But this, by itself, wasn’t the source of the present earl’s prejudice. As he often said, “Everyone knows that Harold Beresford bore more resemblance to one of the footmen than to his own father.”
Whether Lionel Beresford was, in fact, a blood relation to him, St. Clare couldn’t be certain, but at face value there didn’t seem to be one drop of Beresford existing in the man. It was no wonder his grandfather exploded at the mere mention of his second cousin’s son. The very things Allendale prided most in the Beresford line were conspicuously missing from Lionel. He had no looks, no bearing, and no trace of the infamous athleticism and daring that had characterized generations of Beresford men before him.
What he had instead was a certain low cunning, quite evident in the flintlike eyes that peered out from under deceitfully lazy lids. By St. Clare’s measure, those eyes had already calculated the relative value of the artwork and the furnishings down to a ha’penny, and were presently making the same not-so-subtle evaluation of St. Clare himself.
“Lord Vickers and Lord Mattingly,” Lionel said with seeming disinterest. He drew out an enameled snuffbox, flicked it open with one hand, and took a pinch of snuff. He promptly sneezed. “Friends of yours are they, my lord?”
“Friends? Indeed, so distinguished,” Mrs. Beresford said. “Have you met them, Lionel? No? But then, we’re not up to town as often as we would like. Shall I ring for tea, Allendale? I will pour, of course, being the most senior Beresford lady present. But then, there are no ladies present, are there? Dear me, so many single gentlemen! But that must be the reason you are come back to England, Lord St. Clare. To find a wife and set up your nursery. Lionel will be marrying soon, will you not, Lionel? Standing ready to do his duty by the title if things should not go quite as you have planned.”
St. Clare fixed the woman with an implacable stare. He was pleased to see her artificial smile dim by several degrees.
“There will be no tea this morning, madam,” Allendale informed her. “You and this young pup of yours have stayed quite long enough.”
The very next moment, Mattingly and Vickers were shown in, and after introductions all around, the earl, very curtly, instructed Jessup to see Lionel Beresford and his mother out.
“Mushrooms,” Mattingly pronounced as he watched them go. “Come up from the country to sniff around your claim to the title, have they?”
“That seems to be the case,” St. Clare said.
Mattingly nodded. “No doubt they’ll attempt to attach themselves to you for the duration of their stay.”
At this, Vickers was properly horrified. “I say, St. Clare, you won’t be obliged to spend much time in that fellow’s company, will you?”
St. Clare grimaced. “Good lord, I hope not.”
“I’ll say this.” Allendale addressed his grandson with a measure of pride. “If they’ve come up to town expecting to rattle you, they know better now. By gad, sir, but you can keep your countenance. Such phlegmatic coldness I’ve never had the privilege to behold. I would have done well to follow your example. I might have done, too, if that woman hadn’t had the effrontery to mention my son to me. And then that whelp of hers, calling himself a Beresford! I was hard pressed not to throttle the pair of them.”
“They’ve taken a house for the season,” St. Clare said. “In Half Moon Street, I believe.”
“They may engage as many houses as they please,” Allendale replied acidly, “but if they think to presume upon my acquaintance—”
“Unless you intend to give them the cut direct, you must acknowledge them some time or other.”
Allendale glowered at this bit of reasonableness. “Off with you. Go call on some of the young ladies you’ve met or take a gel for a drive. After what I’ve seen today, if you don’t soon make some advances toward matrimony, I shall be forced to take a wife and sire the next heir myself.”
Vickers stifled a choke of laughter. “He wouldn’t, would he?” he asked as they made their exit.
St. Clare shook his head. He didn’t elaborate. Unbeknownst to Vickers—or to society at large—a carriage accident during the early years of Lord Allendale’s marriage had robbed him of his ability to sire more children. He’d fathered only the one: James Beresford.
If the line was to survive, it must continue through James’s son. Through St. Clare himself. Indeed, it was the sole source of St. Clare’s value to his grandfather, and one that Allendale took pains that St. Clare should never forget.
As if he ever could.
Dr. Felix Hart was by no means the most fashionable physician in London, but after he spent an hour examining her, Maggie was convinced he must be the most thorough one. He was a young man with a kind face and a slow, thoughtful manner. He didn’t merely listen to her heart and her lungs, he asked a great deal of questions, and unlike the village doctor who had treated Maggie during her illness at Beasley Park, he seemed to be more interested in her answers than in the sound of his own voice.
Looking at him now, sitting across from her in the Trumbles’ library, his hair sticking up at odd angles and his spectacles twinkling in the sunlight that shone in through the tall windows, she felt a guarded sense of hope.
“Cases like yours are all too common, Miss Honeywell,” Dr. Hart said as Jane handed him a cup of tea. “Well-meaning family, and if you’ll forgive me, wrongheaded country physicians, who respond to any near brush with death by wrapping the patient in cotton wool. If I’ve said it once I’ve said it one hundred times, the sooner one resumes their normal day-to-day activities after such an illness, the sooner one is restored to health.”
“But how can I resume my normal life?” Maggie asked. “I’m not bedridden, it’s true, but I’m far from being able to walk all over the countryside, or gallop my horse, or any of the number of things I was used to do before I fell ill. Why, I nearly fainted after a simple stroll in the park last week.”
Having finished presiding over the tea tray, Jane took a seat beside Maggie on the library sofa. “Margaret is light-headed and faint whenever she overexerts herself. It’s my constant fear that she’ll swoon during one of our outings and crack her head open on the paving stones.”
Dr. Hart nodded in sympathy. “You are weak, Miss Honeywell. That I will not dispute. But while there’s certainly a portion of your weakness that can be attributed to the influenza, the majority, I believe, is a result of three years of enforced invalidism.”
Maggie listened as the doctor went on to explain how her already weak lungs had been made weaker still by her lack of activity, and in his opinion, two successive bouts of mourning that had kept her confined to the house with little opportunity for fresh air and sunlight—two items he deemed essential for recovery from any illness.
“I don’t hold with keeping my patients in darkened rooms with fires burning all year round. The outdoors is the place for healing. The countryside, ideally. Fresh air, sunlight, and short bouts of exertion several times each day. A turn about the garden, perhaps, or a walk down the drive. It needn’t be strenuous.”
“Then you believe Margaret can recover?” Jane asked. “That there’s a chance she’ll be well enough to do all that she did before?”
Dr. Hart scratched the side of his nose. “Well…No. Not precisely.” He looked at Maggie. “By your own description, your life preceding the influenza was a very active one. It’s unlikely you will ever be strong enough to resume that level of vigor. But you’re still relatively young. There’s no reason to say you won’t recover enough to ride again or to go for walks. It’s a matter of building your strength by slow degrees. Pushing yourself just enough without going too far, if that makes sense.”
The doctor remained another quarter of an hour, outlining his course of treatment while he finished his tea. He might have stayed longer if the butler hadn’t entered to inform Jane that Lord St. Clare and Lord Mattingly had come to call.
�
�I told them that you were not at home to callers today, Miss Trumble, but…” He gave a discreet cough. “Lord St. Clare was most insistent that I tell Miss Honeywell he was here.”
A smile threatened at the edge of Maggie’s mouth. In the week since St. Clare had first taken her driving, she’d seen or heard from him nearly every day.
One morning he’d contrived to accidentally run into her and Jane at Hookham’s Library. Another morning he’d crossed their path as they were exiting a shop in Bond Street. He’d twice sent her a large bouquet of flowers. And on two separate occasions, he’d come to call on her in Green Street.
Their interaction in town had been limited to a cordial greeting and an equally cordial “I’m obliged to you, my lord” when he’d offered her some assistance. Whether it was reaching a book for her from a high shelf at Hookham’s, or handing her up into the barouche outside the milliner’s in Bond Street, St. Clare never lost an opportunity to do her some little service.
All the same, it was clear to Maggie that what St. Clare really wanted was a moment alone with her. Another chance to talk as they’d done that day in the park. She suspected it was the reason for his calls to Green Street.
Thus far, he’d been consistently thwarted in that regard. His visits to the Trumbles’ townhouse had been brief and heavily chaperoned. Not only had Jane been present, but Jane’s aunt Harriet as well, and on the second occasion, even George.
As a result, St. Clare’s conversation had been restricted to the veriest commonplace. He’d talked civilly with Jane and exchanged a dry witticism or two with George, all while keeping his voice low so as not to disturb a sleeping Aunt Harriet. When he’d addressed Maggie at all it was to remark on such unexceptionable topics as the weather or the quality of the new hunter he’d lately purchased at Tattersall’s.
He was courting her, to be sure, and his conduct in doing so was beyond reproach. But Maggie could see that he was becoming frustrated with the excessive formality.
“You’d better show the pair of them in, Olmstead,” Jane said to the butler.
“But we haven’t yet finished speaking with Dr. Hart,” Maggie objected.
“That’s quite all right, Miss Honeywell,” the doctor said, rising. “I have another appointment I must get to before the hour.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Jane replied with a smile. “I haven’t yet seen Lord St. Clare out of temper. All the same, I’m not foolhardy enough to provoke him.”
“I’d like to speak to him alone, if I might,” Maggie said after the doctor had gone. “If you can contrive it.”
Jane frowned. “I don’t see how I can. Not without risking both of our reputations. Unless… I suppose we could walk in the garden? I could steer Lord Mattingly away, and if you and the viscount lingered a few steps behind, I wouldn’t draw attention to it.”
Maggie pressed a swift kiss to Jane’s cheek. “Bless you.”
Jane wasn’t so easily placated. “Do you truly like him? He’s handsome, I grant you. And rich, if reports are to be believed. But there’s something else…”
“What?”
“Something beneath the surface—something cold and unforgiving. He doesn’t seem to possess any warmth about him. It quite frightens me.”
Maggie recalled St. Clare’s embrace in Hyde Park. The way his arms had closed around her, his sinful mouth capturing her lips in a slow, and thoroughly devastating kiss. “He’s warm enough.”
Jane’s brows shot up. “Upon my word, Margaret. You haven’t been indiscreet with the man, have you?”
Before Maggie could answer, the butler ushered St. Clare and Lord Mattingly into the library. He may as well have ushered in a tiger, for that’s how St. Clare appeared standing in the midst of the wood-paneled walls, thick Aubusson carpeting, and polished bookshelves filled with somber, leather-covered volumes. It was all very proper and civilized. And St. Clare wasn’t civilized. Not entirely.
Jane was right. Something lurked beneath the surface of him. Something cold and predatory. It wasn’t obvious at first glance. Indeed, he looked immaculate as always, clad in biscuit-colored pantaloons and a coat of impeccably cut superfine. Next to him, Lord Mattingly paled into insignificance.
Not to Jane, however. Though she kept her composure and played the dutiful hostess, Maggie could sense her friend’s attraction to the dark-haired gentleman at St. Clare’s side.
“We’ve been shut up inside all morning,” Jane said. “It seems a shame to let this fine weather go to waste. Shall we take a turn about the garden?”
St. Clare’s gray gaze was settled on Maggie. It had been ever since he’d stepped into the room. He looked at her as if no one else existed.
It gave her an odd, fluttery feeling. Nerves, she suspected. Either that or some manner of giddy girlish excitement. This was, after all, a man she’d kissed. A man who had kissed her, more deeply and intimately than she’d ever been kissed before in her life. It was impossible to stand in front of him and not think of it.
Impossible not to want to do it again.
She’d spent years dreaming of Nicholas coming home. Years envisioning what it would be like to reunite with him. To hold him, love him, marry him.
“Do you feel equal to a stroll?” he asked.
Her mouth was dry. Great goodness. Had she been staring at him? “Of course.” She moistened her lips. “The exercise will do me good.”
He studied her face. It seemed as though he wanted to say something more. And no doubt he would when they were alone. Their encounter in Hyde Park hadn’t been her finest moment. She’d come very close to fainting. Again.
Was it any wonder he was disposed to think her an invalid?
She tucked her hand into his arm as they followed Jane and Lord Mattingly out into the Trumbles’ back garden. The sun was shining, a faint breeze ruffling through the branches of the fruit trees, just cold enough to merit the cashmere shawl Maggie wore draped round her shoulders.
St. Clare moderated his stride to match her own. He was solicitous. Gentlemanlike. As attentive to her frailty as Bessie often was.
Maggie stole a glance at his handsome profile, only to look away. Her happiness at seeing him again was shadowed by a nagging sense of self-consciousness.
If only she could be more like her old self for him. The Maggie Honeywell he must remember. A girl with a fiery temper and a wild, reckless heart.
Then, she’d been ready to dare anything. There had been no thought to her own human frailty. No consideration that she might do herself an injury.
Papa had been just the same. A true force of nature. His death, when it had come, had been sure and swift. His heart had given out midgallop during the autumn hunt at Beasley Park. He’d toppled from his horse, dead before he hit the ground. It was precisely how Papa would have wanted to meet his end. Snuffed out in full flame.
Meanwhile, Maggie had been reduced to seeing her own flame weaken and die—a mere cinder left to flicker in the ashes of what had once been her life.
If only Nicholas had come back sooner. If only he could have seen her in the months before the contagion of Jenny Seaton’s illness had wrapped its suffocating fingers around Maggie’s lungs. If only…
“You’re very quiet,” St. Clare said.
She looked up at him, managing a slight smile. “I have a great deal on my mind.”
“Anything you’d like to share?”
Up ahead, Jane and Lord Mattingly disappeared down a path to the right. The Trumbles’ garden wasn’t large, but what it lacked in size it made up for in ornamentation. Wherever one looked there were arbors, trellises, and artfully placed topiary providing hidden spots of intimacy among the trees and flowerbeds.
Maggie came to a halt beside a stone bench. A trellis of roses shielded its back from view, and climbing ivy shrouded the sides. It was a perfect place for a private conversation. “Shall we sit dow
n?”
A look of almost comical relief crossed over St. Clare’s face. “Yes. Please. I’ve been trying to get you alone all week.”
She laughed. “It’s rather more difficult now, isn’t it? We’re not children anymore.” Taking a seat on the bench, she arranged the skirts of her sprigged muslin gown.
It was one of her new dresses, made by Madame Clothilde. The fashionable modiste had been everything Jane had claimed—a small, sharp-eyed Frenchwoman of indeterminate age, who wielded her needle rather like a fairy godmother might wield a magic wand.
Maggie had lost the first bloom of her youth, it was true, and illness had robbed her of her once famous figure, but Madame Clothilde’s designs had managed to bring her back to life with colors that flattered and cuts that clung in just the right places.
St. Clare sank down at her side. Close. Too close. “Miss Honeywell—”
“You can’t keep denying it.”
“I must,” he said. “I’ve already told you. I’m not this childhood friend of yours. Mister whatever his name was.”
“Nicholas Seaton.” She angled to face him, and her knee brushed his. It was the barest touch. Hardly an intimacy—her muslin-covered limb against his linen-covered one—but she felt it all the way to her core. Her heartbeat quickened. “Strange then, that you resemble him to such an extraordinary degree.”
“A resemblance proves nothing. If there is a resemblance. I believe you said that it’s been ten years since you saw your friend?”
“Ten, yes. Not twenty or thirty. It’s hardly any time at all if one thinks of it.”
“Ten years is a lifetime.”
“It doesn’t make one a stranger. I still recognize you. You haven’t changed that much.”
The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Your Mr. Seaton was my copy, it seems. My twin.”
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