by Jane Ashford
“I’m no bashful eighteen-year-old,” replied Randolph, revolted.
“Or you could marry Emma. Two birds with one stone and all that.”
“No!” The word escaped Randolph without thought. “I mean, she’s a nice enough girl, but—”
“Only joking,” Sebastian assured him. “You’ll want a serious, brainy female. Likes poetry and that sort of thing. Emma’s more along my line, a bit dim.”
“You aren’t dim,” said Randolph. Unwillingly, he found his gaze straying back to Verity Sinclair. At first glance, she’d seemed so beguiling, her eyes brimming with interest and…a crackle of spirit.
She turned, and he looked away before he could be caught staring at the archbishop’s relative, for goodness’ sake. It was a sign, he concluded, a warning to be careful on his hunt. One spent one’s whole life with a wife. A mistaken choice would be disastrous. He returned his attention to his brother.
Toward the end of the evening Verity found herself briefly alone. Even though this had been called a small party, her mind whirled with names. It seemed as if she’d been introduced to scores of people, more than she met in a month at home. The buzz of conversation was positively thrilling.
Verity ran her eyes over the crowd. She noted the whirl of colors in their clothes, particularly the ladies’ dresses, the sparkle of jewels and candlelight. She breathed in the mingled scents of perfumes and pomades and hot wax. She absorbed the oceanic rhythm of talk. The taste of lemonade lingered on her lips. She gathered all these details into one impression and fixed it firmly in her mind. Then she added this moment to a string of such memories stored in a special place in her mind—a string of vivid scenes that punctuated her life. She’d been creating moments since she was quite young. She could move down the string and revisit each epoch of her life. And before long, she’d be adding far more dramatic, exotic moments to her collection. She was absolutely resolved on that.
Verity looked about her. The blond girl nearby was Lady Emma Stane. Verity remembered her not only because Emma was one of the few here near her own age, but also because she was part of the group Lord Randolph had joined when he abandoned her. Not abandoned, Verity thought. What a poor choice of words. She’d wanted him to go away. Indeed, she’d repelled him. On purpose. A country clergyman! Still, she drifted toward Emma. They’d been introduced as cohorts, both at their first ton party. Emma was obviously younger, but Verity had as little experience of high society. “Have you enjoyed the evening?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” Emma replied. “I’ve waited so long to be in London!”
“I too. I had such a time convincing my parents to give me a season.”
“Mine just refuse to come to town,” said Emma with an incredulous smile. “They are absolutely fixed in Herefordshire.”
“And so you are here with—?”
“My sister Georgina.” Emma indicated the beautiful blond woman Verity had noticed earlier. “She married Lord Sebastian last summer.”
Following Emma’s gesture, Verity eyed the two handsome men in the corner of the room. Lord Sebastian and Lord Randolph then. They were clearly brothers.
“And now she’s brought me to London just as she promised. I intend to have a splendid time. The duchess has promised me an invitation to her ball.”
“Duchess?”
“Lord Sebastian’s mother. She’s positively the height of fashion.”
The man was a duke’s son? As well as handsome and obviously self-assured? Why bury himself in a country parish? Not that she cared. It had nothing to do with her. Verity turned her back on the impossible Lord Randolph. Her mother was beckoning. It was already time to go.
Two
The Duke and Duchess of Langford arrived in London three days later, in the early evening, trailing a cavalcade of carriages bearing a small mountain of baggage. With a clatter and bustle, Langford House came to life around Randolph. “There you are!” he exclaimed from the stairs as his parents strolled inside, arm in arm.
They stopped to smile up at him—a tall woman, rather angular, with arching brows and an aquiline nose, and a taller, distinguished man of sixty, with a lazy assurance that made him formidable. He could hardly have been more fortunate in his progenitors, Randolph thought. He’d inherited Mama’s hair, a rich, deep color between chestnut and strawberry, and Papa’s intense blue eyes and rangy frame. But it was so much more than that. These two people had taught him, by example, nearly everything he knew about being a worthwhile human being.
Mama had shown him that an inability to tolerate fools did not prevent one from being kind. Papa had demonstrated that immense dignity and presence could coexist with compassion and a wicked sense of humor. And the two of them together embodied the reality of enduring love. Randolph had admired his parents’ marriage since he was old enough to notice such things. He’d had hopes of finding a similar combination of passion and companionship, tenderness and support through life’s challenges. Must he really abandon the idea?
“How lovely this is,” said his mother as she kissed his cheek in greeting. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a son living in the house. You look well.”
Randolph met her discerning gaze. As children, he and his brothers had decided she could see through walls. “And you are as beautiful as ever, Mama.”
“Flatterer.”
“The truth is not flattery,” said the duke as they walked together up the stairs to the drawing room.
The duchess’s eyes danced. Decades of laughter crinkled the skin around them, but this mark of age suited her. “So you’ve come to London in search of a wife,” she said.
“I have,” Randolph replied. “And I will be glad of your help.”
“None of your brothers wanted any,” said his father.
“Ah, but I have always been the wisest of your sons.”
Smiling, the duke raised an eyebrow. “The most earnest certainly. I seem to remember that you once tried to reform a cat.”
Randolph burst out laughing. “Ruff! I’d forgotten about him.”
“A disturbed animal,” said his father.
“Ruff was taken from his mother too early,” said the duchess. “He suckled people’s fingers as a form of comfort.” She didn’t sound entirely convinced.
“That was his excuse,” Randolph replied. “Or your excuse for him. Robert thought that cat knew quite well what he was doing. Ruff always choose people who hated cats, you know.”
The duke nodded. “Old Dalby leapt from his chair with a shriek like a steam whistle. Not long after that, I found you trying to make Ruff see the error of his ways.”
“I used pictures,” Randolph recalled. “Since words never had the least effect on him. James helped me draw them. But Ruff couldn’t seem to grasp their significance, no matter how many times I sat him down and took him through my demonstration. Finally, I put his front paw into my mouth.” Randolph smiled at the memory. What a ridiculous little boy he’d been.
“You what?” said the duchess.
“To show him, literally, how he made his victims uncomfortable.”
“And did he, er, get the point?” asked the duke.
“He clawed several furrows into my tongue, which bled copiously, all down my chin,” Randolph recalled. “James nearly choked me with his handkerchief. I wonder if he remembers? My tongue hurt for days.”
“You never said a word.” His mother shook her head.
“I didn’t want to admit my…miscalculation. And watch Sebastian laugh himself sick. You’d have laughed, too.”
“I would not,” declared the duchess.
“Oh, not out loud,” Randolph said. “But your lips would’ve twitched. And Papa’s eyes would have twinkled as he said something…dry. It’s a terrible trial to be amusing at seven years of age.”
“Humor was a…bastion against the antics of six boys,” observed
his father.
“I’m sure it was,” Randolph replied, remembering some of his brothers’ wilder pranks.
They enjoyed a mutual laugh, and Randolph savored the moment. With two older brothers and three younger ones, he’d seldom had his parents to himself. He was going to enjoy spending time in their company. “In any case, I learned a useful lesson,” he added. “Cats are not good candidates for reformation.”
Amid more laughter, they settled in the drawing room. The duke poured small glasses of Madeira from a decanter awaiting them. “So how are we to help in your quest for a wife?” he asked as they sipped. “Introductions, I suppose?”
“Indeed. I hope Mama will make them. Judiciously. Not the pert London misses.” Miss Verity Sinclair would fit right into that group, Randolph thought. But Miss Sinclair had made herself irrelevant to this conversation. “I intend to take a systematic approach,” he added.
“Systematic?” his father repeated.
“Yes. I mean to meet all the eligible young ladies currently available. I shall make my choice from among them.”
“Do they have anything to say about this?” asked his mother.
“Of course. Finding me charming is the chief criterion.” Randolph smiled wryly. “Which has already eliminated one candidate.” The duchess looked inquiring, but he didn’t elaborate.
“That sounds rather clinical,” said the duke.
Randolph felt a trace of impatience. “I can’t wait any longer, Papa. I’m thirty years old. I have to take a hand in my future.”
“Yes, but Randolph…” began his mother.
He evaded her understanding gaze; he didn’t wish to think of Rosalie again. “The thing is, Mama…” He hesitated over how to put it. “I’ve waited for years. No girl has…wandered into my life in Northumberland.” He smiled and shrugged. “Perhaps I’m just not as lucky as my brothers. I’ve become quite lonely.” His voice wavered slightly on the last word, and he tightened his jaw. Couldn’t have that!
“Oh, Randolph.” His mother’s expression was suddenly all sympathy.
He cleared his throat and frowned to show that this was no great matter. “And so I have determined to use all my…faculties to remedy the matter. Systematic thought is merely one of them.” Randolph pulled a sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his coat. “A quite effective tool. I’ve begun a list.”
“Of eligible young ladies?” his father asked.
“That’s it. Georgina was a great help. She’s going at it from the other direction, you see.”
“The other?”
“Likely husbands for her sister. But she noted the daughters as well when she was looking over the families.”
“So she is also being systematic?” asked the duke.
“You may laugh, Papa, but you will see that it works.”
“I shall enjoy that very much.”
“Let me look,” declared the duchess, holding out an imperious hand. Randolph gave her his list, and she scanned it. “Good Lord.”
The duke raised an eyebrow.
“He’s made a chart.” She showed her husband the page, with its lined grid. Some boxes held notations; others were empty.
“I shall fill it in as I gather more information,” Randolph said. His clever organizational methods, of which he’d been so proud, suddenly seemed less appropriate.
His mother read the labels in the top line. “Family, fortune, appearance, temperament, reputation. Randolph! Young women are not commodities.”
“I know that, Mama.”
“Do you?” She tapped the page. “This implies otherwise.”
“It is just a…a mnemonic of sorts. To keep track.”
“Will you also give them high or low marks, like a schoolmaster?” asked the duke.
Randolph wilted a bit under their combined gaze. He’d meant to do so, to decide where to concentrate his wooing. It wasn’t designed to be an insult. But it seemed that he’d carried a subject too far once again.
“You are not some godlike being, looking down on mere mortals and passing judgment,” said his mother.
“Of course I’m not!” It was a revolting idea.
“Well, someone seeing this might conclude that you thought you were.” She tapped his grid again.
“I wouldn’t show it to anyone else,” he said defensively.
“I should hope not.”
Randolph writhed a little as he retrieved the chart. Perspicacious as his mother was, she didn’t seem to understand. He wasn’t some romantic youngster. He needed a clear-eyed goal and a plan. But perhaps he’d gone a step too far with his grid. He folded the page and returned it to his pocket. “If you don’t wish to help me—” he began.
“Oh, of course we will help you,” said his mother.
Randolph felt a spurt of optimism. Surely he couldn’t fail with the Duchess of Langford solidly on his side.
* * *
It was very pleasant, Verity Sinclair thought as she walked into her second ton party, to see someone she knew, and liked, at once. She went to join Lady Emma Stane, standing with a group of young ladies near the center of the crowded reception room. Emma—they had already agreed to abandon formality between them—introduced the others, and Verity committed their names to memory. Her mother claimed that an intelligent person had no excuse for forgetting such things. Verity had refrained from pointing out that Mama had lived her life in a small social circle.
“Ooh,” said the small, slender girl in the center of the group. “There’s Rochford.”
Since Verity was facing in the opposite direction, she couldn’t see the object of this remark. However, she could appreciate, and envy, the speaker’s perfectly cut silk gown, cropped and crimped brown hair, and air of careless sophistication. Verity sighed, feeling slightly dowdy despite her new dress. Miss Olivia Townsend had the elfin figure best suited for current fashions. Verity could never wear such a low-cut bodice, even if Mama would allow it. With her ample bosom, there was too much risk of mortifying accidents.
“He’s an out-and-out Corinthian,” Miss Townsend added. “And a terrible rake.” Startled murmurs greeted this piece of information. “I overheard my older brother say that two slatterns fought over Rochford in the street. Like shrieking, snarling alley cats,” she said, clearly relishing the phrase.
Gasps of delicious horror went ’round the circle—at the picture she painted and her use of the word slattern.
“They say he fought a duel when he was nineteen,” Miss Townsend added. “Imagine, just our age.”
Well, their age, Verity thought. But five years was not so very much older.
“With swords, not pistols. Like in a novel.”
Verity edged around. “Which one?” she murmured to Emma.
“The light-haired man.” Emma’s eyes flicked right.
Verity followed the line of her glance to a tall, blond gentleman in impeccable evening dress. He moved across the room with careless grace, a mocking half smile on his face. He looked as if he knew people were talking about him. And enjoyed it.
“But what’s he doing here, if he’s so wicked?” murmured one of the other girls.
“Oh, wicked.” Miss Townsend was dismissive. “He amuses the ton. Everyone loves gossip.”
“Which we never get to hear,” complained another girl.
“Not officially,” replied Miss Townsend with a sly smile. “I can usually pry the best stories out of somebody.”
Mr. Rochford wasn’t as handsome as Lord Randolph Gresham, Verity thought. But he drew the eye. The people around him seemed to become background.
“Girls swoon over him,” Miss Townsend continued. “And he doesn’t care in the least. He leaves a wake of broken hearts.” She mimed ocean waves with one hand.
Here was the very opposite of a worthy clergyman, Verity thought. Though not precisely
what she was looking for, he might know all sorts of bold people.
“That sounds rather wicked to me,” said Emma.
Olivia Townsend shrugged. “It’s not as if he encourages them.”
“Will we meet him?” Verity asked. What did one say to a rake? It must be a very different sort of conversation than what she was used to. She wouldn’t mind trying it out.
“Oh, no one will introduce him to us.” Miss Townsend sounded disappointed. “We’re meant to find husbands, not…adventure.”
Expressions around the circle showed varying reactions to this truth—from regret to satisfaction. For her part, Verity was transfixed by Miss Townsend’s final word. Here was a fellow seeker, it seemed. She decided that she wished to become better acquainted with Olivia Townsend.
There was a stir at the entrance. Verity turned to watch Lord Randolph enter, in the company of a striking older couple. Overhearing murmurs of duchess, she concluded that they were his parents. She saw a resemblance to the poised, patrician duke.
Candlelight glinted in Lord Randolph’s auburn hair. He had the shoulders and torso and muscular legs of an athlete, not a country clergyman. Verity bit her lower lip. The bishop back home would be shocked if he knew Verity was admiring a man’s leg.
Lord Randolph bent his head to catch some remark, and smiled in response. Verity caught her breath. She hadn’t seen him smile during their ill-fated conversation. Well, of course she hadn’t. Not with the way she’d spoken to him. His smile transformed his coolly classical features. His face lit with warmth and sympathy and humorous intelligence. Verity’s heart exhibited a disturbing tendency to yearn toward him.
Lord Randolph looked around the room and caught her staring. Their eyes locked for a riveting moment before Verity flushed and turned away. All right. He was…beguiling. That was too bad. If she’d wanted to settle in a country parish, she needn’t have come to London at all. She could have accepted one of the extremely worthy offers she’d received in her father’s house. In which case she wouldn’t have met Lord Randolph. And it wouldn’t matter either way, and she was getting tangled up in useless conjecture. I have a plan, Verity insisted silently. She was determined to lead an expansive, exciting life. Lord Randolph’s bewitching smile was a distraction that she simply couldn’t afford.
