Well, until her brother returned from the Continent, Geraldine would remain unmarried. Once Richard Porterhouse, Earl of Afterly, was back on British shores, Matthew expected the earl would see to a betrothal for his sister before making arrangements for another archeological expedition. Surely Geraldine would be settled in the next few months.
But what if Geraldine had no prospects? Would she be satisfied with spinsterhood? Perhaps take a lover to alleviate lonely nights in London or at her family’s estate home in Shropshire?
Letting out the breath he realized he’d been holding, Matthew wondered why he was so concerned about Geraldine’s fate. Her brother probably had someone lined up to marry the daughter of an earl, but if he did, he hadn’t informed any of the men at Black’s.
And he hadn’t informed Geraldine, either.
Realizing he’d been staring at the departing hackney for far too long, Matthew made his way to where his coachman had parked his town coach. He climbed in, taking a seat in the direction of travel.
Settling into the squabs, he pondered what to do about Geraldine. Write her a note inviting her for a ride, he reasoned, remembering Lord Barrick’s mention of a birthday picnic in the park the following day. What was the worst answer he could receive back from Geraldine? Something along the lines of, Thank you, but I’ll be washing my hair. And if she agreed to a ride in the park? Well, he’d just have to deal with it if she accepted.
One thing was for certain. If he didn’t capture and keep Geraldine Porterhouse soon, he was going to have to find another mistress. The lady in pink had him in a state of discomfort.
Geraldine quickly took a seat in the hackney, facing against the direction of travel. Her maid, Simpson, just about to settle herself into the same side of the hackney, instead took the seat in the direction of travel. “My lady?” she wondered, surprised Miss Porterhouse would elect to ride backwards.
“I wish to look out this way, is all,” Geraldine replied as she studied the throngs of shoppers through the dirty window. Finding Baron Ballantine in the crowd wasn’t difficult. He was staring at her, or at least at the hackney, his gaze never wavering.
She had noticed him as they crossed New Bond Street, thinking he was merely looking for his carriage. Although she was tempted to wave in his direction, she hesitated and instead hailed the hackney. If the man spotted her and wished to help, she figured he would do so.
She hoped he would do so.
A shiver raced up her spine and through her breasts, forcing her to inhale sharply. Did the man have any idea what havoc he caused by staring at her so? She rather doubted it.
He hadn’t seemed particularly happy to see her in the Palace of Prose. He hadn’t even recognized her at first. And their conversation seemed stilted until his face had lit up when he realized she was Jerry.
But then, when he had the opportunity to say the words she usually heard from men who were interested in her in that way, he didn’t put voice to them. Perhaps you will join me for a ride in the park? Or, I expect you’ll save a dance for me at the next ball? In fact, Lord Ballantine seemed most eager to see her on her way once they’d left the bookshop.
Geraldine sighed. And then I had to go make a cake of it and accuse him of being naughty! The man was probably incapable of forming a naughty thought, she reasoned. He’d always been a bit on the proper side, but a man was still a man.
Perhaps he didn’t find her attractive. Perhaps he preferred women who were more plain of face and dress.
Or perhaps he didn’t prefer women at all!
A wave of panic washed through her before Geraldine managed to get her thoughts under control. Lord Ballantine couldn’t be a molly. He had to prefer the company of women. Perhaps several of them all at once.
Geraldine shook her head.
Of course, he preferred women.
He had a mistress. Or, at least, he’d had one when her brother was last in town. She remembered him mentioning it over tea one afternoon. Why Richard would bring up a baron’s mistress over tea had her suddenly wondering as to her brother’s manners, until she remembered Richard’s exact comment. “Seems I have myself a new mistress, seeing as how Lord Ballantine can’t afford her.”
Lord Ballantine can’t afford her.
Because she insisted on expensive jewelry? Any kept woman would, Geraldine thought.
Or perhaps she wanted a larger townhouse or more servants. Any woman would, she imagined.
Or perhaps she wanted to attend the theatre regularly and required her own box. Her own modiste. Her own coach-and-four. Her own money to spend when she traveled.
Any woman would want all of those things.
I want all of those things, Geraldine thought suddenly.
But all of those things required a protector with a good deal of money and the promise of a rich inheritance. A man she didn’t have. Nor would hope to have if events in her life continued as they had been.
Geraldine watched Baron Ballantine as he continued to stare at her departing hackney, until various equipage and horses finally blocked him from view.
Lord Ballantine can’t afford a mistress.
Which means he cannot afford me.
Geraldine tamped down the sense of panic she felt, this panic so much different from what she’d felt only moments ago. What if Matthew Winters never courted her? Never considered her for marriage?
Good grief! Where had that thought come from? She’d only just renewed her acquaintance with the man earlier that morning! Although she had done so with the intention of determining if the man might be interested. And interesting. The few minutes she’d spent with him in the bookshop and on their walk to New Bond Street had proven he was a man of few words. He was apparently interested, if his staring at her hackney for such a long time could be construed as interest. She already knew he was still unmarried.
But what if Ballantine didn’t make an offer?
What if she’d be forced to marry whomever her brother could find for her? Someone who would either tolerate her boldness or beat it out of her? Someone who would be proud to introduce her as his wife? Or leave her home night after night whilst he visited his mistress? Someone who would visit her bedchamber for a night of exquisite lovemaking? Or simply perform his duty in the form of a quick tumble?
A sense of despair settled over Geraldine as she continued to stare out the window for the entire trip to Rosehill House. Why, oh why was it so much easier to be bold and brazen than quiet and beautiful?
Chapter 12
A Tumble Tweaks a Thumper
“Really, milady, are you quite sure you wish to continue with this?” Jeffrey asked as he raised his eyes from the book. Christ, I had forgotten how inappropriate this language could be for a general audience, he thought in horror. He could feel the front of his throat turning bright red. His cheeks would be next; at least he sported longer sideburns, although he remembered just then that Timmons had accidentally shaved them a bit shorter than normal, so they probably didn’t provide as much coverage as he hoped.
The earl’s sister continued reading as if she hadn’t heard the baron. “Of course, my lord,” she answered, never taking her eyes from the printed page.
Jeffrey dared a glance at her profile. God, she was beautiful. Even with her gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of her nose, Evangeline Tennison was a stunning woman. How could she not be betrothed to anyone? How could she still be unmarried at her age?
Well, the spectacles probably didn’t help the situation, he considered. Then there was the matter of her brother, who was so rarely in London that anyone wishing to ask his permission to court his sister would have been unable to do so.
And she did have a reputation as a bluestocking. Which meant there probably wouldn’t be a competitor for her hand if he decided to marry her, he considered suddenly.
He wondered where that thought had come from. He wasn’t in the market for a wife! Although, if one happened to fall into his lap, he had to admit he wouldn’t necessarily turn her away. But ...
Marriage?
The thought had a suddenly sober Jeffrey straightening on the bench, which caused the book to quickly shift its position on his thigh, which caused Evangeline to absently reach for it in order to prevent it from tumbling from it precarious perch, which it continued to seem destined to do until she pounced on it, which meant she was no longer quite seated on the bench but leaning rather precariously in the direction of the baron, which meant she had to reach out to steady herself with her other hand, which was suddenly pressed into his thigh whilst the other hand missed the edge of the book and ended up cupping his knee, which sent the book tumbling to the ground below.
Twisted about with her face almost touching his, Evangeline’s eyes widened just as her spectacles slid from the end of her nose and tumbled into the folds of Jeffrey’s cravat.
“Oh!”
Jeffrey held his breath, rather stunned by the very sudden turn of events of the past two seconds. Hadn’t he just then decided he wouldn’t turn away a potential wife if she fell into his lap? Especially this one, who was so close, he could bestow a kiss on her without so much as moving his head a mere inch or so?
Without thinking, except for knowing he needed to hold onto the chit or risk having her tumble to the ground much like the book and her spectacles had just done – her position was rather precarious – Jeffrey moved one hand so he could grasp her waist whilst his other reached to the other side of her waist. Half his mind wanted to reposition her so she sat atop him whilst the other half – the half that had every rule of the ton drummed into it – thought to simply put her back onto the bench from whence she came.
The proper half prevailed, mostly due to the assistance Evangeline provided by simply removing herself from him and the bench in a move that any witnesses would claim was an elegant, graceful maneuver worthy of the very best ballrooms of Mayfair.
“Oh!” she said again, standing before him displaying a face so pink, it looked as if it had been designed as part of her gown and pelisse, an outfit which still swayed from her sudden movements of two seconds ago. “I ... I don’t know ...”
Jeffrey blinked, disappointed by the sudden removal of Evangeline’s body from his own. He’d practically had all of her pink parts pressed against him, the delicate scent of honeysuckle still tickling his nose, the honey blonde hair that haloed her face caressing his cheek. He had to close his eyes in an effort to burn the image of her just then onto the back of his eyelids. Had to hope he could remember how it felt to have her hand on his knee, another pressed into his thigh. And he had to do it quickly, or a certain member of his nether region was going to make itself very apparent.
“Thank you,” he said simply, opening his eyes to find her still standing before him, her eyes still wide.
The comment had her eyebrows suddenly arching. “For practically falling into your lap?” she whispered, stunned by his words.
Failing to suppress a smile, Jeffrey nodded. “For not screaming. For not ...” He gestured to indicate the rest of the park, where a few people were out walking or lounging on the lawn or hiding behind trees ... “For not hailing a Bow Street runner. For not threatening me with a visit from your brother.” He paused a moment, one eyebrow suddenly arching up in alarm. “You’re not going to tell your brother, I hope?” he whispered hoarsely.
Evangeline quickly shook her head. “Of course, not!” she replied. What would I tell Harry? she wondered then. “Oh, by the way, I fell into Lord Sommers’ lap whilst we read a book in Grosvenor Square.”
She couldn’t even imagine how her brother would react.
Or perhaps she could.
In fact, she could hear him now. “That’s nice, sister. Do you have any idea what Cook has planned for dinner this evening?”
Evangeline shook her head. “Although, he would probably thank you,” she replied finally, lowering herself to pick up the book from the ground. A bit scuffed from its fall, the book’s spine had held, and all the pages were still intact. She was about to lift it up, but Jeffrey was suddenly there, offering her the spectacles he’d retrieved from his cravat. For the second time in two days, he remembered the last time the two of them had been positioned like this, kneeling down to pick up something.
“This was entirely my fault,” Jeffrey said as he stood up, holding onto Evangeline’s hand much as he had at Lord Weatherstone’s ball. “I wasn’t holding onto the book as I should have, and ... I would say I’ve made a cake of it, but ...”
Not fond of hearing the comment about cake since their meeting in the Temple of the Muses the day before, Evangeline slowly rose to her feet. She shook her head. “No cake,” she replied simply.
Jeffrey nodded his understanding. “Should we ..?” He motioned to the book, “Continue reading?” he wondered.
Still embarrassed by what had happened, Evangeline glanced about. No one seemed to have taken notice of her almost-tumble onto the baron’s lap. “I suppose,” she agreed, returning to her seat.
Opening the book to where they had left off, Jeffrey made a point to hang onto his side of it. He rather hoped Lady Evangeline might have another occasion to fall into his lap, but he rather doubted it would be today.
Chapter 13
Chapter Three: An Earl Returns to London
Richard Porterhouse, Earl of Afterly, regarded his house in Bruton Street with a bit of dismay. Covered with a layer of soot that dulled its bright yellow coloring, the three-story Rosehill House looked as if it needed a thorough bath. One of the shutters hung a bit crooked, its fastening probably loosened during a wind storm. A piece of clapboard looked as if it was about to fall off. And one of the pickets was missing from the fence.
Having been gone for over six months, Richard had forgotten how much maintenance a house required. Apparently, his estate manager, Cuthbert, had as well, since he obviously hadn’t seen fit to include the house in the list of duties he was to have overseen during the earl’s absence. Richard would have a word with the man once he located his sister and determined if anyone needed to be called out to meet him at Wimbledon Commons.
Smithton, the butler, greeted him at the front door, opening it before Richard even had a chance to climb the stairs.
“Ah, at least you haven’t changed,” Richard remarked as he made his way across the threshold and into Rosehill House.
“I have not, my lord,” Smithton replied, his bushy brows furrowing at the odd comment. “How was your trip, milord?”
The earl gave his hat and coat to the butler. “Exhausting. Exhilarating. Expensive,” he replied tersely. “Is my sister in residence?”
Smithton shook his head. “Not at this time, but I expect her shortly, milord.”
Richard nodded and let out a loud sigh. “Shopping again?” he guessed as he moved beyond the vestibule and into the main hall. A silver salver featured a stack of white folded papers, very few looking as if they might be invitations to the latest ton events. He would have to gird his loins before looking through the pile of invoices Cuthbert should have paid in his absence. How much could a single woman spend in six month’s time? he wondered.
“The Palace of Prose, I believe,” the butler said with a nod. “Her second time this week.”
Having learned in a recent missive from his estate manager that several servants had taken their leave of Rosehill House, Richard knew there wasn’t a groom nor a tiger who could have accompanied Geraldine had she taken the only carriage in the stables. He frowned. “How has she been getting about?” he asked.
Smithton glanced down at his shoes, their shine so clear he could see his reflection. “Hackney, my lord,” he said in a quiet voice.<
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Richard screwed up his face, somewhat surprised his sister would be so desperate as to hire a hackney when she probably could have walked to the most fashionable shopping areas. “Cuthbert is working on hiring a new groom,” the earl replied. “As well as a stable boy and another housekeeper.” He paused a moment, wondering if his butler would tell him why the other servants had left the Rosehill household. “Did our departing servants give any reason for their leaving?” he asked, not sure he wanted to hear it.
The butler nodded. “Two of them were hired away by Lord Abdington with the promise of more beef and less lobster at dinner,” he stated simply.
Richard nodded, deciding he, too, would move to another household if he didn’t have to eat lobster four times a week. “And the third?”
At this query, the butler looked down at his shoes again. When he didn’t give an immediate response, the earl rolled his eyes, noting the paint on the ceiling needed a touch-up. Or a completely new coat of paint. “Out with it,” he ordered.
Smithton sighed. “She said she couldn’t continue to work in a household plagued by ...” Here, the butler paused and took a deep breath, expecting he might be the next to take his leave of Rosehill House – and not of his own volition. “‘A lady so prone to scandal, it’s a wonder she doesn’t work in a brothel.’ Her words. Not mine,” he said with a shake of his head.
The earl stared at the butler for a very long time. Good God! What has Geraldine been doing? Richard had received one note explaining she’d been falsely identified as having been in the company of Lord Brotherly at Vauxhall Gardens wearing nothing more than her birthday suit. How had Geraldine put it in her letter? “It could not have been me, brother, as I was home having my hair washed that night, and as you know, I do not go out in public with a wet head.”
The Story of a Baron (The Sisters of the Aristocracy) Page 7
