The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3

by Stephanie Laurens

  Sylvia sighed. “All we can do is keep our fingers crossed that Frederick can convince Stacie of that.”

  Chapter 9

  The next day was Sunday. Frederick consulted Mary’s list, then sent a footman to Green Street and, subsequently, drove his curricle around to fetch Stacie for a drive to Richmond Park.

  The day was fine, with light fluffy clouds chased across a blue sky by a flirtatious breeze. They passed the journey chatting about, of all things, family—swapping anecdotes of their elder siblings, Frederick being the youngest on his side and Stacie being the youngest bar Godfrey on hers, with Frederick having older sisters while she had older brothers.

  They arrived in Richmond in a lighthearted mood and discovered that the park wasn’t overly crowded; it proved an easy matter to find a suitable spot to spread a rug and enjoy the contents of the picnic basket Frederick’s cook had provided.

  Stacie found herself relaxing far more than she’d anticipated—far more than she had in…she honestly couldn’t say how long. Being out of London, and although not precisely out of sight of the ton—there were other ladies and gentlemen about—certainly no longer under unremitting scrutiny, combined with Frederick’s unexpectedly charming and undemanding company made it easy to close her eyes, tip her face up to the gentle sun, and simply enjoy the moment.

  And if she was aware that Frederick watched her closely, he didn’t seem exercised by anything he saw.

  Frederick was, in fact, entranced by the glimpses he was catching of a less-serious Stacie. Over their previous encounters, she’d been focused, intent, passionate, and committed—driven. Or more recently, agitated, upset, and tense.

  Now, when a pair of young fawns came investigating, wanting to snuffle up the crumbs of their repast, and he rose and waved his arms to shoo them off, Stacie dissolved into gales of laughter—ringing peals that fell on his ears like the music of angels.

  He turned and stared at her—and found himself smiling, then laughing with her.

  As he returned to the rug and slumped beside her in the sunshine, he felt something in his chest shift. He let his fingers brush her hand, felt an answering tremble in her slender digits before she stilled them, and smiled to himself and closed his eyes, content.

  Later, he seized the moment of repacking the basket and folding the rug, then handing Stacie back into the curricle to touch her fingers, hold her hand, brush her back—taking advantage of all the little touches that were allowable between an engaged couple.

  By the time he handed her down in Green Street and, retaining possession of her hand, walked her to her door, her nerves no longer leapt at his touch. Quietly satisfied with the day’s advances, he paused on the porch, raised her hand to his lips, and kissed her knuckles. “Thank you for your company and for a very pleasant day.”

  Her answering smile was soft and sincere. “And thank you, my lord, for a delightful picnic. It was a lovely idea.”

  He smiled, leaned closer, brushed his lips to her cheek, and whispered, “That’s for the old biddy across the street.”

  He straightened, tipped her a salute, and left her with a smile on her lips and laughter in her eyes.

  The following morning, Stacie found herself on foot in Hyde Park, amongst a good-natured crowd all jostling for the best position from which to watch the launching of the huge, yellow-and-red-striped-silk balloon that was slowly inflating in a roped-off square around which the crowd had gathered.

  Courtesy of the three gentlemen ranged at her back, she suspected that she, in fact, had the very best position from which to view the balloon ascension. Frederick, having been alerted to the event by Percy and George, had arrived at her door with the pair and insisted she join them. When she’d admitted she’d never attended a balloon ascension before, nothing would do for them but that she don her bonnet and cape and accompany them into the park.

  The stroll from Green Street to the clearing that the balloonists had selected for their exploit hadn’t taken long. They’d arrived just as the ropes to keep back the gathering crowd were being strung up, and George and Percy—apparently veteran balloon watchers—had leapt to secure what they’d informed her was a prime position. “We’ll be able to see all the preparations from here,” Percy had earnestly assured her.

  Somewhat to her surprise, she’d found those preparations quite fascinating—and they were made even more so by Frederick’s deep-voiced murmurs in her ear, explaining the significance of what she was seeing. George and Percy also freely shared their knowledge, and she found herself relaxing in their undemanding company.

  Eventually, with the balloon rising level with the treetops, the two balloonists paced back and forth, directing their assistants as they slowed the hot-air machine. Growing expectant, the crowd quietened, then everyone, the balloonists included, looked up, watching as the balloon swelled the last little bit, its rippling silk pulling taut until, finally, the wicker basket slung beneath the balloon lifted from the grass, and the balloon bobbed and tugged against the four thick ropes anchoring it to the ground.

  That, apparently, was a signal of sorts. The machine cut off completely, and the balloonists rushed for the rope ladder hanging from the basket, while the assistants raced to and crouched beside the four mooring points of the ropes that, now, were all that was holding the balloon to earth.

  The balloonists pulled in the rope ladder, shut and latched the gate into the basket, then peered over the sides.

  “Release!” the elder balloonist roared, and the assistants furiously worked toggles, and the until-then-taut ropes eased, then ran free as the balloon slowly, majestically, rose.

  A collective “Oh” of wonder wafted from the crowd.

  “Wish us luck!” the younger balloonist yelled, and the crowd cheered and waved their hats.

  Stacie held on to her bonnet as she tipped back her head and marveled at the sight of the gaily striped balloon rising slowly into the blue sky.

  As she followed the balloon’s flight, she tipped farther back, then felt hands—Frederick’s hands with their long, strong fingers—close gently about her waist, steadying her.

  Her senses no longer skittered at his touch; instead, they all but purred.

  She told herself not to imagine that, on his part, the action meant anything at all—he was merely being protective—but she wasn’t sure she believed that.

  She wasn’t sure she cared.

  Caught up in the moment, oh-so-aware of Frederick immediately behind her, his long legs just behind hers, her skirts brushing against his trousers, his chest mere inches behind her shoulders, the warmth of his body a caress down her back, she felt that his hands and his hold were anchoring her not to the ground but to this moment of simple pleasure.

  Simple happiness. Yesterday, today—he seemed to know just what outings would deliver that blessing to her.

  Later that afternoon, Stacie found Frederick in her front hall again, this time to join her in an outing she had suggested on their way back from the park. They’d strolled to Green Street, trailing George and Percy, and had parted outside her house; while she’d gone inside to lunch with Ernestine, Frederick had headed to the Athenaeum with his friends.

  As she emerged from the corridor leading to her parlor, he arched a brow at her. “Ready?”

  She nodded and accepted her cape, which he held for her, then allowed him to escort her out of the door to his waiting carriage. He handed her in, then called to his coachman, “St Martin-in-the-Fields,” then climbed inside and shut the door.

  They spent the minutes to their destination reviewing what they wished to say, then over the next hour, they met with Protheroe and the three young men they now termed their initial protégés. Frederick favored all three with a critical assessment of their performance, a paean that nevertheless carried suggestions for improvement, minor though those were. His report reduced Brandon, Phillip, and George to a blushing and tongue-tied state; the three stammered out their thanks, patently valuing Frederick’s critiques
and thrilled to have earned his approbation.

  Stacie then reported on the social aspect—how the ton had taken not just to their performances and presentation but also to the notion of such musical evenings introducing unknown local musicians. “As well as numerous inquiries about hiring you for individual events, several hostesses have asked if there is a need for more opportunities for musicians such as yourselves, and I’ve encouraged them to consider hosting similar events.”

  Smiling delightedly, Protheroe nodded. “We’ve already had several inquiries from ladies wishing to hire Brandon, Phillip and George, or other young musicians of similar caliber.” He glanced approvingly at the three young men. “The lads suggested, and I agreed, that we should wait to discuss such requests with you before accepting. You will know if the ladies’ events will be…well, suitable in the sense of advancing your protégés’ reputations.”

  Stacie exchanged a glance with Frederick. “That was very wise. There may well be some events that would be less than suitable when assessed in those terms.”

  Frederick agreed, and he and she spent a good fifteen minutes poring over the list of inquiries received to date and explaining to Protheroe and the three musicians why some of the proposed events would be excellent venues at which to show off their skills, while others would be better avoided.

  “Never, ever, accept an invitation to play out of doors.” Wielding a pencil he’d pulled from his pocket, Frederick put a line through one inquiry. “The lack of acoustics will frustrate you and, ultimately, defeat you. So any request with the words alfresco, picnic, summer party, or the like is to be avoided.”

  “And when a lady says ‘conservatory,’ she generally means one filled with plants, not a musical one,” Stacie added. “That said, some conservatories will function perfectly adequately as venues for musical performances, but those packed with plants won’t.” She pointed to another entry on the list. “You would need to see the space before you could safely accept.”

  Frederick nodded. “Dense foliage eats sound.”

  Protheroe received the winnowed list Frederick handed him with obvious gratitude. “Thank you—your explanations will help us enormously.”

  Stacie listened as Frederick reiterated an invitation she gathered he’d already issued to the three young musicians to call on him for advice whenever they felt in need of it.

  She gave a similar assurance to Protheroe, that she would always be available for consultation on any question regarding musical events in the ton.

  “Speaking of musical events”—Protheroe looked at her hopefully—“have you given any thought to hosting another of your own?”

  Stacie glanced at Frederick. “I originally planned on four events spread throughout the year, which would mean at least one if not two more during the Season.”

  Frederick plainly thought, then offered, “I would suggest we hold off for a time before scheduling another event.” He met Stacie’s eyes. “Your first event garnered a great deal of attention, both before and after, purely because of its exclusivity. Holding events too close together makes them seem…not so special. Perhaps look to hold another late in the Season, then assess how the ton receives that before settling on the timing and structure of more events to be held later in the year.”

  She arched her brows, weighing the obvious merits of his argument, then met his eyes. “My only concern is that other hostesses will copy the pattern and dilute the very exclusivity you mentioned.”

  He held her gaze, his golden-brown eyes twinkling. “As I have no plans to play for any other hostess, I have difficulty imagining how any other lady is going to steal your thunder.”

  The others chuckled, and she had to battle a grin; he was too charmingly arrogant for words. “There is that, I suppose.” She inclined her head in acceptance. “Very well. Shall we assume we’ll be holding another musical evening later in the Season—perhaps toward the end of May—and leave any further organizing for later?”

  Protheroe and the three young men nodded in agreement.

  Frederick stirred. “Now we have some idea of our audience’s capacity for sitting still and listening, I believe we can add a third introductory act. Either another soloist or a small group. We can leave any decisions until later, but”—he looked at Protheroe—“that’s something to bear in mind.”

  Stacie and Frederick left the master and the three musicians happily revisiting the list of inquiries for their services.

  On the pavement outside St. Martin’s colonnaded façade, as he handed Stacie into his carriage, Frederick said, “I daresay you have a small mountain of invitations for the rest of the week, as do I.” He patted a bulge in his pocket. “I brought them with me, thinking it might be helpful for us to compare the summonses and prioritize those events at which we feel most inclined to show our faces.”

  His near-disgusted tone made Stacie laugh. “All right.” She settled on the seat, and he followed her into the carriage. “Let’s repair to Green Street and plot out our schedule over tea.”

  They’d agreed to attend two balls that evening.

  The first, at Lady Horowich’s house, was also the first ton event they’d attended since the announcement of their engagement; as Stacie climbed her ladyship’s staircase on Frederick’s arm, she fully expected the next hour to be akin to a trial by fire.

  Lady Horowich embraced them warmly, welcoming them with barely concealed delight. Given Stacie and Frederick had chosen her event for their first ton appearance, that was, perhaps, unsurprising.

  Far more unexpected was the acceptance displayed by her ladyship’s guests; as, with Frederick, Stacie passed through the crowd, exchanging greetings and chatting here and there, she detected not the slightest hint of aloofness, disapprobation, suspicion, or even plain old jealousy.

  The last she viewed as decidedly odd; Frederick was—had been—a significant catch. At least, she assumed so, and she couldn’t see how it would be otherwise. A wealthy marquess, handsome to boot, not given to gaming or any other major vice? He was a matchmaker’s dream, yet she sensed nothing but approval, even from those ladies intent on securing titled husbands for their daughters.

  It seemed that her and Frederick’s unconventionally announced engagement had been embraced as if it were merely the natural order of things.

  Of course, many remained terribly curious, but with Frederick by her side, and him perfectly prepared to be charmingly yet ruthlessly cutting if provoked, she had no real difficulty navigating the waters of her ladyship’s ballroom.

  Then the musicians struck up—and she realized she had no idea whether her supposed fiancé could waltz at least creditably. Yet when she turned to him, he smiled, tilted his head toward the clearing dance floor, and arched his brows, and when she smiled back and nodded, he tightened his hold on her hand and drew her onto the floor and, with a graceful flourish, turned her in to his arms.

  Their first circuit of the ballroom was a revelation.

  “You’re an expert dancer,” she accused.

  He widened his eyes at her. “I thought you would have guessed. Musician from birth. A natural flair for rhythm and movement, especially as pertains to orchestral music.”

  She laughed. “When you put it like that, I fail to see how I missed the point myself.”

  He smiled in reply and whirled her through the turn, leaving her breathless. With an “Indeed,” he set them revolving back up the room.

  She was still breathless and not a little giddy when, at the end of the dance, he led her from the floor.

  Other gentlemen were eyeing her hopefully, but Frederick steered her toward two couples who had recently arrived. “My sisters,” he murmured, his breath tickling her ear, “will probably fall on your neck.”

  His sisters—Lady Candice and Lady Marjorie—didn’t go quite that far but warmly embraced Stacie. While their husbands, Henry, Lord Harbury, and Douglas, Lord Rawton, pumped Frederick’s hand and slapped his shoulder, Lady Marjorie confided that she, Lady Candice,
their mother, and Mrs. Weston had all but given up hope of Frederick bestirring himself to select a suitable wife.

  “At least,” Lady Candice added, “not in the next decade.”

  Stacie recalled Frederick mentioning that Lady Horowich was a connection of sorts, and the scales fell from her eyes. It was likely, if not certain, that many of those gathered in the ballroom were connections—perhaps distant, but connections nonetheless—and from his sisters’ comments, it seemed the Brampton family as a whole was delighted that Frederick had chosen her—a marquess’s daughter, sister to another, well-dowered and long-established within the ton and, therefore, a paragon of suitability—as his bride.

  She’d assumed the ton’s reactions would center on her having succeeded in securing Frederick as her future husband. She hadn’t, until then, realized that a good proportion of the ton would view their engagement from the opposing viewpoint—that of Frederick having secured her as his future wife.

  As she’d assiduously avoided everything to do with the marriage mart, she hadn’t previously listed her qualifications as a nobleman’s bride. Now…she had to admit she was exceedingly well-qualified, and she hadn’t even included their shared interest in music.

  After Frederick deflected all inquiries as to their plans with a deft touch Stacie had to admire, they parted from his sisters and brothers-in-law on excellent terms, with promises of gathering for a family dinner in due course.

  Once again moving through the crowd on Frederick’s arm, Stacie glanced around and no longer felt the slightest surprise at the ready acceptance of their engagement.

  Frederick squeezed the hand she’d placed on his sleeve and lowered his head to say, “We need to stop and chat with the couple just ahead. Brampton is a cousin a few times removed and currently my heir.”

  That was all the warning he gave her before introducing her to a genial gentleman of early middle years—Mr. Carlisle Brampton—and his wife, who proved to be one connection of Frederick’s who was not thrilled to meet Frederick’s recently acquired fiancée.