“I always tell the truth,” she said breathlessly. She then gave herself a mental shake, drew her eyes away from his, and said to the air, “What a pleasure it was to meet you, my lord.” She made as if to leave, but he did not move out of her way, causing her to pause awkwardly.
“I must assume it was indeed your pleasure, for you just told me you always tell the truth.” His eyes glittered down at her, forcing her without any touch to look back into his face.
“You are the strangest man,” she said without really meaning to.
He laughed then. “And that, too, is the truth. No, don’t leave just yet. I’ve not had the opportunity to secure the promise of a dance from you. Will you save the next for me?”
She shook her head, aware of a tiny sting of regret. “It’s promised to Mr. Hulcomb.”
“The one after?”
“To Sir David Grant.”
He did not look at all aggravated, only amused. “And the one after that?”
Now was the time to put him in his place…if she wished to… She lowered her eyes. “Yes. I can give you that, my lord.”
“John,” he said.
She looked up. He saw she was puzzled, because he explained, “My friends call me John.”
Mary laughed, honestly amazed. “I certainly shall not call you by your given name.” It was already outrageous enough that she’d ignored the need to have a third party make their introductions.
“Hmmm,” he said--and she was grateful when he did not insist. Instead, he shifted his feet to give her a shallow bow, bringing his face very near hers. “My lady, it was my very great pleasure to meet you tonight.”
Only when she nodded in mute accord did he step back enough so that she could pass.
She moved past him, but then she turned back slowly. “I wonder, is that true? Was it a pleasure? Do you also never tell lies, my lord?”
“No, my dear, I tell them all the time. I am, alas, entirely wicked.”
Her head quirked a little to one side, taking in the fact his features had shifted; she sensed a hesitation in him--or was it perhaps a regret? Could it be he was waiting for her renouncement, for her censure of his self-proclaimed iniquity?
“You? Wicked? I wish I could pretend to be surprised to learn it. But I already suspected your wayward nature from the very first moment I saw you,” she said over her shoulder, just before she softened the words with a small smile and turned her back to him to walk quietly away.
Soft laughter followed her until Mrs. Pennett came up and whisked her away to yet another barely endurable dance, this time with Mr. Hulcomb.
***
As he watched the lady leave his side, John’s laughter faded. He leaned back against a colonnade, crossing his arms over his chest. It was a familiar pose, a guarded one he adopted automatically as he acknowledged the lady had, for a few moments, seen his true face. Not the Blade’s mocking, rakish face, nor the polite social face he wore when he cared to make the effort. Not even the controlled sneer he used to fully quash those who presumed upon his tolerance. No, he knew for a moment he had allowed the anguished, wounded side--the side of his nature he often pretended was firmly buried--to reach his features. The event was startling, for it was the first time he had done so in ages, especially with a woman.
It was easy to show interest in a lady’s charms, oh yes. Pleasure, even passion--but never the secret side of his soul. One could not pierce a target if one could not find it. He had long since learned women could be fickle, and had concluded his was not a nature that should be allowed to love. He had loved twice, and very unwisely. He would never do so again. Women were for dalliance only. If the protective guards he’d raised--his sharp tongue, his cutting ways, his lack of fidelity to anyone--had earned him the ludicrous nickname the Blade, then all to the better. It was exactly the way he wanted it.
And yet, this rather ordinary-looking woman had made him forget his poise for a moment. He frowned, wondering how it had happened.
No doubt it was the fact he’d not expected her honest answer to his observations of her matrimonial ambitions. He was, after all, still capable of finer feelings, and she had been graceful enough to give him the truth when he demanded it, instead of denials or flirtation. It was her unaccustomed forthrightness that had thrown him off kilter for a moment, allowing his emotions rather than his habitual studied manner to come to the fore.
Or perhaps it was the assessment in her eyes that had discomfited him, a trace of knowledge that spoke of his most recent escapade, the common knowledge of his current sin. He could have come right out and affirmed that, yes, he had met with Lady Peddygale in the cemetery two nights past, but contrary to popular rumor had not committed any carnal act with her there. He had taken her to hired rooms, mindful of her comfort as well as his own, of course. But something about Lady Mary Wagnall, the plain-faced oldest daughter of the Earl of Edgcombe, had had him holding his tongue against self-incrimination.
He was used to disapproval--he did what he liked, societal censure being an old, wearied song he scarce heard anymore--but the remarkable thing was that the assessment he had seen in Lady Mary’s eyes had not been one of disapproval. He had seen amusement there, and frank curiosity, and even something rather like reception. Now that he was no longer used to. Acceptance, yes, for he was a wealthy marquess and was therefore welcome company regardless of his reputation, but an actual sense of reception, no. The difference being, he said to himself in something like amazement, that one would merely allow his presence, while the other welcomed it.
Despite his secret sorrows, John was not a somber man. Lady Mary, whether meaning to or not, had amused him, even pleased him. In spite of himself, he recognized the growing feeling in his chest to be no less than that of liking. There were those in the world who knew him better than the gathered crowd, and who therefore would not have been so very surprised to see him smiling softly to himself.
Rothayne made the usual rounds, securing with little more than a nod and a murmured word a later meeting with one Mrs. Trimball tonight, for a festivity of their own devising. She was a fetching baggage, a little common in a way that seemed to be her best charm, and he knew from practical experience that hers were warm and inviting arms. A pity, in a way--but, no, not really--that soon he would meet with her no more. He would pass out of her arms just as he had the arms of every other female he had bedded in the past dozen years.
He could have arranged an earlier exit with the object of his fleeting affection, but he did not care to leave so soon. He had committed to a dance with Lady Mary, and was mildly surprised to find he truly wished to keep that assignation.
He gave a small mental shrug, explaining to himself that there were a variety of pleasures to be had in the world, and he could not think of a reason to deny himself the simple one of a dance. A dance with someone he liked. Yes, Mrs. Trimball would wait, for he found he could not like the idea of standing up Lady Mary.
Chapter 2
In the past three weeks the weather had changed abominably. What had been a rather pleasant stretch of summer-like weather in May had left no one prepared for the howling, slashing, dripping, positively dreary and endless rainstorms that followed. Ladies took to not bothering to put on their hats until they were safely inside a building, for otherwise it was either snatched from their heads, or else it was tugged to and fro, putting all their hairdressers’ work to nothing. Satin slippers were put away, replaced by heartier shoes with pattens or half-boots that might not be spoiled three feet outside one’s front door, and parasols were utterly abandoned and umbrellas blown out of shape. Parties were cancelled due to flooded roads, and in one case the flooding of the hostess’s home. Engagements for fetes were rearranged time and again, until finally they were simply cancelled altogether. It looked as though it would rain forever, and the entire city of London was utterly glum about it.
“We must do something,” Mary’s brother, Randolph, had declared on yet another gray, rain-soaked morning. He sa
t slumped in the chair before the fire, but his eyes were turned to the window as though he were mesmerized by the patter of rain against the glass. Speaking slowly, heavily, his eyes fixated, he had repeated, “We must do something or else I shall go mad.”
“In that case it may already be too late,” Mary said, grinning at her sister over their brother’s head.
“No, he’s right, Mary. We,” declared Lydia firmly, “must have a party. But what manner of one? I vow another dinner party is not the answer. How many times can one say the same things to the same set of people in the same circumstances?”
“Oh yes, changing the circumstances does make all the comments seem quite new, does it not?”
“Mary,” Randolph said heavily. “Stop being a noddy and consider the problem at hand.”
His blonde wife, Elsbeth, looked up from her stitchery long enough to nod agreement with her husband. Her spectacles were balanced on the end of her nose, giving her an owlish look.
“I wish I could stretch my legs a bit,” Lydia’s husband, Sedgwick, said from where he stood staring into the fire. He was tall and athletic of build. “I feel as though I’ve been living in a box for days on end.”
“Yes, we could all do with a little exercise,” Lydia agreed.
“Can’t exactly ride to the hounds now,” Randolph put in gloomily.
“Oh yes we could,” Mary said slowly as a thought occurred to her. Her voice started to rise as she began to fill with enthusiasm at her own idea. “You can do anything inside you can do outside, if only you change things ’round a bit.”
“Never say you mean to bring horses in on the Aubusson rugs?” Elsbeth cried, pushing her spectacles up her nose with one finger.
“Yes, that’s quite what I mean, only the horses I am thinking of must be only a few inches high.”
The siblings and spouses looked at one another, and despite their initial resistance, a house party was born.
They received a quick response of enthusiastic acceptance from nearly every soul who was invited, and within two days, in which they scurried to carry out preparations, the event was upon them.
It was declared by a crookedly inked banner just inside the door that it was to be “a Hounds Day.” As the guests entered and surrendered their rain-soaked outer garments, they were bid to draw slips of numbered paper from a bowl, thereby forming miscellaneous groups of “riders” by virtue of matching numbers. Mary led them into the bigger salon at the back of the house, where she delivered her instructions.
“It’s all very simple. I shall play the part of the hounds by reading the first clue. After that, it is up to you to ‘follow the hounds’, or in other words to locate the item you have been instructed to find. Recall your group’s number, stay together and work as a team, and do not follow the clues that were numbered and intended for other groups. If you do, you forfeit the hunt. When you find each of your intended items, bring them back to this room, and our good man Pendleton will mark it here.” She pointed up at the large graph, less crooked than the banner pinned to the wall, in front of which stood their butler, Pendleton. The graph was lined with a number of “lanes,” one for each group of hunters, at the start of which posed a cut out drawing of a horse.
“I say,” called one of the guests in group number five, “Our nag there isn’t a very handsome fellow, is he?”
Everyone laughed, and despite their prompting Mary said she must refuse to tell who the artist had been, though she did say, “He would not care to have his artistry laughed upon.” Whereupon all eyes turned to Randolph, for he had flushed in a telltale manner. He flushed even more and laughed at the same time, receiving the slaps upon his back and loud guffaws with good grace. “Fellow’s name is Eye of the Beholder,” he said with a grin.
That was met with more laughter until Mary went on. “There will be prizes for first, second, and third place for ‘bagging the fox’, that is, reaching the end of the graph. A luncheon for all will follow the end of the game.”
When those in the gathering were done murmuring their appreciation, she produced a slip of paper, from which she read:
“Travel not to the out of doors,
For no prizes will then be yours.
Seek now inside to find your clues,
The first: Each hour I pay my dues.”
She then raised a horn to her lips for a brief and discordant blast, and with a shout of ‘Tally-Ho!’ the room broke into pandemonium. Some fled the room at once, others stood about discussing the meaning of the clue, which most easily agreed must be some kind of clock, and still others moved off stealthfully, as though they truly would startle a fox from some hidden place.
Mary and her family came together except for her mother, who was already hurrying the servants into arranging the salon into a space for serving the luncheon. The siblings giggled and whispered, and applauded when the first groups returned with their “huntings” in hand.
“Darling,” their mother called in passing.
All heads turned, for she could mean any one of them.
“See what the stir at the front door is all about, please,” she instructed as she glided by, a dripping candelabra in each hand.
Mary was given the duty, this being deemed the ‘privilege’ of being the only offspring who still resided at home. As she stepped into the entry hall it was to see one of the footmen receiving Lord Rothayne as he surrendered his topcoat and hat. “My lord!” she called. She had known he was to be invited, but when there had been no response she had assumed such a Corinthian had no need to amuse himself at a countrified party as her family had proposed.
His smile was genuine, telling her he had not immediately forgotten her after they had shared that one dance weeks ago. He had flirted outrageously with her as they’d danced, and even though she had known it was all in sport, she blushed a little at the sight of him now, recalling how much and how freely she had laughed while in his arms.
“Forgive the intrusion, my lady, but I have been at a friend’s hunting box and only saw the invitation this morning. I decided to play my chances and see if I would be admitted, despite being not only unexpected but tardy as well,” he said blithely.
“Of course you are welcome, though you have missed some of the fun already. Here, draw a number and we shall unite you with your group of fellow huntsmen,” she said, presenting the bowl to him. She forced herself to blink, for as she had that first time they met, she found herself staring at his great good looks.
He drew a number two from the bowl. “Ah, my favorite number.”
“Is it?” she asked, making a motion to indicate he should follow her.
“Yes, one and one. Just the way I like it.”
She came to a stop. He had spoken in an intimate, familiar way, rather suggestively. He had done that before, she recalled.
Her face must have spoken of censure, because again that sheltered look came over his face.
She stared at him, unblinking. “My lord,” she finally said slowly, “It seems I’d forgotten how freely you speak. Or am I incorrect? Do you do so with all of your acquaintances?”
“No,” he said rather curtly. Here he was again, discomfited. Yes, it definitely had something to do with her genuine pleasure as she received him having then slipped. “I am downright nasty to the ones I do not care for.”
She shook her head slightly, but despite everything she found a smile on her lips. “We are friends yet, then, I take it? Although we scarcely know one another? And haven’t seen each other in weeks?”
He took a deep breath, staring off into the distance as though making an assessment, but when he looked back at her his features were clear. “Yes, I should like to think we became instant friends.”
“And you will continue to speak naughtily and in double entendres to me?”
“Yes,” he said, grinning now, any discomfort gone. One moment he was all openness, teasing, light, and the next he was shut away, as though someone had just closed the shutters against the sun, an
d then the reverse again. His manner was nothing less than intriguing. More than that, it tugged in some curious way at Mary’s heart.
“All right then,” she said, letting her smile bloom. “Just so we both understand that this is your way. I will not take offense, if you will not mean what you say.”
“I always mean what I say, however fleetingly.”
“Well then, that you do not act upon what you say.”
“Yes.” He laughed then, obviously and genuinely pleased with her. “Since you are my friend, I agree to that.” He held up a finger. “One stipulation, though. You already have been warned, from my own lips, that I am thoroughly unrepentant of my evil inclinations. Though I would never touch one finger to one hair upon your head without your approval, I will always do my best to persuade you to join me willingly in my debaucheries. My life is dedicated to self-satisfaction, and I am very much afraid I must have the freedom to at least attempt my goals via my persuasive and provocative comments.”
“But were not those persuasive and provocative comments the reason you left England for awhile?” she dared to ask openly. If he could be blunt, then she must be accorded the same privilege.
“Exactly so. It seems Prinny did not care overmuch for my observation that his father ought to have had a mistress or two, to spare the Queen all his affection, you see.” Mary raised a hand to her mouth, covering a startled sound that was half a laugh. It may very well be joked about that the mad king’s poor queen ought to be the mad one, having had the exclusive attentions of her husband--fifteen children’s worth in fact--but it was not the sort of thing one wanted one’s Regent to know you had said.
“And now you are pardoned, I hear tell.”
He shrugged. “Or perhaps agreed with, do you think?”
She shook her head, amazed at the forthrightly shocking things he said, but she refused to be nonplussed. “So, in the matter of our ‘relationship’, you are saying you must be allowed a free tongue, and that I am to be allowed the right to forevermore laugh and say ‘no’.”
The Marriage Mart Page 2