The Luckiest Lady in London

by Sherry Thomas

  “I’m sure you do. But this will always be my first.”

  The town coach seemed to have been built of glass, with large windows on every side. None of the shades were drawn, and they were hardly the only vehicle on the road.

  Nonetheless, she raised the handle of his walking stick, leaned forward, and kissed it on the tip.

  “You make me do such unspeakable things,” she murmured, looking at the jaguar’s head.

  Slowly, he pulled the walking stick from her grasp. He examined the handle closely, then glanced back at her, his gaze heated yet inscrutable.

  Rain drummed against the top of the coach. Thunder cracked. The wheels of the carriage splashed through the small river running down the street. Yet all she heard was the arrhythmic thumping of her heart, a staccato of hot, unfulfilled yearning.

  The silence made her squirm. She was not someone who must speak to fill a silence, yet his silence seemed to turn a spigot in her, and words spilled from her into the space between them.

  “Why don’t you let me touch it again, the head of the jaguar? I quite like its heft in my hand.”

  He cast a look down and played, rather absently—or so it seemed—with the ebony knob. Except whatever he did made her breath catch and her face grow even hotter.

  “Are you sure it is I who make you do unspeakable things?” he asked softly, his gaze pinning her against the back of the seat. “Or are you just naturally fond of gentlemen’s . . . walking sticks?”

  • • •

  She shifted on the seat.

  Felix would like to do the same: adjust certain parts so he was slightly more comfortable. But he also knew it would be no use: Nothing would take off the edge of his arousal—nothing except the possession of her.

  He thought of her constantly: on her back, on her knees, on her feet, sometimes naked, sometimes not, but always with him inside her, and always with her eyes wide open, looking at him with that expression particular to her: lust, apprehension, covetousness, suspicion, and just a sprinkle of worship.

  Even now he thought of it: using the handle of his walking stick to lift her skirts and push her knees apart, so that she would be exposed before him.

  “I will find out, won’t I, when I marry the butcher?” she answered at last.

  His fingers clenched over the handle of his walking stick. He hadn’t meant to react so obviously, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. What did she mean, the butcher? “Does he have a walking stick you have been admiring?”

  She twisted her fingers. “I’m sure I don’t know about his walking stick—I have only seen him in his shop. He is a good man and not unpleasant in appearance. Rumor is that he fancies me, but Mother has let it be known, though perhaps not in so many words, that she would never allow any of her daughters to stoop to marrying butchers, greengrocers, and the like.

  “But that’s because her father was a gentleman. My father was a fortune hunter, and I am far less fastidious about which sort of man is good enough to be my husband. A butcher’s money is just as good as a lord’s. If he will take Matilda in, then I will marry him.”

  He did not want to believe her. But this was what truth felt like: a tight, hard knot somewhere in his chest. “Will he take in Miss Matilda?”

  She shrugged. “That might depend on how well I convince him of my fondness for his walking stick.”

  The handle of the walking stick was suddenly pressed into her chest, between her breasts. He had no idea how it happened. He had no idea he was capable of such recklessness—or volatility.

  She looked at him with astonishment—and made no move to touch the walking stick again.

  “Sleep with me and I will provide you access to the best private telescope in England, something your butcher would never be able to do.”

  Her heart beat violently—each throb transmitting across the length of the walking stick to reverberate against his palm. “I thought I had made it very clear that I am not that sort of woman.”

  The thought of another man touching her . . . of her, with that agreeableness she did so well, encouraging this man . . . of himself, with only his memories for consolation . . .

  His fortune privileged him over most other men in London, but how did he compete with all the “butchers, greengrocers, and the like”?

  Slowly he retracted the walking stick. “You will certainly eat well, if nothing else.”

  He’d meant to project a certain levity, but he sounded caustic.

  “One must look to the silver linings,” she said quietly.

  “I am sure you will manage very well.”

  “Yes,” she said, with a grave solemnity. “I will always manage, somehow.”

  The carriage door opening startled them both. He had not realized that they had arrived before Lady Balfour’s house. Suddenly Miss Cantwell was smiling sweetly and thanking him for his kindness in seeing her home. He, too, became all courtesy and gallantry, assuring her that he would have moved far greater mountains to ensure her ease and comfort.

  As his coach pulled away once more from the curb, however, it was not their naughtier interaction that dominated his thoughts, but the determination—and melancholy—with which she assured him that she would survive marriage to just about any able-bodied man.

  His entire plan had depended upon her failure to secure a man of her social station. But he had not counted on her willingness to marry beneath her. A butcher was an upstanding member of any community, but by becoming the wife of one, she could count on never again calling on Lady Balfour or the Tenwhestles.

  Or friends she had made during her time in London. Or just about anyone else she knew from home. It was cruel, but until the world changed, the gentry would always hold themselves apart from butchers, greengrocers, and the like.

  He imagined her in this new life, always making sure she appeared extra cheerful, because she never wanted her husband, her epileptic sister, or her new friends and in-laws to think her less than content. He imagined her coming occasionally across an old acquaintance and the awkward conversation that would ensue, especially if she happened to be accompanied by her husband. He imagined her reaching for a sheet of stationery, the beginning of a letter on her mind, and then hesitating, and finally giving up the idea altogether—she would not want to agonize the recipient with the decision whether to respond; nor would she want to anticipate a reply and then finally have to admit to herself one was never coming.

  Not to mention the stars. The girl who wanted a telescope of that particular description wasn’t content merely to view the craters of the moon or the rings of Saturn. She wanted to see the mountains of Mars. The very outer reaches of the solar system.

  Why would she deprive herself of everything that mattered to her, when she could easily—

  He stopped his thoughts from going any further in that direction.

  Instead, he hurled his walking stick onto the seat she had vacated and cursed her obduracy and stupidity.

  CHAPTER 6

  Louisa had not told Lord Wrenworth everything about Mr. Charles, the butcher who fancied her.

  Mr. Charles was indeed a good man and an excellent butcher, but he had a brother who drank and gambled and often came to him with one hand outstretched. He also had a widowed sister who depended heavily upon him to support her and her two young children. So even if he were desperate to marry Louisa, he would have to think twice—thrice—about taking on an invalid sister-in-law who needed looking after round the clock.

  And suppose Mr. Charles somehow overcame his own qualms—could Louisa really marry him? There was an enormous difference between marrying a man one did not love wildly and marrying a man while wildly in love with someone else.

  Who’d have thought, at the beginning of the year, that she had such a capacity for trouble? Everyone, herself included, had believed her the most placid, most levelheaded girl on earth
, or at least in their part of the Cotswold. Had anyone told her that she would be brought low by romantic love, she’d have snickered. Had that sage prophet warned her about sexual infatuation, she’d have laughed hard enough to crack a rib.

  And yet here she was . . .

  “Louisa, won’t you do us the honor?” asked Lady Balfour.

  “Yes, of course, ma’am.” Louisa rose from her corner and poured tea for the latest batch of callers.

  Wednesday was Lady Balfour’s at-home day. This afternoon, callers were particularly numerous due to the large dinner Lady Balfour gave two days ago. The women in their fine afternoon dresses stayed precisely a quarter of an hour, barely sipped their tea, and rose to pay their respects at the next house.

  Louisa’s embroidery needle moved slowly, absently. Five days had passed since the carriage ride with Lord Wrenworth. It was now the second week of July, and words like Cowes and Scotland were being thrown like grains of rice at a wedding.

  People were making plans for the end of the Season, for where to go next to amuse themselves.

  The end of the Season.

  She ought to worry about the future, but like a lovesick girl half her age, she thought of Lord Wrenworth instead. Would she ever see him again after she left London? Ten years, five years, or even twelve months down the road, would he remember her with a pang of regret or a mere shrug?

  Whether anyone else noticed her distress she could not say. In the middle of June, Lady Balfour had confidently predicted proposals by the first week of July. That particular week had come and gone with no matrimonial commitment from anyone; Lady Balfour, however, remained as ebullient as ever about Louisa’s eventual success.

  “Have I told you our story from last week?” she smugly asked her guests. “No, of course I haven’t—I’ve been saving it for today.”

  It was past four o’clock. Those now occupying the drawing room were Balfour intimates whose long-standing friendship with the hostess gave them license to stay a bit longer than the allotted fifteen minutes.

  “Recall, if you will, the torrential downpour of a few days ago,” Lady Balfour continued.

  “Quite ruined the hemline of my walking dress, it did,” said Lady Archer, who had known Lady Balfour since before the queen was on the throne.

  “Precisely. That afternoon, my dear Tenwhestle needed to bring Miss Cantwell home from the bookshop. But rain came all of a sudden. He was stranded at his club without a conveyance, there were no hackneys to be had, and of course, in a cloudburst of that magnitude, he couldn’t simply pitch an umbrella and walk.”

  “Indeed not,” concurred Mrs. Constable, who had gone to finishing school with Lady Balfour.

  “Tenwhestle fretted. You know how seriously that man takes his obligations. But no sooner had he spoken aloud Miss Cantwell’s name than a knight in shining armor stepped forth—or perhaps I should say, a knight in a shining town coach.”

  Mrs. Tytherley, Mrs. Constable’s sister, exclaimed softly, “My goodness, do you mean to tell us that it was Lord Wrenworth again?”

  Lady Balfour preened. “I do indeed.”

  A small crescendo of “oohs” and “ahhs” rose.

  “We all know that boy protects himself beautifully from adventurous misses. Yet your Miss Cantwell had him for a dinner, a dance, a long walk at a picnic, a drive home on a rainy day—am I missing anything?” asked Mrs. Constable.

  “No, ma’am,” Louisa hurriedly said.

  “Oh, but I must differ,” said Mrs. Tytherley.

  Louisa’s head snapped up.

  “I ran into Lady Avery at the modiste’s this morning. And she told me that her nephew, Mr. Baxter, had seen Miss Cantwell and Lord Wrenworth seated together in a refreshments room at the British Museum a while ago. Though Mr. Baxter, being a man, had not bothered to mention it to her until very recently.”

  “Louisa!” exclaimed Lady Balfour, almost making Louisa prick her finger. “Mr. Baxter didn’t know any better, but why have you not brought it up either?”

  “It was the merest coincidence!” Louisa protested; at least this time she wasn’t lying. “I certainly never thought to see him there, and I daresay the same for Lord Wrenworth.”

  “The meeting might have been a coincidence, but Lord Wrenworth could have simply nodded and moved on. That he sat down at your table was indisputably a conscious choice.”

  “I cannot agree more,” said Mrs. Tytherley. “Furthermore, taken as a whole, I feel quite strongly that so many occasions cannot possibly all be coincidences. There must be some design to it—on Lord Wrenworth’s part.”

  “I say whether it is design or coincidence, you are one lucky young lady, Miss Cantwell,” opined Lady Archer. “In fact, you might prove to be the luckiest lady in London, if this current course holds.”

  “I do not mean to disagree with you, Lady Archer, but I—”

  The rest of Louisa’s argument never saw the light of the day, as the drawing room door opened, and Lady Balfour’s footman announced, “His lordship the Marquess of Wrenworth.”

  • • •

  The four older women in the room, with identical expressions of surprise—eyes wide, jaws slack—swung to face Louisa. Who stared back at them, similarly agape.

  Lord Wrenworth strolled in, looking relaxed and stylish in a dove-grey Newmarket coat. Louisa closed her mouth and bent her face to her embroidery frame, trying not to stab herself as she pushed the needle through the velvet silk.

  Afternoon courtesy calls were those threads in the fabric of society woven almost exclusively by women. Given that Lady Balfour ran no salon and belonged to no “fast” set, the presence of a man at this feminine place and hour—when he should be snoozing off his postluncheon stupor at his club—was extraordinary.

  What did he want?

  A theatrical rendition of normalcy was put on: Lord Wrenworth was offered a seat, fresh tea was called for, and comments on the weather—a bright afternoon, for once—were exchanged all around.

  Some of the ladies were better actresses than others: Lady Archer was a natural, chatting about her meteorological apparatuses at home, her husband being very particular about the measurement of rainfall and of atmospheric pressure. But none of them were as good as Lord Wrenworth, who made it seem as if he took tea with ladies of his mother’s generation every Wednesday during the Season.

  He asked after Lady Archer’s son, currently on a tour of the Continent. He inquired into a fence of Lady Tytherley’s, which had apparently been giving all sorts of offense since the previous autumn. And he brought up the subject of Lady Constable’s hybrid roses, which quite surprised and flattered the latter—even Louisa had no idea that she experimented with new varietals.

  Was it possible that he had come on a whim? Perhaps he missed her a bit. Perhaps he missed her more than a bit. And perhaps he happened to be nearby and decided that he would rather cause brows to rise than go another day without seeing her.

  She grimaced at her dangerously self-indulgent thoughts. More evidence of her besottedness, that: The old her would never have woven an entire tapestry of starry-eyed amour out of spools of a man’s sexual curiosity.

  The clock struck half past four. He had been in Lady Balfour’s drawing room for ten minutes—five minutes left before etiquette dictated that he take his leave.

  She wished she could understand what went on behind those hypnotic eyes of his. The man would not cause rampant speculation without a good reason. But if that good reason existed, she could not fish it out of the chaos in her head.

  “And they are truly excellent on an arbor,” Mrs. Constable said with a flutter of her hands, imitating the motion of a climbing rose. “In a few years you will have a profusion of blooms, exceptionally lovely in early summer.”

  “I will be sure to pass on the knowledge to my head gardener,” replied Lord Wrenworth, looking for all the world
as if he had nothing in mind except summer roses.

  “I can have mine send the design for the arbor, too, if you like,” offered Mrs. Constable, a little breathlessly.

  “It will be most sincerely appreciated, my dear Mrs. Constable.”

  He smiled at the older woman and Louisa could feel her own heart pitter-patter. Now Lord Wrenworth reached for his tea—poured by none other than Lady Balfour herself—and took a sip.

  A small silence descended. And extended, as Lord Wrenworth unhurriedly ate a piece of Madeira cake, seemingly unaware of the breathless anticipation building in the drawing room. Louisa doggedly wielded her needle—push, pull, push, pull—while her heart thumped like a war drum in the middle of a battle.

  Finally, Lady Balfour could stand it no more. “Now, would you care to divulge what brought you here today, Lord Wrenworth? It can’t be just to sample my Madeira cake.”

  Lord Wrenworth set aside his plate. “Had I known how excellent your Madeira cake is, Lady Balfour, I would have presented myself at every one of your at-home days this Season. But you are right. I did come with a different purpose in mind.”

  Lady Balfour’s voice rose perceptibly. “And that is?”

  Another small silence. Louisa, her eyes fixed firmly to her embroidery frame, imagined him turning toward her, studying her with that sometimes inscrutable look of his.

  “With your permission,” he said, “I would like to speak privately with Miss Cantwell.”

  She neither dropped her embroidery frame nor poked herself with the needle. Such clumsiness would have required the ability to move. She only stared straight ahead, unable to believe what she was hearing.

  “Louisa, Lord Wrenworth wishes for a word with you.” Lady Balfour’s voice boomed in her ears. “Show him to the morning parlor, won’t you?”

  And then, to Lord Wrenworth, “We expect her restored to us in ten minutes, sir.”

  Louisa carefully set aside the embroidery frame and rose. Looking only at the floor before her—a proper display of modesty, she was sure, except she did not feel bashful, only flabbergasted—she preceded Lord Wrenworth to the morning parlor.