by Lynn Messina
Huntly heartily fell in with this plan, and as soon as the door closed behind Emma and the duke, he turned to Vinnie to discuss their nuptials. She nodded politely at what seemed to her to be unimportant details, then interrupted when a thought occurred to her.
“My hose!” she said excitedly. “You must come very early tomorrow so I can demonstrate how beautifully my hose works.”
“And that, my love,” he said, laughing as he pressed her against the door and kissed her so gently, her knees went weak, “is where I”—another kiss, another weakened joint—“came in.”
As breathless as she was, Vinnie managed to say with some asperity, “Yes, and I forgive you.”
He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, the line of her jaw. “Forgive me?” he asked as he pulled back slightly to look at her with eyes hazy with desire.
“For coming into the conservatory with your appallingly impeccable manners and your stunning aquamarine eyes just as my hose was exploding and making me feel foolish and inadequate. For that,” she explained, “I forgive you.”
Huntly pressed his body against hers, and Vinnie felt herself throb with expectation and need. “I can’t let you do that,” he explained in a husky voice. “No, a man of my appallingly impeccable manners must first make amends.” So saying, he ran his hands along her thighs, over her hips and up her torso to her breasts as he pleaded with her to please let him make amends. His lips, trailing a line of kisses from her collarbone to her chin, spread the fire to an unbearable degree. Then, with his eyes focused on hers, he said please one more time and captured her lips in a kiss so intoxicating, it had her begging for forgiveness, too.
And with that, the sensible Miss Lavinia Harlow lost her senses completely.
THE END
Curious how the theater outing with Lady Bolingbroke and her daughter went? Read the excerpt from The Bolingbroke Chit.
About the Author
Lynn Messina is the author of more than a dozen novels, including the best-selling Fashionistas, which has been translated into sixteen languages. Her essays have appeared in Self, American Baby and the New York Times Modern Love column, and she’s a regular contributor to the Times’ Motherlode blog. She lives in New York City with her husband and sons.
The Harlow Hoyden
What good is a libertine if he
won’t seduce your sister?
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Book One in the
Love Takes Root series
Available now!
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Is she a simpering miss
or a tongue-tied beauty?
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Book Three in the
Love Takes Root series
Available now!
A misanthropic artist refuses to be
charmed by a provoking lord. No, really.
Book Four in the
Love Takes Root series
Available now!
Chapter One
Earning the nickname Lady Agony was no minor accomplishment. Plenty of girls lacked conversation. Indeed, every season, at least a dozen green misses emerged from the schoolroom unable to speak intelligibly on a variety of subjects or engage in the lighthearted banter that was the lingua franca of the beau monde. No, for a simple exchange with a young lady to be deemed “agonizing” by the ton required a particular talent. It was not enough merely to be tongue-tied in the presence of an attentive listener; one had to make the attentive listener tongue-tied as well.
Lady Agatha Bolingbroke did this beautifully. With her deprecating manner and her dispiriting mind-set, she was a conversational vortex, a swirling whirlpool of dampening sentiment that drained all lively thought from those around her. Consummate flirts, poised hostesses and men noted for their address all found themselves trailing off as they stared into her severe black eyes. Even Sally Jersey, who famously earned the sobriquet Silence for her tendency to prattle, ceased her endless chatter in the company of Lady Agatha.
As Lord Wittleton had once observed within unintentional earshot of the girl’s papa, the Bolingbroke chit was like a wet cloth or blanket draped over a gathering.
It was little wonder, then, that the girl’s mother all but despaired of marrying her off and engaged in an endless string of ploys in the hope of somehow arranging a suitable match.
Understanding the motives behind her mama’s machinations, however, did little to make Lady Agatha amenable to them, and she watched Lady Bolingbroke with a piercing stare as the woman sank into the seat next to her.
“Well, I say, this is remarkably comfortable,” Lady Bolingbroke declared as she looked around the well-appointed box, situated to the middle left of Drury Lane theater. It was an enviable location, for it required only a slight tilt of her head to observe the occupants of the box to her right and no tilt at all for the occupants opposite to observe her. “I am delighted to be here. Are you not, as well, Aggie dear?”
“Yes, of course, Mama,” her daughter said with a sharp frown, her fierce eyes focused on the lace trim of her white silk gloves. “Foisting myself upon strangers is among my chief delights. I’m grateful to you for providing me with this opportunity.”
“I know you are,” replied her parent with undaunted gaiety, “and you must not be. As your mother, it’s my duty to provide you with as many opportunities as possible. You should, of course, thank the Duchess of Trent when she arrives with her sister. ’Twas remarkably gracious of her to invite us to attend the theater with her. I say, this is the veriest treat. Now, do be a dear, Aggie, and hand me my opera glasses. Without seeing the shape of the mole on Mr. Carpenter’s nose, I can’t tell whether it is the heir or his younger brother.”
With a sigh, Agatha withdrew the ornate spectacles from her reticule and handed them to her mother. If there was one thing she disliked more than foisting herself on strangers, which her mother required she do with alarming regularity, it was being called Aggie. The absurd appellation bespoke her mother’s habit of infantilizing everyone. Agatha’s father was Bolly, her maid was Ellie, and her governess had been Stony.
Agatha loathed diminutives.
Lady Agony—now, that was a nickname.
She knew, of course, that the term was used by the ton to describe the unpleasant experience of trying to converse with her. She understood that its intentions were cruel, but she felt only satisfaction in the fact that her intentions were understood. Lady Agatha Bolingbroke neither desired nor sought the good opinion of society and had more important things to do than spend her days thinking up sufficiently engrossing chatter about horseflesh or Lord Byron.
Not that she couldn’t rise to the occasion if she chose to exert herself—Lady Agatha knew herself to be a creature of mild intelligence—but she could not envision the circumstance that would inspire her to make the effort. After four seasons, she’d experienced all that the marriage mart had to offer and found it sadly lacking. The good aspects, which were few and far between, could be best enjoyed in silence: plays, operas, museum exhibitions, fireworks displays.
“Providence!” Lady Bolingbroke chirped as she lowered the opera glasses to smile at her daughter. “The mole on the nose is shaped like a leaf, not an apple, which means we are sitting across from the elder sibling. Smooth your hair, dear, and straighten your shoulders so that he may see you at your best. You do recall, do you not, that you danced with him at Almack’s your first season? It was a minuet, I believe. You made such a delightful pair with your complementary coloring. At the time, I was not enamored of the match, as his family’s seat is quite off-puttingly far in the north. But that was some time ago and my definition of far has altered slightly.”
Agatha was not surprised to hear it, for if Lady Bolingbroke had had any particular qualifications for her daughter’s husband when she’d first made her debut, they had long since been abandoned in the name of expediency. After four long, unsuccessful seasons, Agatha knew both her parents would happily accept the proposal of the first gentleman who asked, which was why she
worked so diligently to make sure none did.
“I do not know what you mean by complementary coloring,” Agatha said, intentionally rounding her back so her shoulders slumped. She would certainly not improve her posture upon her mother’s command. “We both have the same sallow complexion. If anything, we made one another look more sickly.”
This deflating statement, which would have caused her father to sputter in annoyance, only made her mother chuckle. “How droll you are, my dear. I’ve always said your sense of humor is your most attractive trait.”
Now Agatha smiled with genuine amusement, for if her sense of humor was really her most attractive trait, then she was truly sunk indeed. Her appearance certainly did not show her to advantage. In addition to stern black eyes, she had coarse dark hair that refused to comply with the elegant hairstyles of the day and narrow lips that seemed permanently pinched with displeasure. To be completely fair, she actually had very fine features—eyes evenly set and well proportioned to her face, a delicate nose that turned slightly upward at the end—but the underlying architecture of her face was so severe as to undercut even these compensations.
As an artist, Agatha appreciated the value of good bone structure, but as a young lady making her come out, she knew her sharp cheekbones and chiseled jawline indicated a strength of character not welcomed in a girl of marriageable age. She understood why this was, of course, for no matchmaking mama wanted a daughter-in-law with a strong will and no gentleman desired a wife of decisive opinions.
To her credit, Lady Bolingbroke had done everything she could to raise a milk-and-water miss of little resolve, and it was her enduring frustration that her daughter could not be taught how to simper or demur or even trill enchantingly. Agatha’s laugh in particular had long been a source of disappointment, for the sound always rang with sincere and heartfelt enjoyment. Oh, the number of times her mother had explained that a true lady was never genuinely amused! Rather, her mirth was calibrated to the particular circumstance in a series of complex calculations designed to produce the perfectly regulated response. She knew her daughter was clever, but after years of futile lessons, she had to concede it was the wrong sort of clever. Sure, Aggie could toss off a remark so cutting it eviscerated its listener, but she could never figure out how to imbue a chuckle with the amount of warmth suitable to the situation.
Other mothers would have abandoned the field by now, but Lady Bolingbroke was made of sterner stuff than most and her campaign to rid her daughter of all signs of intelligence continued unabated.
“Mr. Carpenter appears to be sitting next to Sir Winston, who is, I believe, a Whig crony of his,” Lady Bolingbroke added. “You might also describe his complexion as sickly, but I suspect that’s from an unfortunate overapplication of powder. Do take a look, dear, and offer your opinion.”
Although Agatha did not relish a close-up examination of Sir Winston’s spot-marked face, it was more appealing than quibbling with her mother about her lack of interest in Sir Winston’s spot-marked face and she calmly accepted the opera glasses. As slouching forward actually required more effort than her usual posture, she sat up straight in her chair while she looked across the way. Her gaze landed first on Mr. Carpenter—yes, her mother was right, it was a leaf-shaped mole—then on Sir Winston, who did appear to be sporting an unusually heavy application of white face powder, no doubt in an attempt to cover up the unsightly blemishes on his chin and forehead.
“It appears to be a cosmetic choice, although it is a case of employing a lion to get rid of a dog,” Agatha explained as she returned the spectacles to her mother.
“I think he looks very well,” Lady Bolingbroke observed.
“A moment ago, you said he was sickly,” Agatha felt compelled to point out, even though such bold about-faces were commonplace for her mother, who regularly issued statements that contradicted the ones that immediately came before.
“Sickly becomes him,” Lady Bolingbroke explained as she raised the glasses to her eyes. “Perhaps he will start a fashion, and applying face powder will become all the crack. It could be delightful.”
“And you can lead the revival of powdered wigs,” her daughter suggested. “Several relics of my grandfather’s are moldering in the attics.”
Lady Bolingbroke dismissed this proposal as manifestly absurd, for she herself was not what one would call an arbiter of style. “But if a true arbiter of style should take up the mantle, I would gladly follow.”
Agatha knew this only too well, as her mother gleefully fell in line with all the dictates of fashion, no matter how ridiculous or physically inconvenient. Just that afternoon, she could be seen strolling the lanes of Hyde Park in a bonnet piled so high with silk ribbons, ruched taffeta and ostrich plumes, she could barely hold her head up. Several times, she had to discreetly grip the hat with her left hand to alleviate the pressure on her neck, which felt as if it were bending like an old tree branch. Despite the discomfort, she maintained a spirited conversation with Lady Tilby and refused to admit to any irritation.
Although her mother hid her obstinacy behind an ingratiating smile, she was just as strong-minded as her offspring and would not give up until Agatha was firmly tethered to a gentleman of respectable breeding. Rather than fly up into the boughs, Agatha calmly went where she was bid and dampened the proceedings as best she could. Her hope was that people would stop inviting her places, but so far that desire had proven futile, as evidenced by that evening’s invitation to view The Merchant of Venice with the Duchess of Trent. She didn’t know how Lady Bolingbroke managed to arrange the outing—as far as she knew, neither of her parents counted either the duke or his wife among their intimates—but her mother was very pleased with the coup and could not contain her excitement. Indeed, she had talked of nothing else for a week.
For her part, Agatha had been dreading the excursion, for she considered the new Duchess of Trent to be an entirely insufferable creature. Before marriage elevated her to the realm of respectability, Miss Emma Harlow—or the Harlow Hoyden, as she was more commonly known—indulged in a series of reckless larks that should have by rights ended in her total disgrace at best and her utter ruin at worst. Among her most outlandish exploits was a curricle race from London to Newmarket to break Sir Leopold’s long-standing record by more than two minutes.
Although Agatha had never actually met the young lady in question, she knew her to be naïve, arrogant, childish and petulant and believed she rightly deserved whatever comeuppance she got. For years, the Harlow Hoyden had managed to skirt the line of propriety, somehow always ending up on just the right side of the border. Her recent wedding to the very worthy and well-regarded Duke of Trent had secured her place among the ton in some quarters—people such as Lady Bolingbroke were happy to forgive a duchess anything—and the marriage struck Agatha as a fitting end for the impertinent miss. The illustrious gentleman was not known for his sense of humor or easygoing manner and was in fact thought to be stiff and toplofty by those who knew him best. Surely, marriage to such an upstanding gentleman would prove stifling and chastening to a woman of high spirits.
When the Harlow Hoyden arrived at her theater box a few minutes later, however, she did not appear to be oppressed by her decorous marriage. If anything, she seemed to glow with good humor, as did her sister, Lavinia Harlow, who, as her twin, shared her sleek blond hair and peaches-and-cream complexion. Agatha, who had never aspired to beauty, only to be left alone to pursue her art, did not resent the women for their lovely appearance. Rather, she resented them for their liveliness and their relentless enthusiasm and the way they seemed to find everything highly amusing. Their unfailing cheerfulness was so overwhelming, Agatha couldn’t think of a single deflating thing to say.
And yet she was considered the wet blanket!
“The Merchant of Venice is one of my favorite plays,” the Duchess of Trent announced as she glanced down at the pit, then across it to the boxes opposite, several of which were still filling with arriving theatergoers
. The curtain would not rise for another twenty or so minutes. “I’m desolate to have missed Kean’s performance as Shylock. By all reports, it was remarkable.”
“Undeniably, yes,” Lady Bolingbroke rushed to assure her. “I was fortunate enough to have seen his performance and it had a profound influence on me.”
Hearing this review, which did not comply with the original one given on the night of the performance—or, rather, in the middle of the performance—Agatha said, “It is true. Mama demanded a pound of flesh from her neighbor, whose infernal cough—I do believe that’s how you described it, though perhaps you said damnable—made it impossible for her to hear any of Mr. Kean’s speeches, which she felt were a trifle overdone in their inflexible malignity, creating such an unpleasant theater-going experience that she swore never to return.”
“Yet here we are,” her mother said without a trace of embarrassment, “returned to the scene of the crime, as it were. I trust everyone is in fine respiratory health? To be completely honest, I myself felt a dry tickle at the back of my throat around nuncheon today, but I had a cup of tea with honey and it immediately passed.”
“Well, that is a relief,” her daughter said, “for I would have been wretched if we had to cancel. I’ve been looking forward to this evening with particular anticipation.”
The inflection in her voice left everyone in the box with little doubt as to the true state of her desolation, but no one chose to remark on it. Instead, the duchess inquired about Lord Bolingbroke’s health. “I trust he suffered no ill effects from last night’s long meeting of the British Horticultural Society. It took quite a while for Vinnie’s membership to be approved.”
At the mention of her father’s beloved organization, in which a group of grown men—no, not just men now, for as the Harlow Hoyden had observed, her sister now ranked among them—met regularly to discuss the trivial matter of gardening, Agatha rolled her eyes. Almost all of her parents’ conversation consisted of her father lecturing her mother on how to best cultivate flowers. Although Lady Bolingbroke’s interest in horticulture extended only to ensuring that the bouquet in the drawing room did not clash with the drapes, she always listened to these drawn-out speeches as if she found the information to be the most engrossing she had ever encountered. She considered it her duty as a wife to provide her husband with an attentive ear, even if her spouse could not provide her with attention-worthy material.