by Amanda Scott
“It was no such thing!” cried Gillian hotly. “I am a friend, and I have not been invited to visit her highness at Cranbourne Lodge, so she cannot have very much to say about who does visit. And furthermore, that drivel about the daily rides—if it is true, which I find difficult to believe myself—merely shows that the Regent is allowing her highness some small freedom as a result of what must have been prodigiously awkward gossip.”
“Enough, child,” Landover said gently, but he turned a sterner eye upon Sir Avery when Gillian had subsided into silent indignation. “It would be far wiser, young man, if you were to refrain from voicing dogmatic opinions when you know few of the facts involved. It was not the Prime Minister but the Bishop of Salisbury who persuaded his grace of Sussex to withdraw the questions he had asked in the House.”
All eyes turned toward him, for this was news. “How is this, sir?” inquired Mrs. Periwinkle, speaking for all of them.
“His eminence has let it be known that he is prepared to offer statements of Prinny’s many kindnesses to his daughter, including eyewitness descriptions of tearful scenes between the two. Quite touching, I thought.”
“How … how could he!” Gillian demanded. “A man of the cloth!”
“Nevertheless, that is the situation as it now stands,” stated the marquis matter-of-factly as he nodded to a flunky to refill his wineglass. “Sussex can scarcely make a successful fuss whilst Salisbury supports Prinny as a doting parent. But since there is nothing any one of us can do to alter things,” he added firmly when Gillian opened her mouth to continue the debate, “I suggest we change the subject. I confess to becoming slightly weary of her highness’s misadventures.”
Gillian swallowed the retort that flew to her lips. Nothing could be gained by irritating him. And as a matter of fact, she had been basking in the light of his goodwill for some days now and had no wish to change that state of affairs.
The outing to Hampton Court had been a complete success. At Sir Avery’s suggestion, Lady Sybilla had been included, whereupon Mrs. Periwinkle had declined the treat, saying that she was sure Sir Avery would look after Gillian, and that she had no wish to play gooseberry. Gillian tried to convince her that she would enjoy the outing, but Landover had chuckled and said he for one was relieved, since even the barouche was uncomfortable for more than four people.
Both he and Sir Avery proved to be veritable founts of information with regard to the history of the famous residence. Gillian rather thought her brother must have swotted up a bit in order to impress Sybilla, but she was just as certain that Landover had not done anything so silly.
On the road, Sir Avery informed them that the magnificent palace had been a gift to King Henry VIII, but he couldn’t for the moment put his finger on the name of the previous owner. It remained for Landover to provide the information that Cardinal Wolsey, then Lord Chancellor of England, had given it in an unsuccessful attempt to regain royal favor.
Gillian didn’t care much about the history of the place, but she was fascinated by the building itself and particularly by the huge astronomical clock over Anne Boleyn’s Gateway. It was a full eight feet in diameter and was so cleverly devised as to tell not only the hour, but the date and month, the number of days since the beginning of the year, the phases of the moon, and the time of high water at London Bridge! The gardens were lovely, and the maze, just as Landover had promised, was truly fun. All four disdained help from the guard on his viewing tower and were vastly pleased with themselves when they found the center. Finding their way out again, they discovered, offered an equal challenge.
The day following that pleasant excursion, Sybilla came to call, announcing rather sadly that her mama had fallen victim to a chill that seemed determined to set up forces of occupation in her lungs. Sir Avery rallied her, insisting there was no need to fall into the dismals about it, since Mrs. Periwinkle would be only too happy to escort her as well as Gillian to whatever parties she wished to attend.
“But Avery, I cannot possibly think of attending parties whilst Mama is taken to her bed!”
“Nonsense, Syb, you are being entirely too nice. Your mama would be the first to agree that you ought not to allow her indisposition to spoil your season,” Sir Avery replied bluntly. The others, knowing that Lady Harmoncourt intended to see her lovely daughter married before a second season was needed, especially in view of the fact that Sybilla’s younger sister was to be fired off the next year, had no hesitation about supporting Sir Avery’s views on the matter. Thus, it became quite the usual thing for Sybilla to make one of the Landover House party when entertainments began to flourish again in prelude to the Regent’s grand fete, which was scheduled for the first of August.
What had originally been planned as a festive party at Vauxhall Gardens had blossomed into a Grand Jubilee. There would be a balloon ascent as well as varied entertainments at all the parks. Scarcely anything else was talked about by the citizens of London in the final days of July.
It no longer occurred to Gillian to disdain Landover’s escort. In fact, since Darrow had been down in the country, she realized she had come to depend upon the marquis. Word seemed to have gotten around that he had declared her too young to marry, which seemed to have been interpreted by most of the gazetted fortune hunters to mean that Landover had no intention of turning over the purse strings until he absolutely had to do so. Thus, it put the finishing touch to whatever lingering shadow remained of the Harris Heiress stakes, but Gillian had no difficulty filling her dance cards regardless of that little detail. Still, she found that lately most of her escorts seemed either a trifle immature or distinctly boring. It never occurred to any of them to contradict her or to tell her she was chattering too much or to order her to sit down at least long enough to catch her breath. They were far and away too busy flirting and telling her how beautiful she was ever to be so tactless as to inform her that she’d got smut on her nose or wine on her gown.
Somehow it was a good deal easier to trust a man who snapped that her bodice was too daring than one who told her her eyes were liquid pools reflecting the distant stars, while at the same time he seemed to be drowning his gaze in her cleavage. It was certainly more comfortable to have an escort who lifted her unceremoniously over a puddle than to listen to another wishing rapturously that he were Sir Walter Raleigh with a cloak to spread at her dainty feet. Her temper still soared at his slightest nudge, but she found, also, that without Landover at her side or at least within smiling distance, the evenings tended to pall.
It crossed her mind now that tomorrow evening threatened to be rather boring, for the Regent was holding a reception at Carlton House to honor the new Duke of Wellington, recently returned from the Continent. Landover had been invited to attend, but the invitation had not included any other member of his household.
Tonight, however, they were to attend an informal evening at Lord and Lady Jersey’s. Not a grand affair, but there would be dancing and a card room, so it promised not to be dull. The carriage was waiting a half hour after they adjourned from the table to drive them the short distance to the Jerseys’ townhouse.
Gillian was surrounded immediately by a group of young hopefuls who began to fill in the spaces on her dance card. As one gentleman moved to pass it to another, however, a long arm swooped in from behind the crowd and practically snatched it away. Gillian looked up straight into a pair of familiar gray eyes.
“Darrow!”
“At your service, Miss Harris. And just in the nick of time, it seems. Only three spaces left, but I see that none of these halflings has had courage enough to take the quadrille, so I shall. And perhaps you would grant me the pleasure of your last waltz?” There were groans from several of the gentlemen who had not yet had the privilege of signing her card, but Gillian smiled.
“’Twould be my pleasure, sir.”
He bowed, returning her card with a graceful flourish and leaving her in something of a quandary. One dance left and several hopeful admirers. She sighed, tryi
ng to decide which one to accept.
“I trust you’ve managed to save at least one dance for me, child,” Landover said behind her. She turned to him in relief.
“Oh, I have, sir. The gavotte. Just here.” Pointing out the empty space, she handed it to him, amazed to hear him chuckle as he scrawled his name. “You find something amusing, sir?”
“Indeed, minx,” he responded in an undertone. “Do you think me so blind as not to recognize a damsel in distress?”
“Ah, of course,” she retorted sweetly. “My knight in shining armor. ’Twas the dark coat that put me off, my lord.”
“Nevertheless, Lady Impertinence, I quite look forward to our dance.”
He disappeared into the crowd, leaving her to stare wide-eyed after him. His voice had been low, nearly gruff, but there could be no mistaking the ring of sincerity in his statement.
Her spirits seemed to take wing. She saw her brother in a corner talking avidly with Lady Sybilla and beamed at them just before her first partner came to claim her. As the evening wore on, it seemed to Gillian that this was one of the finest parties she had attended in London. Everyone seemed so relaxed and gay.
There was a flurry at the main door just before the dancing couples adjourned with the rest of the guests to partake of a light buffet supper. The reason was quickly ascertained. His highness the Prince Regent had deigned to put in an appearance to honor Lady Jersey. He moved from group to group, gathering an entourage as he went, and Gillian saw soon enough that Landover had been correct, for although the Regent came to an abrupt halt just in front of her, she might just as well have been so much air. As she sank into a low curtsy, he turned pointedly to the tall, thin gentleman at his side and spoke as though he were continuing a previous conversation.
“Petersham, I tell you I am the victim of bedevilment. Throughout this sorry season, I’ve been dogged by one ill-fated circumstance after another, but this last has been by far the worst. With the damned Whigs to brand me monster, who knows what unspeakable brutalities I stand accused of? Cruelty to a helpless child, they say. Helpless! Ha! My own daughter, sir, and they make me sound as ogreish as Caligula. Now, I ask you!”
Lord Petersham—it would be Petersham, she thought—made soothing noises and glanced accusingly at Gillian, which did nothing to reduce her blushes. Nor did his words seem to quell the Regent’s whining, although he did, thankfully, move on at last. Gillian had do doubt that Prinny had staged the scene for her benefit. He quite obviously knew exactly what role she had played in his daughter’s flight, and she was certain now that if she was ever to further her friendship with the princess, the chance would come only when her highness finally came into her own. With a sigh of relief, she rose slowly to her feet and saw Landover watching her. Her chin went up immediately, at which he smiled so encouragingly that although her earlier sense of gaiety had completely evaporated, she couldn’t help but smile back.
Her supper partner materialized out of the crush a moment later, and the evening went on. At last, it was time for the quadrille, and Darrow found her quickly, although she had scarcely laid eyes upon him since he had signed her card.
“I confess I am not much in the mood for coupes and entrechats at the moment, Miss Harris,” he said with a smile as he adjusted a fold of his intricate neckcloth. “Will you be vexed if I suggest we sit this one out?”
“Only if you try to drag me off into a private chamber, my lord,” she teased, taking his arm. Despite her attempt at lighthearted banter, however, Gillian realized that she was decidedly nervous. Darrow seemed to know it, too, for his tone was gentle.
“I’ll not deny I’d like a private chat, my dear, but a pair of empty chairs will do as well as a withdrawing room. May I fetch you some refreshment first?”
She was tempted, simply because it would delay their conversation, but she shook her head. Better to get the first awkwardness over as quickly as possible. They found a group of empty chairs and sat down.
Darrow wasted no time coming to the point. “I have recently been engaged in much quiet reflection,” he said somberly.
“I, too, have been thinking, sir.”
“Was it true what Landover said? Do you truly wish to marry me, Gillian?”
She hesitated, but his question was too blunt to be parried with anything other than an outright falsehood, and she liked him too well for that. “Not … not exactly, sir. You are a dear friend, and I would do nearly anything to protect that friendship. But—”
“Nearly anything,” he repeated pointedly.
“Only that, my lord.” She looked down at her fingertips, unable to meet his eyes. “I … I am most sincerely conscious of the honor you do me, and I am most frightfully sorry if my actions or attitudes led you to believe—”
“Rubbish. Put a sock in it, my girl.”
She stared at him. He was smiling, a sad smile, but still a smile.
“You don’t mind?”
“Of course I mind. I mind like hell. I cannot imagine anyone I’d rather have for my lady wife. But you are not to blame yourself for the fact that I jumped to a hasty conclusion. It was my own wishful thinking led me on, not you. I knew by your response when I kissed you. You behaved as though you were performing an interesting experiment. There was nothing more, save what my imagination provided. You’ve no reason to feel responsible.”
Her throat seemed suddenly tight. “Shall we still be friends?” she muttered.
“Always.” He spoke gruffly. “But I hope you will understand if I take you back to Mrs. Periwinkle just now.”
“Of … of course.” They skirted the dancers rather quickly, and Darrow made his farewells with more speed than charm. Gillian found to her dismay that she was watching his departure with tears streaming down her cheeks. She felt a gentle touch on her arm.
“Come with me. ’Tis my dance, so no one will miss you.”
Landover led her quickly to a curtained balcony overlooking the back garden. As she stepped through the curtains, the soft night air touched her cheeks, chilling them slightly. Then Landover took her by the shoulders and turned her around.
“Let me see.” His handkerchief was soft linen, his touch gentle. He chuckled when she sniffed. “Better?”
“Yes, thank you. You seem always to be mopping me up lately.”
“Nonsense. That little scene must have been very difficult.”
“What would you know about it?”
“You were hardly falling into each other’s arms, my dear, and I know for a fact that this is the first time you’ve seen him since he offered for you. There is only one alternative.”
“I told him I had made a mistake.”
“Exactly.”
Gillian sighed deeply, finding it very comforting when he put his arm around her. She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Landover, am I fickle?”
“Very likely. It has been my experience that most females are.”
“Your vast experience.”
“Precisely.”
She grinned. A comfortable silence fell between them while they watched a crescent moon that seemed to dive in and out of scudding black clouds. Gillian shivered slightly in the chilling breeze, and Landover sensed it, drawing her closer as though to share the warmth of his own body.
His hand moved up until it was just beneath her breast, and the movement created a sudden, mad wish that she could throw herself into his arms, to surrender to a burning assault on her body similar to the one she had experienced the night he caught her with Darrow. She looked up at him, and he smiled. There was a warmth in his expression that she hadn’t seen before. Her lips parted. Suddenly breathless, she was not at all surprised when he bent his head, capturing her with a kiss so gentle, so tender that it seemed almost to be a figment of her imagination.
Her reaction was not nearly so mild, however. Every nerve responded. It was as though his very tenderness teased her senses, provoking a passion deeper than anything she might have imagined. She pressed closer, lifting
her arms to return his embrace, driving him to greater urgency. He held her more tightly, and her conscience stirred even as she returned the embrace. His hands began to move, caressing her, first gently, exploringly, then more firmly, sending her feelings to even greater heights.
Gillian told herself that she had no business to allow such behavior, that she must be wanton to enjoy it, but it was no use. She reveled in it, delighting in each new sensation, gasping with pleasure as his fingertips brushed the tips of her breasts. Really, she thought to herself, she had been absolutely right about his expertise. It was a prodigious shame he wasn’t the sort of man she wanted for a husband. But despite his good behavior these past days, he was entirely too overbearing and dictatorial. Not at all the proper husband for a girl who knew her own mind as well as she did! She sighed, and Landover set her firmly back on her heels. This time, however, he looked down at her with a rueful little smile.
“Forgive me. I should never have allowed that to happen.”
“Why not?” she demanded.
“Because you are entirely too vulnerable tonight. I wouldn’t want you hurt by these little games we all play.”
“Games! Why, you insufferable—Ooh!” Too angry to think of anything sufficiently rude to say to him, Gillian turned on her heel and flounced back inside, blinking furiously in the sudden blaze of light. She avoided the marquis for the rest of the evening and was perversely gratified when Darrow, with a rueful smile, showed up to claim her hand for his waltz.
The following day she continued to ignore the marquis and made a point the day after that of not asking how Wellington’s reception had gone. She was naturally curious, but she didn’t have to suffer long, for she met Mr. Brummell at the Berry sisters’ that very afternoon, and he was only too pleased to describe the affair.
