by Liana Lefey
“I’m not leaving London to answer the summons,” he said with a cool smile.
“You won’t have to.”
When it dawned, comprehension sent a feather-brushing of alarm skittering down his spine. “He’s here? In Town?”
“He is, and I don’t expect his mood will be congenial when you see him. You know how he dislikes leaving his lair,” she added, her lip curling with contempt.
His father loathed London, preferring the “smaller, but infinitely more wholesome” society of the English countryside. He was a man content to live like a country squire rather than a wealthy earl, and Society would likely have forgotten him entirely but for his notorious prodigal son.
Lucas couldn’t let her know the thought of his father coming to chasten him in person gave him any concern. Adopting an expression of supreme indifference, he sniffed. “Then I hope for his sake the visit won’t be a lengthy one.”
“As disagreeable as I find your father, I hope you won’t say or do anything foolish enough to truly anger him,” she replied. “Tread carefully with him, my son. He fears for your future. As do I. We only want what is best for you.”
He’d expected sarcasm and bile, but her manner was instead both sober and sincere. Instead of snapping back with a biting retort, he looked her in the eye and nodded. “I cannot promise to alter my course, but I’ll hear what he has to say and make every effort not to speak rashly.”
Maternal affection softened her features. “If I could, I would tell you to do whatever makes you happy.” The faint smile faded from her lips, and she laid a gentle hand on his cheek. “But the world does not often reward such people. Often, we must do what we dislike in order to survive, which means putting needs above wants and practicality before sentiment.”
Though Lucas had grown up knowing she’d broken his father’s heart, he’d never been able to hate her for it. For all that she was a terrible wife, she’d been a wonderful, loving mother. “Then it will comfort you to know I’m not a man governed by sentiment.” He’d found most desires could be fulfilled without emotions getting in the way.
“No, you’re not,” she replied with sad eyes. “But neither are you ruled entirely by reason. You may not require your father’s support or approval to be happy, but consider how much easier life would be if you have them. Weigh your choices carefully.”
When his father called later that evening, the discussion between them was brief and disagreeable. Battle lines had been drawn. He would either end his friendship with Harrow or lose all support for his ambitions with regards to Parliament.
Lucas bid his father farewell with the expectation of the latter and the understanding this wasn’t over, that there would be more unpleasantness to come.
As the door closed behind his normally mild-mannered father, he reflected that it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done exactly as he pleased and managed to make it work. Even his trip abroad had worked to his benefit in the end. Not only had he avoided escalating the conflict that had set him on such a course, but the journey had provided him the means to both ingratiate himself with the Crown and enrich himself through profitable investment.
Same as then, his gambler’s mind weighed the risks against the potential gains—only this time, the margin was far slimmer than any he’d previously justified. His mother was right. Regardless of whether he succeeded in this game, Society would always remember his association with Harrow. Whether that was for good or ill depended on the man maintaining plausible deniability concerning his true nature.
But could he count on Harrow’s discretion? After all, he’d managed to catch a glimpse of the truth. What if someone else did, too? It might just as easily have been a servant who’d seen them as himself.
Fingers of apprehension marched across his scalp.
But it’s not as if people don’t already wonder… As long as he wasn’t caught in the act by at least two witnesses willing to testify before a magistrate, however, it was nothing more than gossip. Harrow had many powerful friends who’d clearly decided to turn a deaf ear to the rumors. He had his detractors, too, but they were lesser men.
Lesser men are often envious, ambitious, and cunning. To discount them entirely would be very unwise.
If he was going to continue on this path, he’d have to befriend Harrow in truth and then somehow tactfully warn him to be more careful. In this game, the only one Lucas wanted to see gain the upper hand was himself.
Chapter Eleven
Diana encountered Blackthorn far too many times in the weeks following the picnic.
When the garden gate was repaired, he called to present her with the key, as promised. But it wouldn’t do to simply leave it with a footman. No, he had to be the one to place it in her hands directly, necessitating a conversation.
Two days later, he presented her with tulip bulbs to brighten a corner of her garden she’d complained of being dull. And not just any tulips, but a rare new hybrid, quite coveted. Of course they had at once found her gardener to instruct him as to their immediate placement. They’d chatted for nearly two hours before he left again via the shared gate.
Every few days he’d found an excuse to visit her early in the afternoon, usually bearing some sort of token—a book on growing orchids, some seeds—that, while they couldn’t necessarily be construed as “gifts,” were certainly meant to please.
They met four times at mutually attended balls and danced at least twice at each. Harrow was not neglected at these events, for Blackthorn made it a point to include him in discussions while she danced with other gentlemen.
And then there were the evening card games on Tuesdays and Thursdays to which Harrow had invited him. Westing was there for some, but not all. Some nights there were others from their circle. Blackthorn managed to win them all over with his charm.
Her Tuesday appointment with Minerva was followed by a trip to Fisk’s, since both required new gowns for upcoming events. On the way back, they stopped for refreshment—and who should be at the café but Blackthorn and Westing.
By the time Diana spied them it was too late to alert Minerva and make a tactful retreat—they’d already been spotted. Her stomach dropped, but all she could do was paste a smile on her lips and pray the situation didn’t become too awkward.
Blackthorn’s brows rose high—an unpromising sign—as they were led to a table right beside his. His speculative gaze darted between them as he and Westing rose. “Lady Diana, what a pleasure.”
Careful not to clench her teeth, she did what was expected and turned to her companion. “Minerva, allow me the pleasure of introducing Lords Blackthorn and Westing. My lords, this is my friend, Lady Harrow.”
Blackthorn bowed respectfully. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, my lady.”
“Indeed, my lady,” echoed a suddenly florid Westing, also bowing.
He looked so guilty and abashed it nearly made Diana laugh aloud. In that moment, she knew he’d given ear to the sordid tales concerning herself and Lord and Lady Harrow. She took a modicum of satisfaction in watching him squirm now that the lady stood before him in the flesh.
Minerva, though she also very likely knew the reason for his blush, was the epitome of sweetness and poise. Diana watched as she favored the two men with a disarming smile. “My husband speaks highly of you both. I’m so pleased to finally meet you.”
Now Blackthorn had the good grace to flush, too, though only a little. He gestured toward the table behind him. “Would you and Lady Diana care to join us? We only just arrived, ourselves, and there is plenty of room.”
Diana knew Minerva would say yes. Their tables were so close they might as well. As her friend agreed, she resigned herself to what was sure to be at least an hour of awkward conversation.
Making small talk while her protector’s wife looked on with curious eyes was enough to cure Diana of any desire for food, but she nonetheless made herself nibble at a scone and sip her tea. They spoke of upcoming balls, and Blackthorn told them of t
he improvements he’d made to his new residence.
Westing’s failure to contribute more than the briefest answers to the conversation didn’t go unnoticed by Diana. While Blackthorn was engrossed with Minerva’s account of Harrow’s plans for the renovation of their country estate, she took the opportunity to address his apparent discomfort.
“You seem preoccupied, Lord Westing. Is all well with you?”
His face pinked as he raised startled eyes. “Please accept my humblest apology—”
She forestalled him with a gentle gesture. “I meant no reproach.”
His shoulders relaxed, and a rueful smile tugged at his mouth. “My thoughts of late are generally not where they should be, I fear.”
She returned his smile with one of her own and followed her instincts. “Who is she?”
The widening of his eyes told her she’d been dead on the nose with her guess.
Blackthorn chuckled and answered for his friend, “Lord Falmouth’s daughter, the Lady Charlotte.”
She didn’t know the woman—a fact for which she was immensely grateful. “I thought it must be a lady,” she said, lacing her words with just the right amount of mischief before sobering. “Is all going well with your pursuit?”
“Indeed. I could not be more pleased.” But the worry that sprang into his eyes belied his too-quick affirmation, and the telltale glance he sent to the tables nearest them told her everything.
He’s concerned about being seen in my company! It ought not to have come as a shock, and it ought not to have hurt, but it was, and it did. Her ire faded as quickly as it had arisen, however. She couldn’t blame him. Everyone in this room would be talking of this meeting today, and all of London would know of it by tonight. If—no, when—his Charlotte heard of it, she’d likely question his devotion regardless of any legitimate explanation he might offer.
Blackthorn appeared to reach this conclusion at the same time as her. “Indeed, Westie has been intolerably smug about his success on that front,” he said jovially, turning to his friend. “The lady would be a fool not to accept your suit, old fellow.”
Minerva seemed to pick up on the undercurrent also. “Lady Falmouth and my mother are acquaintances,” she said softly, eliciting a comic look of surprise from Westing. “They attended finishing school together and wrote each other faithfully for many years. I was only a little girl when Lady Falmouth last visited us, but I remember well her sweetness. I shall be delighted to tell my mother of our mutual acquaintance and give her an excuse to renew their friendship. I’ll be sure to have her recommend you, should an opportunity arise.”
Oh, well done, Minerva! She watched as Westing’s manner relaxed a bit. Minerva’s mother was a duchess, and no matter what Charlotte’s parents thought of Harrow, they couldn’t deny such an influential connection. Perhaps they might even overlook Westing’s less palatable acquaintances. The sting of knowing she’d be numbered among that lot was lessened only by the certainty that it wasn’t really her that people disapproved of, but rather the facade she’d taken on.
If they knew the truth, would they think better of me? Would Blackthorn? The stray thought jolted her out of her melancholic slide. Caring for his—or anyone else’s—opinion of her was both dangerous and stupid. Harrow, Minerva, and René know the truth and love me. No one else matters.
Looking up, she saw Blackthorn’s gaze had settled on her. How long had he been staring? Her pulse quickened. The man looked as if he knew what she’d been thinking.
Ridiculous! Her thoughts were her own, of course. Unless you wear them on your face like an inexperienced little fool. She glanced away and schooled her features into a look of supreme indifference.
But it was too late, and she knew it. She didn’t know what exactly he’d seen, but the knowing glint in his eye told her it’d been entirely too much. A tiny smile quirked his lips, and her traitorous face heated. Silently, she cursed his uncanny ability to unsettle her.
When she looked elsewhere to compose herself, she made the mistake of choosing Minerva as her refuge. Her friend’s arched brow made it clear nothing of her blushes and fidgeting had been missed.
The next half hour was quite possibly one of the most uncomfortable Diana had experienced within the last year. Being caught between two people who knew too much—one of whom should know nothing at all—tied her stomach in knots.
Minerva waited until they were safely ensconced within her carriage before beginning her interrogation. “Charles told me of your admirer. Until today, I merely thought Blackthorn another of the same sort as has pursued you prior.”
Nettled, she answered with a bit more sharpness than was probably warranted. “He’s no different. Others have attached themselves to my skirt in hopes to overturn it. Rest assured, I’ll shake him off my train just as easily as I did them.”
“Oh, I think not,” countered Minerva with a chuckle. “The way he looked at you tells a different story, my dear. He’s quite serious.”
Her temper got the better of her. “About what?” she exploded. “About bedding me? Of course he is! They all are. But it’s nothing more than that—nothing more than lust. How could it be anything else?” she spat bitterly. “The day he bends knee and begs me to marry him with the whole world watching, then I’ll believe it’s more than just a desire to get between my legs.”
Minerva, unfazed, stared at her in contemplative silence for several heartbeats before answering softly, “You may well inspire such an act.” She ignored Diana’s unladylike snort of contempt. “You really don’t see it, do you? The way he looks at you? He knows you’re not what you pretend to be.”
Fear spiked in her belly, and she knew it was written all over her face. She didn’t even bother trying to put up a brave front. “If that is so, then we are all in trouble. Such curiosity will be our undoing.”
Her friend laid a hand atop hers and gently squeezed. “Charles will handle him if he comes too close to the truth or calls the ruse into question, but I doubt it will happen. Blackthorn may be interested in you, but he’s no fool.”
The laugh she let out had a desperate, near hysterical edge to it. “Men are all fools when it comes to lust.”
“I won’t argue with you on that,” said Minerva with a wry smile. “But I think there is more at play here. I think he’s falling in love with you—if it has not already happened.”
Diana’s heart all but seized in her breast, but she was determined not to show fear. “You’re wrong. He’s like all the others, and I’ll manage him just as I did them.”
Thankfully, she was spared any further questions. But Minerva’s words stuck in her mind, and she couldn’t help it if every interaction thereafter was colored by them.
The very next night, she and Harrow bumped into Blackthorn at the Theatre Royale. Naturally, Harrow invited him to join them in his box for the performance and then to share a late meal afterward at Rules. A good time was had by all, with many a story told over superb wine and delicious pheasant, heavily spiced with laughter from all three. The whole time, she kept careful watch, trying to see what Minerva claimed to have seen.
Did he look at her with more than curiosity and lust? Was there more to his interest in her? She told herself no, tried to quell the spark of hope that flared inside each time their eyes met and his held a warmth that, despite all her cool reasoning, appeared to be genuine affection.
Every time Diana was with Blackthorn, speech seemed easier and grew more familiar. The tension inside her, however, wound ever tighter. She knew they held each other’s gazes for too long. She was well aware her face warmed at even the smallest implied compliment. She cursed the liquid heat that pooled at the base of her spine every time he was near.
Over the course of these visits, they shared with each other childhood memories and spoke of their likes and dislikes. She was always careful not to tell him too much, but even so it felt like she was sliding further and further down a slippery slope, at the bottom of which lay she knew not what.
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With great amusement, Harrow continued in his plan to befriend her neighbor, a task aided by the man’s own determined attempts to garner favor. Her protector responded with all fervor to the slightest flirtation as though unable to help himself.
Despite her misgivings, the pointed looks he occasionally shot her when Blackthorn couldn’t see made it doubly hard for her to refrain from laughing every time triumph wrote itself across their mark’s face in the wake of an apparent victory.
She had nearly let out a snort on hearing Blackthorn compliment Harrow on the superior cut of his jacket.
A giggle had almost worked its way out of her throat when he was so bold as to actually reach out and straighten Harrow’s lapel while requesting the name of his tailor.
Asphyxiation had become a real threat when Harrow had subsequently pinned him with a steady gaze and invited him to come along with him for a fitting appointment later that week so that he might personally recommend him to the fellow, who was very exclusive and only took on new clients by such means.
Blackthorn had turned several beautiful shades of scarlet while accepting the invitation in a distinctly cracked voice.
That night, together with René, she and Harrow had celebrated their fine performances, not to mention ironbound restraint, with a bottle of champagne.
But no matter the hilarity throughout, nothing could alleviate Diana’s growing disquiet at the thought of where all of this was leading. Especially when both Blackthorn and Harrow separately confirmed the book at Whites was beginning to see a great number of wagers on whether or not “Lord B.” would become their next overnight guest. There were also quite a few in favor of an impending duel between Lord H. and Lord B. over Lady D. Bets on the outcome had yet to be posted.
On the morning of Blackthorn’s ball, Diana awakened to a surprise package from Harrow. The gown within, a Fisk’s, stole her breath.
Deep teal silk with a fine silver mesh overlay embroidered with tiny sparkling jewels fell in graceful swaths, bound just beneath a shallow bodice by a darker sash of velvet edged with silver. Its train was a glorious pale aquamarine silk so fine it was nearly transparent, also dotted here and there with gems. The miniscule puffed sleeves were of the same material.