Lady Danbury had remained above with the guests who had not wished to exert themselves, and Sebastian just barely caught sight of the young viscountess rolling her eyes heavenward.
7
I Thought I was Alone
“You’re resigned to marry, then, Eh, Kirkley?” Lord Riverton, Viscountess Danbury’s father, commented to the table at large and then chuckled at his own joke before taking a sip of his port. “I cannot imagine why. No doubt several of us would trade places with you willingly.”
Moments before, the ladies had removed themselves from the dining room so the gentlemen could take their port and discuss masculine pursuits without censoring conversation for feminine sensibilities.
It was a common belief that only women were inclined to gossip but in Sebastian’s estimation, gentlemen were far worse. They simply did it over ale or port, and if they were lucky, scotch. It wasn’t gossip if one was partaking of fine liquor, even less so, if one was deep into his cups.
“We should all be so lucky as to put off a leg shackle that long,” Lord Lockley added. “Eh, Rockingham?”
Sebastian had attended Eton with the Marquess of Lockley, an associate of Danbury’s, but he hadn’t known him all that well until more recently when they’d become sparring partners at Gentleman Jack’s last spring.
Sebastian could not help but agree wholeheartedly. He would put off matrimony indefinitely. He stared into his port and Lady Asherton’s face came to mind. Was it possible his uncle could make such a woman happy? At the very least, content? Or was he going to shape her into his ideal image of a wife?
She should not be shaped by anyone. She should be encouraged to… fly.
Plenty of women would not only be willing but eager to become Mrs. George Kirkley, women who were not inclined to swim in the ocean… women who would not climb into a gentleman’s bed in the dead of night without first ascertaining who was sleeping in it.
“Eh, Rockingham?” Lockley prompted.
Something about a leg shackle. “Indeed. Not for years. Decades even.” He smiled grimly.
Sitting across from him, George swirled the port in his snifter but scowled in Riverton’s direction. “I look forward to the company of a most excellent woman to soften my twilight years.” And then he flicked his glance toward the other end of the table.
Ah, yes. Lady Asherton was Danbury’s sister. The viscount was not going to allow any untoward conversation that impinged upon the reputation of a lady under his protection, even if the instigator was his father-in-law.
His uncle lifted his port toward the center of the table. “To those most excellent women who make a gentleman’s life worth living. May all of you be so lucky.”
“Indeed.” Some dozen other glasses were lifted. The male guests at this house party were an interesting collection of various members of the aristocracy; unmarried men close to Sebastian’s age, older titled married men closer to Danbury’s age, and then various uncles and cousins. The ages of the female guests were equally distributed. Debutantes, married ladies, and a few dragons and dowagers.
Lady Danbury would have done so intentionally in order to assure the house party maintained all appearances of propriety and even more importantly, to assure that the party would have equal numbers of both sexes.
Danbury’s voice commanded the room. “And on that note, might I suggest we take pity on ourselves and join them in the drawing room?”
Sebastian nodded and then pushed his chair away from the table abruptly. He had no interest in continuing this discussion with any of his male cohorts. In fact, he found himself distinctly annoyed by all of it. He shoved his hands into his pockets and, taking long strides, quickly found himself amongst all the women in the drawing room.
His eyes were drawn to her, instinctively, but he did not approach his uncle’s betrothed. And although she seemed to strive to fade into obscurity, Margaret Coates would never be successful.
Tonight, she wore her hair in a sleek chignon at the back of her neck, and her gown, although unadorned and simple in comparison to many of the other young women, fell like shimmering water, the gray silk caressing her curves in an understated manner.
Ah, no. Quite noticeable. Something about her glowed.
Sebastian leaned against the mantle and forced his gaze to study the others in the room. A heated argument between Lady Sheffield and Lady Riverton; a flirtation between Lockley and Miss Couch; and a lively political discussion, from what he could guess, amongst the older gents.
But he could not help himself, and his eyes landed on his uncle’s fiancée once more. She sat leaning forward, hands primly in her lap, listening to the Duchess of Monfort with far too earnest and serious expression for typical drawing room conversation.
He’d never wished to overhear a lady’s conversation before but his curiosity was oddly piqued tonight. Although his primary interest in her was physical—sexual—he felt a peculiar stirring to know more of her history, her thoughts and opinions.
“I would play.” A sweet floral scent assaulted his nostrils as Miss Drake sidled up beside him. “But I have no one to turn the pages for me.” And then she let out a heavy sigh. Her skirts swished against his trousers as she tilted her head and swayed side to side. At the same time, one of her blond curls brushed against his jacket.
Sebastian chuckled. “Oh, but we must remedy such a catastrophe. Will you favor me with such an honor?” He bowed in her direction.
“Would you, My Lord?” She smiled. She really was a lovely girl—a lovely American girl—who was actively pursuing a title for herself. He would flirt and compliment her, but all of his defenses remained on high alert. He had grand plans for his future, and he’d be damned if he’d allow them to be derailed by a husband-hunting miss.
“It would be my pleasure.” He offered his arm and led her across the room toward where a pianoforte sat prominently adjacent to the windows.
“My mother assured me that all the ladies in England would be accomplished in all of the arts, so I’ve done nothing but practice since we arrived. And paint and learn archery and all the latest dances.”
“Do you miss your home?” Sebastian couldn’t help but be intrigued by her. She emphasized the consonants in her words and softened her vowels, a distinct reminder that she’d grown up and traveled from somewhere that he longed to visit. He would travel to New York someday in the near future. He was the heir, yes. But Sebastian’s father was vigorous, even at the age of five and fifty. Furthermore, Andrew, Sebastian’s younger brother, already took a good deal of interest in managing the family estates.
“Not at all.” Miss Drake laughed. “I refuse to bore you with the details but suffice it to say that everything in America is vulgar compared to London. Society back home, in comparison to Mayfair, is… gauche.” She wrinkled her pretty little nose. “I far prefer the sophisticated persons I have met here to the ladies and gentlemen who make up New York society. I don’t know how Mama has endured it as long as she has.” She draped her skirts around herself on the bench as she took her seat. “I have no intention of returning.”
Sebastian noticed that as she spoke to him, she tried quite deliberately to elongate her vowels. She was so very determined to shed her American roots.
“Surely, there must be something you miss.”
“Papa misses it,” she conceded and then, having flipped through the pages of music, placed them on the stand so that she could read them. “But let’s not talk about the Colonies. Do you spend most of your time in London? I imagine the grandeur of your estate far exceeds that of a mere viscount. Not that there is anything wrong with Land’s End, mind you, but you are to become a duke, and by all rights, a duke’s estate would be considerably more… majestic.”
“Only slightly less so than the king’s.” His father’s country ducal estate, Fey Abbey, was not quite as large as Land’s End, although it was considerably closer to London. He would allow the girl her fantasy. He glanced around the room, wondering how long he
would be subjected to her conversation before he could endure her playing.
He turned back and stared meaningfully at the gleaming keys before her. “Are you going to tease me all night, Miss Drake? I wait with bated breath to hear you play.”
She studied him suspiciously and then, apparently believing his sincerity, blushed and hovered her hands over the instrument. “I do not tease people, Your Grace.”
“My Lord.”
“Excuse me?”
“Unless some catastrophe has befallen my father, I am, as yet, only a lord.”
She blushed again. “I knew that. Of course.” And apparently unwilling to continue this conversation, the young woman tentatively plucked out a most unextraordinary rendition of what Sebastian believed was something written by Bach.
When Lockley arrived to stand behind them, Sebastian happily relinquished his position at the conclusion of the performance.
He strolled toward the mantel, away from any other guests, removed his journal from his pocket, and jotted down a few notes. If Miss Drake’s father had been a guest, he would have had several questions for the gentleman.
The urgency to commence his own journey across the Atlantic grew every day.
“I saw your hat flying in the wind, like an exotic bird. It’s a shame you lost it, but what a spectacular exit it made!” The Duchess of Monfort lowered herself to sit beside Margaret, warmth and goodness arriving alongside her.
“It rather was, Your Grace.” She hadn’t thought of it in such a way. “What would it be like, do you think, to fly?”
“It is terrifying but also spectacular. Monfort has taken me on a few occasions, and I can only admit that I love it and I hate it at the same time. And I insist you call me Abigail.”
“Either you are speaking in metaphors or you have a great sense of humor.”
“Oh, but no, we went up in a basket that was attached to a hot air balloon before we married, and twice since.”
“Didn’t you find it frightening?”
The duchess’ entire face lit up. “Terrified the first time. I couldn’t imagine being contained in a basket but Monfort assured me it was quite safe. It’s the hydrogen balloons that are the most dangerous.”
Margaret stared at the lady sitting beside her and shook her head in wonder. If one did not know the duchess, they would assume her to be a spinster, one who spent her days attending to the needs of an ailing mother or aunt. But a secret smile lit her eyes and it reminded Margaret of Hugh when he spoke of Penelope and the twins.
“Monfort has changed a great deal since your marriage.” No one called him the Duke of Ice any longer. Such a comment was a bold one for Margaret to make, but Abigail’s very presence invited meaningful conversation.
“I am happy that I am not the only one to notice this.” Abigail’s smile fell for just a moment. “It is difficult for one to lose a spouse. And he lost his children as well.” She tilted her head. “But you would know this, more than most.”
She did. “Lawrence and then my mother a few years later.”
“You and Lord Asherton were childless?”
“We were.” Margaret stared across the room only vaguely noting the light-hearted conversations going on around them. “It will be four years tomorrow.”
“But tomorrow is your birthday, is it not?” Abigail frowned.
Margaret grimaced. “It is.”
Abigail’s expressive eyes stared at her sympathetically. “Four years is not so very long. I can see by your face that you loved your husband. Were you in love with him, as well?”
“I was.” Of course, she had been.
Abigail touched her hand. “You must take time tomorrow to memorialize your loss. Perhaps go somewhere alone and celebrate the years you spent with your dear Lord Asherton. And then, afterward, perhaps you will not find the celebration planned for tomorrow night by your brother and my cousin to be so tedious.” She smiled apologetically.
“So, they are planning something? I had asked Penelope not to.”
“I believe it was your brother who insisted upon the event.”
Margaret groaned a little and then laughed. “Well, I thank you, anyhow, for warning me. And perhaps I will take your advice.” She had done her best to try to ignore the significance of tomorrow’s date.
“My love.” The Duke of Monfort approached to stand at his wife’s side. “Lady Asherton.” He bowed.
“Your Grace.” Margaret nodded. If one had never seen the man with Abigail, they would assume him to be cold and without feeling. He stood taller than most, slim yet quite imposing. Only when his gaze fell upon his duchess did his aristocratic features soften.
“It’s getting late. Shall we retire for the evening?” The loving concern in his voice confirmed the rumors Margaret had heard earlier. Of course, his duchess must be carrying. As Abigail smiled up at the duke and then took his arm, allowing him to lead her out of the drawing room, a pang of wanting hit Margaret so acutely that she forgot to breathe for a moment.
Left alone for the first time all evening, Margaret wandered toward one of the terrace doors and slipped outside. The air was not as cool as it normally was this time of year.
Today was October 14th. Tomorrow would be the 15th. She had been a widow for four years. A thirty-year-old widow.
Perhaps that was what was the matter with her. She leaned against the stone half-wall that surrounded the terrace and stared into the darkness.
“Am I being overly sentimental, Lawrence?”
“Aren’t women supposed to be?”
Margaret nearly jumped out of her skin. She’d spoken to her husband aloud when she was alone, on some occasions, but never when anyone else was present.
“Overly sentimental, that is?” Lord Rockingham stepped out from the darkness on the opposite side of the barrier, but his face remained in shadow. There was no mistaking him for anyone other than the brash and handsome young man from earlier that day.
“I thought I was alone.” It was embarrassing to have been caught speaking out loud to her dead husband. And for her behavior earlier that day. She’d enjoyed herself immensely but had she sacrificed her dignity for it?
Moonlight caught his eyes as he stepped closer and then rested his arms atop the half-wall beside hers. Although they stood on opposite sides of the barrier, his face was not far from hers, and she caught a whiff of his scent on the breeze.
“But you were not talking to yourself,” he observed.
“No.”
“Your husband?”
Margaret continued staring off into the darkness but felt him studying her. “Yes.”
“Does it pain you to remember him?”
Margaret turned to meet his gaze. Oh, he was so young. He would not have experienced much tragedy in his short life, if any at all.
“It hurts more to know that I am forgetting him. I am moving forward with my life and of course, I must… but it is confusing sometimes.”
“And my uncle is a part of that. A part of moving forward?”
She nodded. Close up, she could see the hint of whiskers poking through taut, smooth skin framed by a chiseled jawline. Long lashes fringed eyes that reminded her of diamonds and when her gaze landed on his lips, full for a man’s but still masculine, her breath caught.
Oh, but Lord Rockingham truly was a beautiful human being.
“What would your Lawrence say about Uncle George?”
Margaret watched his mouth as he spoke before forcing herself to contemplate an answer. Such an inquiry might have been considered impertinent, but his voice expressed sincere curiosity.
She turned away and stared up at the sky. This time, she noticed a few stars and the cloud drifting near the moon.
And she wondered.
She had considered this question before and had not been able to come up with a satisfying answer. Lawrence would want her to attempt to have another child. He would not want her to be lonely. But what would he have thought of George?
“I don’
t know. He died thinking I was going to become a mother.”
“But you are not.”
She sighed. “I lost our son a week after he passed.”
His jaw clenched a few times and then he turned his head to study her. “Tell me something about Lord Asherton. Was he an adventurous gentleman? A studious one?”
For an instant, the memory of the man Lawrence had been before they’d married flickered in her mind. “As an earl, he was not allowed to join the efforts against France and he admitted to being disappointed.” It was something he’d only spoken of a few times. “But afterward, in the months before our wedding, he traveled the continent. He shared some of the devastation he’d seen there. War’s aftermath changed his mind.” The experience had been sobering for him. “Lawrence was adventurous but also serious-minded.”
Hardly anybody ever spoke of him anymore. Lawrence had been a much different man when they married than he’d been when he had become ill. As he worsened, his illness had consumed their lives and her most vivid memories were of his last days—the pain—how disappointed he’d felt to realize that he would never know their child.
“I would imagine your husband was madly in love with you.”
Margaret straightened her shoulders. It was an odd way to state Lawrence’s emotions for her. They’d experienced love, yes. It had never been mad, however. It had been steady, kind, and warm.
She recalled how Hugh looked at Penelope and how Monfort spoke to Abigail and a soft smile tilted her lips. Lawrence had never been mad about anything.
“He was my best friend.” The words left her mouth before she could stop them.
Rockingham nodded. “So perhaps he would approve of your choice of husband. I’m certain my uncle will make for a good friend.”
Margaret did not argue with him. It was what she’d intended, wasn’t it? It was what she’d had in mind when she’d allowed him to court her. She’d wanted a gentleman who would treat her well and make for an excellent companion; a gentleman with whom she could share intellectual conversations and attend cultural events in London.
Lady and the Rake (Lord Love a Lady Book 6) Page 7