s eyes flew to the mirror. She saw a banshee, hair in wild tangles about her head, her face deathly white with matching patches of flushed red on either cheek. She willed herself to stop pacing and began to run her fingers through her hair.
“Doing? Oh, trying to solve problems. Nothing a good set of dueling pistols wouldn’t fix.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Oh, is that all. Well, I’m here to tell you your friend Lady Wexford is here to see you.”
Before she even stopped speaking, Claire bustled into the room, pulling her hat off and dropping into the nearest chair with a loud exhale.
Titania quickly put the splinter in her pocket and held her aching hand in her other, hoping Claire would fail to observe the telltale red marks. She should not have worried; Claire’s only observations were for herself.
“Titania! Was the Hagans’ rout not a mad crush? Much better than the theater, which I attended the night before. Very dull, and whoever told that playwright he could tell a story must have been a doting aunt, there is no other explanation. Such nonsense.”
“What play was it?”
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream. But tell me, did you enjoy meeting my cicisbei?”
“Ch—what?”
“My admirers.” Claire rolled her eyes at her friend’s naïveté. “All the fashionable married ladies have them.”
“Ah...yes, of course. Thank you for allowing them to dance with me.”
Claire waved a beringed hand. “It is the least I can do until you get admirers of your own. I did see a tall man speaking with you; who was that?” Her blue eyes sparkled with salacious interest.
Oh, the one with the chest, and the shoulders, and those eyes? That man?
“Uh, I am not sure which one you mean. I met so many gentlemen last night.”
Claire gave a satisfied smirk. “Of course, you don’t know anybody yet. Well, I know a few gentlemen—actually, one gentleman in particular—who would be delighted to meet you. I will have to find out that man’s name, though,” she mused, tapping her fingernail against her teeth. “He had quite an air about him. I am surprised you don’t recall which one I mean.”
“Claire,” Titania said, feeling awkward as she tried to steer the conversation to something—anything—else, “what are you wearing this evening?” An almost inanely simple topic. Would Claire see through her obvious subterfuge?
Claire’s eyes lit up. Apparently her diversionary tactic was successful. “An absolutely lovely gown, Ti, you really should see it. Of course, you will tonight, it is cream colored with pink ribbons. It sets off the Wexford diamonds beautifully. And you?”
“My gown is dark green. It reminds me of the trees at Ravensthorpe.” As well as matching a certain man’s eyes, but of course that had nothing to do with her decision to wear it.
“WHAT A LOVELY GOWN, Miss Stanhope. It reminds me of leaves reaching their peak, just about to fall.”
Just like me, Titania thought, nodding at the gentleman with a smile. She had so far stood up for every one of the dances, and her popularity seemed to be gaining as the night wore on. Titania was not so vain as to think it had much to do with her gown, however lovely, nor much to do with anything of her appearance.
It had everything to do with advance reconnoitering. And thanks to her uncle’s visit, her position was that much more desperate. Sarah had divulged details of her mistress’s vast fortune (and her equally vast desire to be wed quickly) to some of the servants she had met at the various shops to which she had accompanied Titania and Miss Tynte.
Titania was just finishing a dance with some young man who thought Ptolemy was a new tailor on Bond Street when she spotted Claire, accompanied by a tall man with exceedingly proud bearing. Her friend flitted up and began speaking all at once.
“Titania, Lord Gratwick has been pestering me all evening to be presented to you. Miss Titania Stanhope, may I present Lieutenant Colonel Lord John Gratwick of the Royal Fusiliers. He has just arrived from the Continent. He has not had any feminine conversation for some time, so do indulge him, dear, for my sake,” she said, patting Titania’s sleeve with a condescending air.
“Miss Stanhope,” Lord Gratwick began with a bow, “it is true I have been away, but I have not been quite so cut off from society as Lady Wexford envisions. In fact, I was acquainted with several respectable citizens, all of whom could speak in complete sentences and drink tea from a cup.”
Claire, apparently having discharged herself of her duty, drifted away toward another cluster of people. Most of them male, Titania noticed. She turned her attention back to Lord Gratwick.
“It is lovely to meet you, sir; tell me, is there any news that has not yet appeared in our newspapers?
“I am surprised to hear you peruse the newspapers for news. I did not think it customary for ladies to read the actual news items.” The man’s eyes crinkled in a grin.
Titania gave him a conspiratorial smile in return. “You would be surprised, my lord, how many ladies tell the males of their household they just want the newspaper for the gossip or the fashion, and then secretly read the sections deemed too sensitive for our eyes. It is our husbands and brothers at the battle front as well.”
The man gave an approving nod. “It is ladies such as yourself, Miss Stanhope, who give the men at the front a reason for fighting.”
Titania wondered just how Claire knew this gentleman. He was not one of her lovesick swains, and he did not appear the type who would be one of Lord Wexford’s cronies. As he nodded at an acquaintance, she took the opportunity to examine him more closely. He was taller than most of the men in the room, and was whip thin. He was dressed in the subdued manner championed by the Prince Regent’s arbiter of style, Beau Brummell, and had followed Brummell’s severely elegant example precisely. He had a full head of blond hair that curled slightly at his collar, but before she could complete her review, she was startled to see his light, watery blue eyes gazing intently at her.
“Lady Wexford told me you were an intelligent woman. She—”
“I can guess just how she said it, too,” Titania interrupted. “Were the words blue and stocking thrown about? Perhaps the phrase ‘far too inquisitive’?”
The man coughed a discreet chuckle into his hand. “Yes, well, Lady Wexford does not hold learning in as much regard as it appears you and I do. Tell me, have you found anyone in Society with whom to discuss matters of import? Because,” he said, leaning closer toward her so as to speak softly into her ear, “I have been back for about a week, and so far have found at least twenty young ladies who know that we are at war, but not exactly why. I would enjoy finding someone to discuss matters beyond last week’s weather and next week’s rout.”
Titania felt the thrill of meeting a kindred spirit. “Oh, my lord, I would enjoy that as well.” Claire reappeared just as Titania was speaking.
“Enjoy what?” Claire’s eyes glittered with mischief. “Lord Gratwick, are you actually trying to tempt my upright friend into enjoying something?”
“Claire, I enjoy many things—”
Her friend interrupted again. “Yes, books, books, and more books. It is a good thing you left the country, Titania, else you might never have seen the world. You cannot experience everything through books, you know.” Lord Gratwick shot a reproving look at Claire, then just as suddenly turned it into a sweet smile.
“Lady Wexford, are you accompanying me to my uncle’s house? You said you would review his furnishings and tel
l me what you think would suit my bachelor housing.”
Claire sighed. “Yes, since you insist, but I must demand some recompense. Oh,” she said, tapping his arm with her fan, “I have a splendid idea! I believe you mentioned your uncle also had a vast library?”
“Yes, but—”
“If Titania will accompany us, I will look at chairs and moldy rugs until my eyes fall out. I think she could spend some time in your uncle’s library? Perhaps advise you as to what should be saved?” Two pairs of blue eyes turned toward Titania’s face, waiting for her reply.
“How could I decline? It sounds lovely.” Titania did not trust the look in Claire’s eyes, but she could not refuse without appearing incredibly rude. She wondered just why it seemed so important for Claire to arrange such a visit, when just a moment before she had expressed disdain for Titania’s love of books.
Claire’s coterie soon claimed her once again, leaving Titania and Lord Gratwick at the edge of the ball room together.
“Should we find your chaperone, Miss Stanhope? Although, to be honest, I would prefer to converse with you a bit longer.” His mouth curved in what Titania guessed was supposed to be a charming smile. She darted a glance at Miss Tynte, who was engaged in quiet conversation with an older man with twinkling eyes. She did not want to intrude.
“In just a moment, Lord Gratwick. Now, if you would, tell me some of your battle front experiences.”
As Lord Gratwick began speaking, Titania stopped listening as she caught sight the earl—that trouble maker, she thought crossly—bending to give a young red-haired beauty a flute of champagne. She felt a stab of possessive jealousy spear through her, and tried to nod when Lord Gratwick’s conversation paused, her thoughts racing.
How could that girl wear that canary-yellow gown with that hair—does she not know it makes her look like a rooster? And what is she thinking now, leaning in so close to Lord Worthington? As she was working herself into a state of outrage, Edwin turned and caught her eye. He smiled, one eyebrow raised as his gaze raked her as thoroughly as she had him. He murmured a few words to his companion, who pouted prettily at his departure, and made his way over to Titania.
“Miss Stanhope, what a pleasure it is to see you again.” Her stomach fluttered as he bent over her hand.
“My lord,” she replied in a voice that even to her sounded breathy. “Lord Gratwick, may I present Lord Worthington, the Earl of Oakley? Lord Gratwick has recently returned from the Continent. And Lord Worthington from the New World. I have just arrived from the very dull country of Northamptonshire.” The two men bowed, Lord Gratwick narrowing his eyes in concentration.
“Are you the Marquess of Taunton’s son? Lord Edwin Worthington? The author of some battle strategy papers?”
“I am, yes; I am honored you would know my work.” Titania wrinkled her brow in thought.
“Lord Worthington, I had not made the connection,” she exclaimed. “Of course, you are the author E. G. Worthington.”
Oh, dear, now I really am in trouble, she thought. He is a writer, too, which means we have more than our witty repartee in common. And she knew firsthand the meager pittance offered by obscure news journals. An estranged son, those dusty boots, probably an excellent collection of obscure reference books; his finances were probably even worse than hers.
She had put her uncle’s splinter in the pocket of her gown to remind her of what she needed to do. She grabbed it and squeezed hard.
Lord Gratwick gave a frosty smile. “I recall some tent-bound general exhorting us to read your theses. He assured us your insights would assist in our battle preparations. In my experience, there is no substitute for actual wartime experience.”
Edwin stiffened at the insult but replied in a mild tone, “You may well be correct, my lord. Nothing compares with firsthand experience.” Titania hastened to speak to try to stop the impending storm.
“I have read some of your papers, sir, they really are quite insightful.” She turned toward Lord Gratwick. “You see, my lord, I have not had the advantage of being at the front, either. I rely on expertise such as Lord Worthington’s to give me the information I desire.”
“Thank you, Miss Stanhope,” Edwin said, sketching her a bow. “It is always a pleasure to be defended by a soldier as fierce in her defense as you.”
His eyes crinkled in the corners as he smiled warmly at her, and she felt herself respond with a smile that emerged from the depths of her chest. How nice it would be to have someone smile like that at her every day.
Titania pushed that traitorous thought away and tried to pay attention to what Lord Gratwick was saying. He was discussing the current state of the war, a conversation that would normally have been fascinating to Titania, who, preoccupied, had to force herself to follow along. Her natural curiosity finally won out, however, and she soon found herself asking questions with as much pesky inquisitiveness as if she were a lively schoolboy and not a young lady of fashion. The three were arguing over a fine tactical point when Claire returned and interrupted, her eyes as hard as the diamonds clasped around her throat.
“Titania, my dear,” she cooed, “you are monopolizing the most interesting men in the room! Everyone is abuzz to know what you are talking about so interestedly. I have not been introduced yet”—she smiled at Lord Worthington—“but as this gentleman is acquainted with Miss Stanhope and Lord Gratwick, I see no reason to bother with formalities.” She held out her hand to Edwin. “I am Lady Wexford, Titania’s dearest old friend.”
Claire peeked up at Edwin through her lashes, and Lord Gratwick gave a bleak smile. “Yes, Lady Wexford, allow me to introduce Lord Worthington, who is an author of war analysis, just returned from—I’m sorry, just where is it you have been sequestered of late, my lord?”
“America,” Edwin said curtly. “It is an interesting place, where being a gentleman means more than having a title.”
Lord Gratwick paused, his politeness warring with his anger, then his courtesy won and he threw his head back and laughed. “Well played, my lord.”
“Well, no matter,” Claire said, a bit peevishly. “I am perishing for a glass of something, and one of you gentlemen must go fetch it for me...Lord Worthington, perhaps you will be so kind?” Her voice trailed off expectantly. Edwin bowed in assent, glanced quickly at Titania, and then strode off for the refreshment table. Titania’s eyes would not allow her to stop watching him, so she surrendered, enjoying the sight of those broad shoulders as he walked to the other side of the room.
As she watched him, Claire leaned into her ear and began to whisper eagerly, “That is the man! I found out all about him. He is striking, isn’t he? Too bad he has no money, at least not until his father dies. And perhaps not even then. His father banished him, you know, and has still not forgiven him. And his father is in very good health.”
“Then why did he return?”
“His uncle left him some property, I believe, but there is no money there, either. The beautiful Lord Worthington is going to have to sell himself to the highest bidder, but with those looks, he should be able to secure quite a dowry. Much uglier men have, and he is his father’s heir, after all, even if it takes him twenty more years to become a marquess.”
Why, he’s in the same situation I am, Titania thought. Neither of us can marry for love, or even good companionship. Titania frowned, thinking about what she had to offer a prospective husband: a sharp brain, a broken nose, black hair that would not curl, and an impish brother. She was going to have to work on her charm.
The earl returned, holding glasses for each of the ladies. “Lord Worthington,” Claire said, touching him softly on the arm as she accepted her drink, “if you are any indication, I think all our gentlemen should go overseas for a while to allow their...manners to mature.”
Manners, my foot, Titania thought to herself. Claire’s eyes were narrowed in what even Titania could recognize as a sensual glance, and Titania saw her draw a deep breath, her chest rising but not seeming to fall again
.
It would only be for practice, Titania told herself, when she impulsively decided to work her own charm on Lord Worthington. Certainly it was not because Claire looked in danger of suffocation, nor was it because Lord Worthington’s hair was ruffled where he had run his hand through it, giving him a boyish look that tugged at Titania’s heart. She pushed her hair back, straightened her shoulders, and smiled directly into his eyes.
“Lord Worthington, when you write, do you have an idea in your head as to the eventual outcome, or do you just write as you go and figure out where you are going as you make your journey?”
That was possibly the least flirtatious thing she could have said, and she wished she could retract her words even as she spoke.
“You mean, Miss Stanhope, do I work toward the climax or feel my way through the body of work?” He met her eyes with a smoldering glance. Apparently she was onto something.
She tried again. “I mean, do you strive for perfection the first time, or do you have to grind through several drafts until you are satisfied with the result?”
“Oh, the first time it is hard to find perfection, but it has occasionally happened, at least that is what I have been told. But grinding through each draft, as you say, is also pleasurable.”
Titania frowned, confused. “I write also, and I would not say the act of writing is pleasurable, exactly. It is pleasing to have finished it, but perhaps I am missing something.”
“Yes, I think you might be, Miss Stanhope. Perhaps I can give you some practical assistance in the near future.”
“Yes, that would be...educational.” She looked at him for just a moment longer, long enough to register that his eyes were regarding her with a gaze she could only describe as predatory. He seemed to realize what he was doing and his face relaxed, his eyes losing some of their greenish glow. Her breathing returned to normal.
“May I request the honor of a dance, Miss Stanhope, if your card is not already filled?”
Titania nodded, her imagination already soaring as she thought about what it would feel like to spend a few moments in his arms. It would probably surpass the joy she felt when she brought the ledger books into balance, and it most certainly would be more fun than watching Claire’s bosom heave.
A Singular Lady Page 5
