Sensing her surrender, the marquess stepped up the intensity of his assault. His mouth moved from her ear to the hollow of her throat, where Olivia's pulse beat tumultuously. Still meeting no resistance, he slowly bent her backwards.
Not until her back pressed against the hard, cold stone of the bench did Olivia come to her senses.
"I—I must return to my party,” she protested for the second time that evening, as she struggled to sit upright.
If Mannerly was at all embarrassed, he gave no outward sign. Urbane as ever, he straightened his cravat and offered his arm to his mortified companion. “I am, as always, yours to command, my dear."
Inwardly, however, the marquess's emotions told a very different story. For perhaps the first time in his life, Lord Mannerly was completely nonplussed. The sundry other females of his acquaintance, from the buxom Drury Lane orange girl who had marked his coming of age to the notorious French comtesse who had relieved the monotony of his Parisian exile, had all parted with their rather dubious virtue with scarcely a backward glance. To be sure, his experience with women was wide and varied, but the seduction of a young lady of quality was a new undertaking for him, and one, it would seem, at which he was far from expert. To the marquess, the discovery of his own ineptitude was more disconcerting than the fact of Miss Darby's lack of response to his advances. The thought that Sir Harry Hawthorne might be his superior in matters concerning the fairer sex was so absurd that he dismissed it with a snort of derision, and yet the very idea that any woman might prefer that green youth to himself galled him beyond all bearing. Suddenly it was vitally important that he succeed in his seduction of Miss Darby. It was more than a matter of revenge; the reputation of the House of Mannerly was at stake.
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Chapter Nine
When the wine goes in, strange things come out.
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH VON SCHILLER, Die Piccolomini
Sir Harry, bereft of his love, lingered for some time alone in the secluded bower, idly pacing back and forth and shuffling his feet in a manner fatal to the beauty of his soft leather evening pumps. But Sir Harry was indifferent to such sartorial concerns. He had set out, at great risk to himself, to woo and win his lady and had ended by quarreling with her, receiving nothing but a very sore cheek for his pains. At last he roused himself from his reverie sufficiently to dispatch a lackey to Mr. Wrexham and the ladies, informing them that he had found his grandmother feeling unwell and was escorting her home.
Having accounted for the absence of both his personae, he set out to assuage his heartache by indulging in the usual vices favored by young men suffering the pangs of unrequited love. He proceeded to White's, where he drank too much brandy and wagered too much money at faro.
As one losing turn yielded to another, he waxed eloquent about the vagaries of the female mind and the folly of falling in love.
He was still engaged in “bucking the tiger” (albeit without much success) at three o'clock in the morning, when Lord Mannerly entered the gaming room. Sir Harry, seated with his back to the door, was unaware of the presence of his nemesis. Calling for another bottle in slurred accents, he placed his wager on the jack, and groaned when the exposed card was removed to reveal a queen.
"So close, and yet so far away,” sighed a fellow player, a young officer whose own success at cards was only slightly greater than Sir Harry's. “But perhaps you are lucky at love instead."
Sir Harry, painfully aware of the angry red welt on his left cheek and vaguely sensing an insult through the fog of his inebriation, wheeled unsteadily about and seized his fellow gambler by the front of his scarlet coat. “And jusht—just—what do you mean by that, sirrah?"
The officer, who intended no insult, did not expect his expression of sympathy to be met with belligerence, and took umbrage at Sir Harry's rough handling of his person. “Why, only that your pile of vowels is almost as large as your pile of guineas was when you came in! Now, unhand me, you ruffian, before I draw your cork!"
Upon hearing this heated exchange, a small crowd gathered as gamblers all over the room abandoned their own games to watch the scene unfolding at the faro table. The older men were concerned with maintaining the dignity of their establishment; the younger men were primarily interested in getting a good view of the mill which seemed imminent. Only Lord Mannerly remained in his seat. Flicking open the lid of his enameled snuffbox, he placed a pinch of snuff on his wrist and raised it to his nose, inhaling deeply as he silently observed the proceedings.
"Damn it, I'll not have Livvy's name ban—bandied about this way!” declared Sir Harry, lurching to his feet.
"So you accuse me of dishonoring a lady, do you?” demanded the soldier. “Perhaps you would care to repeat the accusation over pistols at Paddington Green! Name your second, sir!"
"Come, Eversley, can't you tell when a man is half-seas over?” Mannerly did not even raise his voice, but the room fell silent the moment he spoke. “In his present condition, Sir Harry's opinions can be of no particular importance to you."
This seemed to satisfy the military gentleman, but Sir Harry took instant affront. “I am not—hic—drunk!” he asserted, unmindful of the empty bottle at his elbow. “I can hold my liquor with the best of ‘em! Why, I—"
"Nonsense, boy, you are quite foxed,” repeated the marquess.
"I am foxed? You, my lord, are the fox—in the hen house, no less! Well, she's mine—hic—do you hear? I won't stand for it, Mannerly!"
"Indeed, it is a wonder to me that you can stand at all,” observed the marquess.
"I won't let Livvy's name be bandied about in pub—public!"
"Then, as you are the only one bandying names about, I suggest you take yourself home,” replied the marquess in a voice that brooked no argument.
The other men moved aside to give Sir Harry access to the door. There was nothing he could do but gather the tattered remains of his dignity, along with the pile of vowels, and quit the room. As he stumbled noisily down the curved staircase to the ground floor, Lord Norville was moved to express the hope that the lad—a good sort, really, and not at all himself tonight—would reach his home without tumbling into the Thames.
"I shall see him home.” Lord Mannerly rose from his chair, prepared to suit the word to the deed.
"In his present mood, I doubt he will wish for an escort,” warned Norville. “He seems to fancy a grudge against you, Mannerly."
"He will never know I am there,” promised the marquess, and quitted the room in Sir Harry's wake.
As soon as his footsteps faded away, the gaming room became a whirlwind of activity.
"A pony says Lord Mannerly beats Sir Harry to the altar with the Darby chit!” shouted one gamester above the hubbub.
"Make it a monkey!” said another.
"I'll cover that bet!” cried a third. “Garçon! The betting book!"
* * * *
Sir Harry, unaware of the commotion he had left behind, staggered off in the direction of Curzon Street. Pools of feeble yellow light from the streetlamps penetrated the fog sufficiently to illuminate his way, although not so brightly as to reveal a second figure following at a discreet distance. Arriving at his town house, he tried the door and found it locked. He raised his cane to rap for Coombes to let him in, but some still-cognizant corner of his brain realized the folly of this action, and stayed his hand. Gradually it all returned to him: his disguise, the events at Vauxhall, and “Lady Hawthorne” supposedly asleep in her bed. No, he could not enter the house where he might be seen; to do so might raise questions, the answers to which would bring discovery, and with it disaster. Sir Harry stepped back to ponder the matter, applying all his powers of concentration (which, at that moment, were not much) to the problem.
The façade of his house jutted out some six feet beyond those of its immediate neighbors on either side, giving the house the benefit of a narrow side window on each floor in addition to those in the front and back. Beyond contributing t
o the window tax, these windows had the advantage of bringing sunlight into the rooms during the daylight hours, but at this particular time, Sir Harry was more interested in their potential for clandestine entrance. In keeping with the century-old fashion for rus in urbe, a large stone urn had been positioned in the corner formed by the adjoining walls, from whence sprang a stout ivy which climbed the wall to the roof.
Inspired, Sir Harry strode over to the um, took hold of the ivy, and tugged with all his might. Upon finding that the plant would indeed support his weight, he removed his shoes, tucked them into the waistband of his breeches, and began to climb—a difficult feat for any man, but for one in his present inebriated condition, one nothing short of miraculous. He was perhaps some twelve feet off the ground when a slight sound from the street caught his attention. He looked down, and the sight of terra firma so far below was sufficient to shock him into a state approaching sobriety. However, he managed to maintain his hold on his leafy ladder, and at length reached the upper window. He rapped on it as loudly as he dared, and was soon rewarded by the sight of Higgins on the other side.
"Sir Harry!” cried his faithful servant. “Whatever are you doing out there, sir?"
"Trying to come inside, you nodcock! Open the window and let me in!"
Bobbing his head in agreement, Higgins threw open the sash and, seizing his master by the arm, dragged him over the casement. Sir Harry landed in a heap on top of his hapless valet, whereupon the shocked manservant uttered, “Sir, you reek of brandy!"
Sir Harry would have reiterated the claim that he could hold his liquor with the best of them, but the sound of a footstep in the hall recalled him to his purpose. "Shhh! See who is at the door, Higgins."
Higgins dragged the heavy brocade curtain across the open window, then shoved his master behind the drapery with such force that he almost knocked poor Sir Harry back out. Then, pausing only long enough to don his own wig and dressing gown, he crossed to the door just as a knock sounded on the other side of its paneled surface.
Sir Harry, watching from his hidden vantage point as Higgins opened the door, beheld a vision. Olivia wore a silk wrapper over her nightdress, her dark hair unbound and spilling over her shoulders in long, loose waves. Looking at her, Sir Harry felt an ache somewhere inside his chest, one that had nothing to do with the copious amounts of liquor he had poured down his gullet.
"Is something wrong, Higgins?” she asked. “I heard noises."
"Her ladyship is ill, miss,” explained the servant.
"Shall I summon a physician?"
"No, no,” was the quick reply. “I am sure he—she will feel much more the thing after a good night's sleep.” And a pot of strong coffee, he added mentally.
"Very well, if you are sure,” Olivia conceded reluctantly. “Still, if there is any change, do not hesitate to awaken me."
Higgins repeated his assurances that Lady Hawthorne would be quite all right, then gently but firmly closed the door. He listened for a moment to Olivia's retreating footsteps, then addressed his master.
"A close call, but I believe we got through that one rather well, didn't we, sir? Sir?"
But Sir Harry, sprawled unconscious before the window, made no reply.
* * * *
Lord Mannerly, having fulfilled his promise to Lord Norville by seeing Sir Harry safely home, was about to return to his own residence in Park Lane when Sir Harry's odd behavior gave him pause. From his vantage point across the street, he watched as that young man removed his shoes and began to scale the ivy clinging to the outside wall. A few moments later, he was treated to the sight of Sir Harry Hawthorne entering the Curzon Street town house through a window on the upper floor. Why, he wondered, might the head of the Hawthorne family find it necessary to enter his own house clandestinely? The question nagged at him all the way home. The answer, he was somehow sure, was important.
Upon reaching his own domicile, he poured himself a glass of sherry from the bottle awaiting him in the library, and sat in silence for a long while, staring into the flames dancing in the fireplace.
They were a strange lot, these Hawthornes, but what could one expect, with a stripling like Sir Harry as head of the family? A schoolroom chit who fancied herself a missionary, a dowager who until quite recently had lived the life of a recluse....
A recluse? Mannerly had it on good authority that the dowager Lady Hawthorne had not left her Bath lodgings in twenty years or more. Why, then, would she suddenly take up residence in London just as Sir Harry's bride made her come-out? He remembered his curious impression of Lady Hawthorne that night at Covent Garden and his aunt's conviction that the old lady was not who she seemed, and his suspicions grew apace. It was interesting to recall that, as much as he had haunted Hawthorne House in recent weeks, he had never seen Sir Harry and his grandmother at the same time. Even tonight—last night, rather, at Vauxhall, Sir Harry had not arrived until after his grandmother had departed.
Of course! Why else should Sir Harry sneak into the window, unless he was already believed to be within? Furthermore, Sir Harry could hardly be seen entering the residence at such an hour, when all the world knew Miss Darby to have no other chaperone but the dowager Lady Hawthorne—who happened, most conveniently, to bear a marked resemblance to her grandson, and who walked, surprisingly enough, like a man.
Suddenly all the pieces of the puzzle fell neatly into place, and Lord Mannerly knew his long-awaited victory was at last within reach. He would have to call in Curzon Street the next morning to confirm his theory, but he was almost certain his surmise was correct. Refilling his wineglass, he raised it in a mock toast.
"Sir Harry Hawthorne, I salute you,” he said aloud, addressing himself to the amber depths. “You have fought, and fought valiantly—but you have lost."
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Chapter Ten
There is no disguise which can for long conceal love.
FRANCOIS, DUC DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD, Reflections
The following morning found Miss Georgina Hawthorne quite alone. Of her future sister-in-law Olivia there was no sign, although it was almost noon, and, judging from the anguished groan which emitted from her brother's room immediately after Higgins had entered milady's chamber to draw open the curtains, Georgina expected it would be quite some time before Sir Harry saw fit to make an appearance.
Thus left to her own devices, she found herself sunk in a fit of the dismals. In this frame of mind, she made a short breakfast of chocolate and toast, then applied herself to her daily perusal of the holy scripture. She had first begun these devotional readings upon her arrival in London, feeling sure that the reverend Mr. Collier would approve of this exercise as proof against the temptations of the social whirl. Unfortunately, in this aim it had failed miserably. Georgina found herself turning with alarming frequency to the Song of Songs, which is Solomon's. Indeed, so often had she turned to that most sensuous of books that her Bible now fell open to the page. She had, of course, neither the opportunity nor the inclination to discuss the matter with her vicar, but she suspected the reverend would find her new reading preferences even more objectionable than the Gothic novels he frequently denounced from the pulpit.
Heaving a discontented sigh, she closed the Bible and gazed out the window, where the gray skies and drizzling rain seemed perfectly matched to her mood. She wished they had never come to Town. She had been happy at home in Leicestershire, and she would have been quite content to marry Mr. Collier and dedicate her life to assisting him in his work, with no trace of regret for what might have been.
But now ... now she found herself obsessed with a man who was everything the vicar was not, everything she should most despise. Lord Mannerly was rude, arrogant, and self-centered, and always gave one the uncomfortable feeling that he was mocking one. Furthermore, he cared nothing for propriety, or he would not pay the most marked attentions to a young lady who was already promised to another.
Here her frown deepened. Olivia would have been ha
ppy in Leicestershire, too, and she and Harry would have been married just as everyone had always expected. But what woman would prefer Harry's attentions to those of the marquess of Mannerly? Perhaps strangest of all was the vague suspicion that, were Olivia to change her mind and marry Lord Mannerly instead, the loss would be her own as much as her brother's.
Finding no answers either in holy writ or in the raindrops chasing one another down the window pane, she rose to go in search of her embroidery. She was not generally fond of needlework, but at present she had need of some activity—any activity—to distract her mind from thoughts she would prefer not to dwell on. She was just crossing the entrance hall when the door knocker sounded. Coombes hurried to answer it, and a moment later Lord Mannerly entered the house, just as if her thoughts had somehow summoned him. His many-caped greatcoat dripped water, as did his curly-brimmed beaver, and with these additions to an already imposing frame, he seemed to Georgina to fill the entire room. The effect was only slightly diminished when Coombes swept the wet articles from his lordship's person and bore them away, leaving Georgina to usher her noble guest into the parlor.
"D-Do come in, my lord,” she said, suddenly short of breath. “What brings you out in this weather?"
"Surely three charming ladies under one roof are sufficient to tempt any man to brave the elements, Miss Hawthorne,” he riposted, bowing over her hand.
"Three? Oh, yes, of course, three,” she amended quickly, remembering her brother's disguise.
"Tell me, how does your grandmother fare this morning?"
"She—she is indisposed, sir."
Mannerly nodded. “I thought perhaps she might be."
"I—I will tell her you called, my lord."
"But may I not see her and offer her my best wishes for a quick recovery?” protested the marquess.
"She—she is quite ill, sir,” answered Georgina, casting a nervous glance toward the staircase leading to the bedchambers above. “She is not receiving visitors."
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