“You, as well, darling,” she replied with a teasing grin. She continued to stand at the curb and watched as the town coach merged into traffic. Adam had opened the window and was watching her, his hat held in one hand.
This has been the best afternoon of my entire life, Diana thought as she watched the coach depart. The viscount continued his farewell by waving his beaver through the open window. If he’s not careful, he’s going to lose that expensive hat, she thought as another coach passed between them.
And then he was gone.
Rather shocked at the sense of disappointment she felt at seeing the last of Adam Comber, Diana chided herself. She was sure she would never see the man again, and she had reminded herself of that very thought on several occasions during their time together. But the afternoon had been enjoyable. His company had been unexpected. Once she finally accepted he wasn’t going to take his leave of her in Jermyn Street, she had begun to relax and take pleasure in his easy manner and friendliness—when she wasn’t concerned about propriety.
He had been so attentive as he squired her about—interested in everything she had to say—and he behaved as if they had known each other their entire lives.
Even to the very last moment as he gave her the packages from the shops in Jermyn Street, he had reiterated how much he was looking forward to their life together as man and wife. And then he had given her another kiss on her cheek—“Since your hand is unavailable at the moment”—and bowed from inside the Floris coach.
After another moment on the curb, her packages held against the front of her body and dangling from her wrists, Diana wondered at the profound sense of loss that had her nearly in tears. Why would she feel such disappointment when she had told herself all day nothing would ever come from the viscount’s attentions? He was a bounder. He had probably already forgotten her.
Not that he ever knew her name.
They hadn’t been properly introduced!
Diana sighed and finally made her way to the front door of Alpha House. Relieved when the housemaid opened it so she wouldn’t have to, she still had to juggle the packages and bags through the opening.
“Oh, my lady, it looks as if you’ve spent a bit o’ coin today,” Mae commented with an arched brow as she moved aside.
Giving the maid a nod of agreement, Diana stepped into the small vestibule and paused, suddenly wondering why she held so many packages. She had only bought a pair of slippers, a comb, and a toothbrush! “Indeed,” she agreed, hurrying off to her rooms with the sudden thought that the viscount had accidentally given her all of his purchases!
Once she had divested herself of the colorful boxes and bags—the pile on the bed made for an impressive display of Jermyn Street’s finest shop names—she stripped the gloves from her fingers. She pulled out the two packages she knew were hers, unwrapping the comb and toothbrush from their tissue wrap and sliding the box of shoes beneath the edge of the bed.
Three boxes were left. Peeking into one, she quickly closed it, quite sure it was filled with fine lawn and lace. The night rail. The rather ornate night rail that had been on display in the modiste’s shop, with several layers of lace around the neckline and bottom flounce.
But why would she have the box? Unless...
She shook her head. Certainly the viscount wouldn’t have purchased the garment for her. How improper! Which meant he had probably purchased it for someone else.
Which was just as improper!
Frowning, she opened the next box and found a hairbrush nestled in a cloud of tissue paper. She pulled her hand away as if she’d been burned, and then glanced at the comb she had set on her vanity. The two items were made from the same wood, their grains and coloring matched perfectly.
The viscount had bought the matching hairbrush!
She gingerly opened the last paper bag with the ribbon handle, knowing before she even pulled out the bottle what it was.
Perfume.
“Limes,” she whispered as she read the label. “Oh, dear.” Viscount Breckinridge, what have you done?
Chapter 16
A Missive is Delivered
Later, at Elise’s townhouse
When Merry appeared in her mistress’ bedchamber at half-past eight o’clock, her ladyship was pretending to read a book. Merry frowned as she attempted to make out the title from where she stood with a cup of tea.
“It’s The Story of a Baron,” Elise announced from where she sat next to the fireplace. “I figured it was past time I read the book that everyone else in the ton seemed to find so interesting,” she commented. Elise didn’t add that she had owned the book for some time but never had the wherewithal to actually read it, a bit concerned she might find herself depicted as one of the characters. So far, she had only determined that three of the leading characters were really Lord and Lady Sommers (although Lady Sommers was really nothing like the character of Geraldine Porterhouse portrayed in the book) and Lord Everly (whose fictional portrayal as Lord Afterly was really quite spot on). If she hadn’t heard the gossip in Lady Torrington’s parlor, she might not have made the connection, though. Having been away from London for so much of the past eighteen years meant she was unfamiliar with the current crop of debutantes and young bucks.
Merry took note of the woman’s tear-stained cheeks and gave an exaggerated sigh. “Was he really a brute?” she asked as she set the teacup on the nightstand. After all the years with Viscount Lancaster, Merry hoped her ladyship’s next association would be with someone who was a bit more loving. A bit more loyal. And far more monogamous. Otherwise, why would she bother? Far better she be an independent woman.
Elise blinked. “A brute?” she repeated, thinking there was no such character in the book. Perhaps the beast hadn’t yet been introduced.
“The man who proposed to you,” Merry clarified. When Elise frowned and shook her head, the maid allowed a sigh. “Did he say something stupid?” she queried.
Elise blinked. How was it that maids knew men were generally stupid? The butler who was in charge of the household and staff seemed to be a rather intelligent man. The single footman even seemed to possess a modicum of brains.
So from where had Merry developed her poor opinion of men?
“I am married,” Merry reminded her, as if she could read Elise’s mind.
Her ladyship blinked again, rather startled to be reminded that, yes, Merry had indeed married. At least a year ago. “A groom in Lord Mayfield’s stables, no?” she remembered suddenly. “At Harrington House?”
It was Merry’s turn to blink, rather surprised her mistress remembered such a detail. “Indeed. He might know everything there is to know about horseflesh, but he knows little else,” she commented with an arched eyebrow.
“Is he a good lover?” Elise wondered aloud, almost regretting having put voice to the query.
Merry seemed to give the question some consideration before allowing a nod. “Once I set him straight on proper positioning, I suppose,” she answered, her voice hinting at humor. “Seems he thought the only way to take a woman was from behind, so I had to clear up his misunderstanding on that matter.”
Slumping back into her chair, Elise rather wished she’d had the temerity to set her late husband straight on the matter. She couldn’t help but wonder how Godfrey preferred making love. She couldn’t imagine him treating a woman like a horse, mounting her from behind and rutting as if she were some kind of animal. But she really had no idea of his skills or lack thereof. Truth be told, she couldn’t recall hearing much on-dit about the man. Any, really.
A knock at door had both of them giving a start. Merry hurried to the door, opening it just a bit. A white envelope was slid through the opening, along with a royal blue umbrella, and she took the items. Despite not knowing how to read, she gave the writing on the envelope a glance before hurrying to give it to Elise. “A missive for you, milady,” she said. “And your umbrella,” she said sotto voce, an arched eyebrow suggesting she thought her ladyship had left it
behind intentionally.
Elise frowned at the insinuation and took the bright white note from her maid. Studying the inked lettering by the light of the candle lamp on the vanity, she didn’t recognize the script, nor did she notice the faint evidence of wrinkling in the parchment. “Did the post just now get delivered?” she asked, her brows furrowing.
Merry shook her head. “This late at night? A courier would have delivered these, milady,” she countered as she moved to put the umbrella in the dressing room. “Or a footman, perhaps. The posts were delivered earlier this afternoon.”
With a bit of trepidation, Elise popped the unembossed wax seal from where the corners had been joined. Slowly unfolding the missive, she frowned as she began to read, struggling to ignore the crossed out words (rather difficult considering they were quite evident) and concentrate instead on the words she could make out.
My dearest Elise,
Elise inhaled sharply. There was only one man on the entire planet who would address her in such a manner.
Godfrey Thorncastle.
I wish to apologize for my mistaken assumptions as to how you have been living your life these past eighteen years. I admit to having assumed a woman of your poise and beauty would be a draw for any man, as you certainly have always been for me. I admit to having believed everything I have read in print, thinking it was the truth, for otherwise, why would it be printed?
Thanks to your tutelage, I know better now. I have not been employing the traits of a critical thinker. I apologize and ask, nay, beg your forgiveness. It’s too bad I didn’t employ critical thinking eighteen years ago. Had I done so, I could have avoided so much heartache and disappointment on both of our behalves.
You see, I have always believed we would one day be married.
I love you.
I love you.
I want you to be my wife. I want to live the rest of my life with you. I want you to be the mother of my heir (should we be so blessed) and daughter (who will be beautiful despite my share of her).
Please forgive my mistaken assumptions. I thought the worst only because my fellow aristocrats can be such rakes when it comes to beautiful women like you. Even if you had engaged in an affaire, please know this. It would not have made a difference to me. I love you, Elise. I shall always love you. Please marry me. I love you and only you, Elise.
Yours forever, Godfrey.
Elise dropped the parchment onto her lap. Aware that Merry had been watching her the entire time she had been reading and rereading the letter, she gave the maid a quelling glance. She turned her attention to the dying flames in the fireplace, wishing they would provide her with a sign of what she should do.
The man’s plea was obviously heartfelt. But how could he have thought her to be a... a wanton? Quick to bed any man who showed interest when she was married to Lancaster? As if any usurper to his property would be tolerated? Why, if she had been discovered having bedded any other man during their marriage, she was quite sure Lancaster would have challenged said man to a duel in Wimbledon Common. And he would have won. The man was a crack shot and made sure everyone knew it.
“Is it from your true love?” Merry asked with too much enthusiasm.
Allowing a sigh, Elise shook her head. “It’s from Lord Thorncastle,” she stated. “A declaration of love and stupidity, I suppose,” she added when she noticed her maid’s look of confusion. “He was the one who proposed in the missive I received yesterday morning.”
Her eyes widening, the maid regarded her mistress for several moments before finally allowing a nod. “Two letters of love in two days? Why, he must truly feel affection for you, my lady,” she sighed happily.
The maid obviously believed in true love despite having married a man who lacked horse sense. Or perhaps had too much of it.
Elise allowed a sigh of frustration. “I suppose,” she agreed with not a lot of enthusiasm. The idea of returning to the viscount’s townhouse on the morrow didn’t appeal to her in the least, but neither did the thought of penning a reply.
What would she write? I was about to accept your offer of marriage before you made a cake of it. Before you put voice to words that only emphasized how thoroughly and completely stupid men of your ilk can be.
What made him think the worst of her in the first place? Possessing poise and beauty didn’t mean she was an idiot! She was a widow, though, and she supposed the actions of a few had the man thinking she would welcome a lover into her bed.
There was a time—a very brief time, shortly after Lancaster’s death—when she would have been amenable to the idea of taking a lover.
Loneliness did that to a woman.
Made a person consider situations in a different light. Made for some poor choices in bedmates. Made the nights feel longer and darker than they should have, even if they had been just as long and dark before a husband’s death.
At least Godfrey had apologized. Rather profusely. His note was quite clear in that regard.
Elise sighed. She supposed she owed him another opportunity to state his case. Another opportunity to properly propose. It didn’t mean she had to accept his suit, though. Didn’t mean she had to give him an answer anytime soon, either.
There were conditions that had to be met.
Glancing at the clock on the mantle, she set aside the book and suddenly stood up. “Have Draper arrange for the town coach. I’m going for a ride,” she stated.
Merry blinked before her eyes rounded. About to put voice to a protest—it was nearly nine o’clock—she took note of Elise’s fierce expression and thought better of it. “Yes, milady.” She hurried to the door and disappeared down the hall.
Elise regarded her reflection in the cheval mirror, rather relieved to find her face didn’t appear as strained as it had when she first returned from Lord Thorncastle’s townhouse. She leaned closer, examining the tiny lines at the edges of her eyes, and the corners of her mouth. The blue irises darkened at the thought of what she was about to do—pay a nocturnal visit to Godfrey Thorncastle.
You naughty girl, you, she thought.
As for the dinner gown she wore, she thought it rather appropriate for the occasion. Either the viscount would be caught tongue-tied and unable to put voice to more ridiculous assumptions, or he would not.
She rather hoped he had learned his lesson.
Chapter 17
A Son Confers with a Mother
Meanwhile, at Aimsley House
Adam Comber regarded the front entrance of Aimsley House with a wary eye. He would one day inherit the mansion in Park Lane, although given his father’s good health, he didn’t expect to for many years. The cream stucco appeared in good condition, the white around the windows a pleasant contrast. The black wrought iron fencing just at the edge of the pavement could use a good cleaning, but he expected his mother might have already put it on her list of things to which the butler needed to do.
Patience Comber always seemed to have lists, but then, he supposed organized women did. He rather imagined his betrothed would do the same. He rather hoped she would.
The front door opened before he could use the brass knocker. Hummel stepped aside as he said his welcome, and Adam gave the butler his hat. “Is the countess in residence?” he asked.
Hummel nodded. “She is in her salon.”
Adam gave a nod and hurried to the end of the central hall, ducking his head around the last door’s jamb. “Have you a few minutes for an errant son?” he queried.
Patience looked up from her escritoire and gave him a broad grin before standing up. “That all depends. What have you gone and done now?” she asked in feigned dismay as Adam leaned down and bussed her on the cheek.
“Found my future wife,” he replied as he led her to one of the floral upholstered chairs.
The countess didn’t sit down, though. Instead, she whirled to face him, a look of shock on her face. “You’re serious,” she whispered.
Adam nodded. “I am.” Despite trying to keep an impas
sive expression, he was soon smiling.
Blinking, Patience finally took a seat—practically falling into it—and watched as Adam took the adjacent chair. “Well. It’s past time I suppose,” she said with a feeble smile. She suddenly frowned, though. “Did you get a child on her? Is that why—?”
“No, Mum. That’s not it at all,” Adam replied with a shake of his head. And a rather shocked look. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised she would think the worst of him, though. He hadn’t exactly been a model son through the years, but at least his best friend, Felix Turnbridge, had seen to getting him out of trouble when necessary. “I met her outside of White’s, and I just spent the most pleasant day of my life in her company.” He described how they had shopped and enjoyed ices at Gunter’s, noting how at ease he was in her company.
Patience watched as her son described the young lady, rather fascinated by how his face seemed to light up as he did so. “Do I know her?” she asked after a time. In his entire recitation of his afternoon with the woman, he never mentioned her name.
“Perhaps. She’s a teacher at Warwick’s. Dancing and arithmetic,” he added proudly. He knew the topic of Warwick’s wasn’t her favorite—his sister, Emelia, had experienced a rather unfortunate incident with the former dancing instructor—but he felt a bit of relief in how his mother didn’t allow a grimace or any other outward sign of disapproval during his description. Either she was fine with his news or she would make an excellent card player. Adam wasn’t quite sure as he soldiered on. “She’s agreed to keep our household books,” he stated, as if that may have been one of the primary reasons for considering her as a wife. “Anyway, after Parliament ends tomorrow, I plan to pay a visit to Doctors’ Commons. Apply for a special license so we can skip the banns and all.”
Patience regarded her son with a wan smile, tears nearly coming to her eyes. “I was beginning to wonder if this day would ever come,” she said with a sigh.
The Secrets of a Viscount Page 11