by Mary Blayney
~ ~ ~
“Christy, the truth is cruel.” Joanna sat on the edge of her sister’s bed and tried to make herself understood. “He is a gamester. That means games are his specialty. I do not trust him.”
Christiana was sorry that she had brought up the subject. Why had she, when the evening had already proved trial enough? Because she had not expected Joanna to disagree with her, that was why. And now the little ache behind her eyes threatened to blossom into a full-blown headache. She would change the subject.
“Was that musicale not a colossal bore? Two women singing in German for two hours.” She shuddered. “I do wish Mama had not turned down those other invitations so precipitously.”
Joanna sighed, sat on the bed, and began to pull pins from her hair. “She was so certain that we would be invited to the Richlands’ ball.” Joanna smiled at her sister and sat upright, imitating their mother. “My mother was the daughter of an earl.”
Christiana smiled with relief. “That may be, but apparently Mama has been gone from Town too long. I suppose it will take time to reestablish herself. At least that was the excuse she gave me.”
Joanna’s answering smile disappeared. Her sister stood up from the bed and took her hands. “I do not trust him, Christy.”
“Yes, he likes to gamble, Joanna. But that is no sin, at least not in a man I have no intention of marrying. Peter tells me he has a reputation for scrupulous honesty and fair play. And no one, not one person, has suggested that he is a womanizer. I do trust him.”
Joanna let go of her sister’s hands and stepped back. “But how can you know? You have danced with him once, chanced upon him at his grandmother’s, and met him at Mr. Philips’s gallery. And there is another curious thing. What was he doing there, alone? No one goes to that sort of thing alone.”
She shrugged away Joanna’s curiosity. “Perhaps he was there to make a purchase and chanced to see us as he was leaving?”
“Sister dearest, you can be so stubborn. Why do you trust him? Give me one good reason and I will relent.”
“His grandmother loves him.”
Joanna flopped back on the bed in an unusual gesture of exaggerated disgust. “Christy! All grandmothers dote on their grandchildren, especially the rogues—who know exactly how to deceive them.”
“But that’s exactly it. She is not deceived by him. She hates dishonesty, Jo. She told me so herself. It has something to do with her marriage to the duke. But no matter what the reason, she can see right through a lie.”
“And how do you know that?” Joanna sat up and began to gather the pins lying on the bedcover and then stopped. “Did you lie to her?”
“No, of course not.”
“So you are willing to spend the entire Season in company with this one man, whom you barely know, and not even so much as flirt with another?”
“But is it not the perfect solution?”
“Only if you are absolutely certain that Richard is your heart’s delight.”
“My heart’s delight? You are reading too many novels, Joanna! And everyone thinks that I am the romantic in this family!” Christiana turned toward the window. Did Joanna really think that the perfect lover existed outside of the pages of the Minerva Press? “Richard and I have known each other from the cradle, Jo. The military life he wants will suit me perfectly.” She crushed the totally unexpected glimmer of uncertainty with something akin to panic and turned back to Joanna. “Why is it impossible to accept that I wish to be loyal to Richard, especially now that he is away and lonely?”
Joanna avoided an argument, as Christiana knew she would. “If you think that this plan you have devised with Lord Morgan will work, then I will support you. I do feel that you should seek wiser counsel than mine, though.”
“Lord Morgan did say that the fewer who knew the better it would be.”
“Then I must count myself lucky to be one of the chosen few who know the truth.”
“Joanna, please, I can not abide it when you are upset with me.”
The chill disappeared, replaced with urgent entreaty. “But, Christy, the whole purpose of this Season is to see if you have made the right choice, to prove to yourself that your affections are truly engaged and that Richard is the best choice for your life’s partner.”
At least she had avoided using “heart’s delight” again. “I know that is what Papa and I agreed, but I have made the right choice. I already know that.”
Joanna threw up her hands in surrender. “You are exactly like Mama, you know.”
It was the ultimate insult. Joanna knew that. Christiana rubbed her temple, trying to erase both the headache and the irritation. “I am like Mama? Pray, Joanna, what does that mean?”
“She thinks everything should go on as she ordains it. Even if it means fitting a square peg in a round hole.”
Christiana whirled away from her sister’s bed and threw the next words over her shoulder. “I am committed to Richard in every way, Jo. We have spent the night together!”
“No, Christy!” Joanna’s shock was palpable. She forgot to breathe for a moment and then gasped. “When?” It sounded as though it was the only word she could manage.
“The night before he left. We met in the summer house and stayed together the whole night. He escorted me home just before first light and then walked back home and rode off to the war.”
There was a long silence. Christiana did not dare look at her sister. She knew she would see hurt, disbelief, maybe even disgust.
When Joanna did speak, her words were so softly spoken that Christiana had to strain to hear them. “Then you are truly committed and there is nothing else to say. You must do whatever you think best to resolve the situation.”
“I am sorry, Joanna I have one of those awful headaches and am not thinking properly.” She did turn and look at her sister then, and Joanna’s expression was one of disappointment.
“I suppose you would never have told me, if you were thinking clearly.” With that she left her sister’s room. Christiana could not think of three other occasions when they had parted for the night without good wishes.
As she undressed and prepared for bed, Christiana realized something else: Joanna had been wrong. It was not the truth that was cruel. Lying was infinitely more painful. And she had lied to a sister who was one of the dearest people in her entire world.
Why had she told Joanna that she and Richard had spent the night together? To end the argument? To convince Joanna in any way she could that her ruse with Lord Morgan made sense?
Sally helped her comb out her hair and then disappeared with her dress. Christiana let the tears that she had been holding back trickle down her cheeks.
Yes, she had lied, but she wished desperately that her lie had been a truth. She had wanted that night with Richard more than she had ever wanted anything. All the bouquets in the world, every hand-holding walk in the park, every kiss good night would not have meant as much as being held in his arms for one long night. It would have been undeniable proof of his commitment and his love. One thing to carry her through the months of worry for him. A tangible promise of their future together.
Richard had refused. Indeed, he had been as shocked as Joanna at the mere suggestion. “What would your father think of me?” he’d demanded. When she had insisted he would never know, Richard had still refused. It was not the way a proper young lady behaved. A gentleman would never take advantage of a young lady’s weakness in that way. He went on and on until she was almost convinced that he was right.
He did not understand, she had argued, that this was never about weakness or propriety. It was about passion.
And then Richard had said something that had frightened her. “We share a mutual respect and know each other as well as most brothers and sisters. That is a much better basis for marriage than passion.”
Christiana did not care what other people’s marriages were based on. She wanted passion in hers. She had dreamed of marriage since she was twelve. She knew wha
t happened in the marriage bed and was willing to share that with Richard. Surely passion was the only thing that made such intimacy anything but sordid.
She had tried to convince him with more delicately phrased words, but he had been adamant. He had ended the discussion with three words: “We will wait.” He’d spoken with a cool smile and calm resolution, and then followed it with one final unarguable statement. “It is the sensible thing to do.”
She did not care a pin for sensible then, and even now longed for some memory that was more romantic than prosaic. Christiana turned on her side and prayed for sleep, afraid guilt would keep her awake. She wished she had not lied to her sister. With a sigh she realized that she would have to tell Joanna the truth in the morning. There had never been any dishonesty between them and she knew it was wrong.
Her conscience eased, Christiana eventually drifted into a fitful sleep, her last waking thought the realization that Lord Morgan had exhibited more gallantry to her than Richard ever had. But that was all London charm, she dreamed. Exactly what her father had wanted her to experience.
Six
“I swear, Morgan, if Dante were writing The Divine Comedy today, it is certain that he would have included Almack’s on one of his levels of hell.” Rhys was nervous and the slow progress of the carriages on the rain-soaked streets only added to it.
Morgan decided to humor his brother. “Surely you overstate the case. You would not actually call the Assembly Rooms the abode of Satan, would you?”
Rhys relaxed against the squabs and considered the question. “No, that would be an insult to Dante, for that was at the very bottom of the chasm. But there are nine circles between that and limbo. Plenty of room for all kinds of sin there.”
Morgan tried to recall if he had ever actually read the Divine Comedy. “Then tell me, what level of hell was reserved for mediocre music and ambitious mamas?”
“Circle Eight is for hypocrites and panderers,” Rhys suggested.
“Too cruel, brother. These mothers do only what they think is best for their daughters. And one can hardly call them hypocrites when they are quite open about their hopes for an advantageous match.”
“Then we will call them avaricious and place them on Circle Four.”
“May the gods save me from the judgment of youth.” Morgan was only half joking. Rhys did see everything as black and white.
Rhys shrugged and then smiled. “Let me see, I wonder where he put gamesters.”
Morgan held up his hand. “Spare me. Let it be a surprise.” They had reached St. James Street and he could see Almack’s entrance ablaze with lamps. He counted seven coaches ahead of theirs, each stopping only long enough to discharge passengers.
“Exactly why did we choose to arrive at the moment the doors opened?” Rhys asked, as though only now realizing how unusual that was.
“I thought it would add a soupcon of humility to the game. If the gods of vanity are with me, the patronesses will see my early arrival as a gesture of respect.” Morgan had given each play of this game careful thought.
“And tease the rest of the ton with the prospect that you may indeed be seeking a bride?”
His brother was not a member of White’s. Did the information come from gossip or family?
The two welcomed the umbrella the porter held and were urged inside by a sudden gust of wind. They could go no more than a few steps into the lobby.
The hall was crammed with people, voices raised in excited greeting. Young ladies dressed in pastels and adorned with pearls were making their way to the withdrawing rooms to repair the damage of wind and wet. Groups of young men, dressed in self-conscious grandeur, clustered in small groups as though they needed the strength of numbers to storm the fortress of propriety that was Almack’s. Morgan nudged Rhys to the side, away from the entry, and they waited beyond a pillar for the passage to the receiving room to clear.
Rhys leaned close. “Gaffney says that every single thing about this place is mediocre.”
“Except the snobbery of its patronesses,” Morgan whispered back..
A lovely young woman nodded slightly at Rhys as she passed and Morgan watched his brother’s next criticism die on his lips. Rhys’s eyes followed the beauty, one with black hair and the flashing dark eyes foreign to English girls. Rhys watched her, but he spoke to Morgan. “May not be such a waste after all. Do you know who that is?”
“How good to know that your intellectual studies have not damaged your eyesight. She’s a beauty, Rhys, but I’m willing to wager her English is minimal.”
“I’ve always wanted to learn Spanish.” Rhys gave her a slight bow as she passed from view. “Or do you think it would be Portuguese?”
“Whatever it is, Rhys, she will be guarded more fiercely than any of the English chits here. Do be careful.”
Rhys only laughed.
The entry hall emptied quickly. Morgan nudged Rhys toward the patronesses. The next play of the hand was as predictable as the watered lemonade. “Go make your bow.”
When Rhys looked at him, Morgan nodded. “I’m right behind you.” And yes, brother, I am using you as a shield.
The patronesses were delighted to see them both and Morgan decided that he and Mrs. Lambert had been the only two people embarrassed by the lines in the morning paper, lines that were now the better part of a sennight old.
He bowed last to Countess Lieven, who promised him an evening perfectly suited to his “more recent inclinations.” The arch smile that accompanied her words told him that more than one matron would be watching him.
In which case his first move would be to the card room. To arrive early was one thing, but to seek a dance partner immediately, when he had not graced these rooms in any number of years, would indicate a desperation that would only increase the gossips’ notice.
Rhys walked with him. “Countess Lieven rapped my knuckles when I told her that my reason for coming to Town was academic and not social. She wanted to know who gave you a voucher. I think she was jesting.”
“Grandmama asked for me.” He had no idea what sort of magic Grandmama held, but Sally Jersey never said no to her.
When Rhys saw where they were headed, he stopped short. “No cards for me.” He scanned the room. “I am going to find an introduction to that Spanish girl and ask her to dance.”
He watched his brother cut across the floor, aiming directly for the dark-eyed beauty who had caught his attention. Morgan surveyed the room as the musicians invited the first dancers. No, definitely not the first dance. He buried himself in the card room for an hour until boredom with the small stakes permitted drove him to the dance floor.
This was the least he could do for Miss Lambert. The simple expedient of dancing with a variety of eligible young ladies would repair any harm to her Season. His good intentions were the only consolation for an evening that stretched out before him with no promise of real enjoyment.
Three sets and three carefully chosen partners later he was, at last, rewarded with a partner who could dance. If his first partner’s eyes had reminded him of Christiana Lambert and his second partner’s hair had been similar, then Miss Perry’s vivacity was a copy of Miss Lambert’s, but without any appreciation of the music that had brought them together.
Miss Perry did not sigh with pleasure when the first notes sounded, as Miss Lambert had, but chattered on about her hopes for the Season. Miss Perry accepted his hand graciously but certainly not with Miss Lambert’s surprised glance of awareness. She moved with confidence, if not Miss Lambert’s grace, and talked through the whole about the advantages of city shopping and the best milliners. By the time the set was over Morgan hoped he never saw—better yet, never heard—Miss Perry again.
No wonder he had not been to Almack’s in years. But if he left this early he would undo any goodwill he had created. He would remain until shortly after the doors closed at eleven. Then he would pull Rhys from the arms of whatever young lovely had caught him and the two of them would find a suitable rewar
d for this show of penance.
He heard a laugh he was sure he recognized and turned sharply, but it was a very tiny blonde, not the girl he had hoped to see. Admit it, he told himself, he had been gambling on Miss Lambert’s appearance tonight. Apparently they had made other plans. The best he could hope for was that news of his venture to Almack’s would reach James and add credibility to his supposed search for a bride. One more dance, he decided, then on to the Quarter Moon and some serious play.
As he was escorting his last partner back to her mama, he saw the Lambert party enter the room. They made their curtsies to the patronesses and he could see that Sally Jersey and Mrs. Lambert must, indeed, have been previously acquainted.
He watched the Lamberts as they found friends and exchanged pleasantries. His carefully orchestrated play would be ruined if he invited Christiana to dance the moment she entered the room.
When he found his attention drawn to her for the fifth time in less than two minutes, Morgan turned abruptly and left the dance floor.
With calculation designed to deter the scrutiny of any observer, Morgan retreated to the card room once again, determined to stay there for two more dances.
He merely watched the play, though, and kept the dance floor in sight. He saw Joanna engaged with Lord Monksford while Christiana strolled by on the arm of a dashing member of the Horse Guards, one arm in a sling that would make dancing difficult.
With deliberate effort he turned his attention elsewhere, watching Monksford and Miss Lambert, wondering if they were enjoying the dance as much as it appeared they were.
Monksford was a stalwart, upstanding citizen, a widower with two daughters and apparently on the lookout for a wife. Let the gossipmongers print that, but they never would, for it was nothing out of the ordinary. There were dozens of men in this very room who were pursuing the same end. The couple passed the door once again, still smiling at each other.
“Do you think he would seriously consider Miss Lambert as his baroness?”
From anyone but Rhys the question would have drawn a snub. Instead he shrugged. How had Rhys identified Miss Joanna Lambert? When he remained silent, Rhys decided to answer for him.
“Monksford and Miss Lambert. It would be a perfect match from his perspective. She has an excellent pedigree and is young enough to give him the heir he needs. But she could do better. He is too old to find much pleasure in many more London Seasons and has two ready-made daughters who would demand his money and her time.” Rhys drew the logical conclusion. “Monksford could not do better, Miss Lambert certainly could.”
Morgan turned and looked directly at his brother with some amazement. “If this is your idea of conversation, I would suggest you join that group over there.” He nodded toward the far side of the room where a group of women stood, nodding approval as their young charges danced.
Rhys glanced at the group and scowled. “I do sound like Grandmama! Do you suppose it’s contagious?”
Morgan grinned. “I think it must be. Avoid the orgeat. I suspect that is where the potion is dispensed.”
Rhys’s hand went to his throat in a mock gesture of alarm and the two laughed aloud. They stepped back into the card room as more than one head turned in their direction.
“Go practice your whist, Rhys. This group plays at exactly your level.” His brother laughed at the insult and headed for the card room and Morgan decided he had waited long enough. He would ask Miss Christiana to dance.
He walked toward the alcove where her mother stood, but he was too late. Lord Monksford was escorting Christiana to the floor and the music was about to begin.
It was Miss Joanna Lambert who was not engaged. Even better. He thanked the gods for intervening and approached her mama, who enthusiastically approved. Miss Lambert did not seem quite as eager. Had Christiana not been able to win her sister round to their way of thinking?
He took Miss Lambert’s arm, determined to do his best.
They bowed to each other as the dance began.
Bare greetings and polite smiles were the sum total of their conversation through the first half of the dance. Everyone else in the set seemed at ease; the ladies had gained confidence, the young men had forgotten their consequence. They were enjoying the dance despite the poor quality of the music. But Miss Lambert was aloof from the general good humor. After the first few movements be was certain that his presence was the reason. She had enjoyed her dance with Lord Monksford.
His own discomfort grew as he realized that her coolness grew from more than disapproval of the plot that he and her sister had hatched. Joanna Lambert quite obviously did not like him.
It came to him as they finished their figure and moved to the bottom of the set. There might be some qualities of his sister Maddie in Christiana, but there were even more in Joanna. He saw it in her manner, in her quiet watchful way. It was in her eyes, in their purely honest expression. And the disappointment in anyone who did not treat her with the same courtesy.
She looked at him, surprised, when he missed a step. He took her arm and resumed the figure. “The truth is, Miss Lambert, you are making me nervous.”
Joanna truly smiled and the smallest of laughs escaped. “And you are absurd, my lord.”
“No, I am being completely honest.” He knew if there was any hope of garnering her support then honesty was his only chance. He prayed to the god of would-be lovers that the prize was worth the risk.
The musicians brought the dance to a close with a rather ragged ending, each one choosing his own stop. Morgan took Miss Lambert’s arm and began to escort her, very slowly, back to her party.
“I do believe that you think that your sister and I are tempting fate with the scheme we have devised.”
Joanna looked at him. “The plan is a stupid one, my lord. You are too old and too experienced to find any merit in Christy’s silly idea.”
That was an honest response. Direct to the point of insult. Old? He would have preferred “mature” but perhaps “old” had been a deliberate choice. At least she was voicing her concerns instead of ignoring him completely.
“Miss Lambert, it is exactly my experience that makes me see the advantage in this. Both your sister and I are laboring under parental demands that do not suit us. We have found in each other a solution that will preserve family harmony and allow us to live the lives we have planned. Where is the fault in that?”
Joanna made an impatient sound. “I am not going to attempt to explain it to you, my lord. Your differences with your family are not my concern.” Her look was a direct challenge. “I have always believed that Christiana trusts far too easily.”
“I realize it. I truly do.” He wanted to look away from those serious eyes. But he made himself hold her regard. He had opted for honesty, but never quite realized it would force him this far. “My sister Maddie once told me that sprites lived in the home wood and she told me it was a secret. I told our brothers and she cried when they took their toy guns there and went hunting for them. I learned then that once trust is lost it is not easily regained.”
When he looked back at Joanna, he saw such surprise on her face that he stopped speaking. Did she think he had no sensibility? “I saw that same openness in Christiana that first night at Westbourne’s ball and at every meeting since.”
She was blushing and he spoke before she could stumble over an apology.
“And that trust is so important to me, Miss Lambert, that I promise you I will not abuse it. I will treasure it for the gift it is. I have learned from my childhood experience, you see.”
Joanna stopped their slow progress and turned to look at him with an arrested expression. The blush was gone. She regarded him with such intensity that it seemed she was trying to read his mind. He waited with irritation. He had told the truth, more truth than he had ever told anyone, and this girl was still unsure of him.
“Very well, my lord. I am convinced.”
The smile she was trying hard to restrain took some of the asperity from her
matter-of-fact tone. The relief he felt was out of all proportion to her approbation. He tried to match her manner.
“Thank you, Miss Lambert. Your concern for your sister is everything that is admirable. We will rely on your good sense to keep us from making a mull of this charade.”
“I have no skill as a conspirator, my lord.” She took the arm he offered and they completed their long detour to her mama’s side. “But I do promise you that I will hold your secret.”
“That, mademoiselle, is all I ask. And I hope I will never again give you cause to doubt my sincerity.” He bowed over her hand and left her. He desperately wanted something to drink, something stronger than whatever was available here. Even speaking with all the honesty he was capable of, he had earned only the most guarded acceptance. He hoped he would not ever have to plead for more.
