by Liz Carlyle
Bored, Esmée began to let her gaze drift round the room. Lord Chesley had bent down to consult with the cellist. Lady Wynwood had returned, and was now speaking with Chesley’s friends. Her son was nowhere to be seen.
Just then, Esmée felt someone’s gaze burning into her. She turned to glance over her right shoulder, and her heart seemed to stop. Sir Alasdair MacLachlan stood in the wide doorway beyond the crowd. His long, lean figure filled the space. He was dressed in solid black, a glass of sherry held loosely in his hand. Almost mockingly, he lifted it, tilted the rim in her direction, then drained the contents.
For an instant, Esmée could not catch her breath. Until this moment, she had not truly believed he would come to Arlington Park. But not only had he come, his brother stood in the shadows behind him. Why had he done so? Did he mean to torment her past all bearing? She wished she had not worn his pearls. They seemed to be burning into her bare flesh now, just as his eyes had done.
Esmée turned back to the ladies’ conversation, her cheeks faintly hot. Good Lord, she was being ridiculous! The three men were best friends. Why wouldn’t Alasdair be here? It was time she grew accustomed to the fact that he was going to be a part of her life if—no, when—she married Lord Wynwood. Impatiently, Esmée shook off the doubt, and looked about the room for something to distract her.
Chesley’s three houseguests were interesting. Esmée forced herself to focus on them. The party consisted of a frail, older gentleman whose black evening coat seemed too large for his body. He had a beaklike nose, the weight of which seemed to tip him slightly forward, stooping his shoulders. Beside him stood a nondescript gentleman of perhaps thirty years, who behaved with great deference to the elderly man.
The third guest was the most interesting of all. She was a beauty—and definitely not English. She was tall; taller than either of the men. Her inky hair was drawn tightly back from a face which was both fine-boned and vibrant. Her eyes were even blacker than her hair.
She stood beside the elderly man, holding a stemmed glass of what appeared to be champagne, and regarding the roomful of guests from beneath a pair of slashing black eyebrows. She wore a dress of dark red silk cut low across her slender shoulders, and a pair of ruby drops the size of Esmée’s thumbnails dangled from her ears. A black cashmere shawl draped from her elbows, as if placed just so by an artist. The only thing about the woman which was not utterly perfect was her nose, which had a tiny knot halfway down the bridge.
Wynwood’s great-aunt leaned near. “Have you met Contessa Bergonzi yet, Miss Hamilton?” asked Lady Charlotte.
Esmée turned to look at her. “Contessa Bergonzi?”
“An opera singer,” the old lady added slyly. “But she married well. She arrived just last week from Venice with her father, Umberto Alessandri.”
“Umberto Alessandri?” Even Esmée had heard of the famous Italian composer. “What on earth are they doing here?”
The old lady’s eyes twinkled. “Wasting Chesley’s money,” she answered. “He wishes to commission an opera.”
“An opera?” Esmée echoed.
The old lady sniffed. “Chesley’s a dilettante,” she responded. “Always dabbling in this and that, and throwing money at these temperamental artist types. Continental types. I daresay you know the sort I mean.”
“I—yes, I daresay,” murmured Esmée.
The old lady rose, looking very frail as she did so. “Come along, girl,” she ordered in a tone that was decidedly not frail. “I shall introduce you.”
Esmée had little choice.
“Chesley!” said the old lady, as they drew up near the orchestra. “Chesley, forget that silly music and come here at once.”
He stepped from the midst of the musicians and came toward them with an indulgent smile. “Aunt Charlotte!” he said, lifting her hands in turn to his lips. “My dear, you don’t look a day over seventy! And who is this young beauty? Pray do not tell me she is my nephew’s intended.”
“Of course she is, you fool,” said his aunt. “Make your curtsey, girl, to your silliest in-law-to-be.”
Esmée did so. “Good evening, my lord.”
“Oh, cruel, cruel world!” said Chesley. “The beautiful ones are always taken.”
Aunt Charlotte cackled, her humped shoulders shaking with mirth. “You’ve never been in the market for a female in your life, Chesley,” she answered. “Now introduce the chit to your musical friends.”
Lord Chesley slid a hand beneath Esmée’s elbow, and steered her in the direction of the striking, dark-haired woman. “My dear, may I introduce my nephew’s intended bride, Miss Hamilton?” he said. “Miss Hamilton, the Contessa Viviana Bergonzi di Vicenza.”
Esmée made a quick curtsey. “It is an honor, ma’am.”
The contessa observed her with bold, dark eyes. “My felicitations on your betrothal, Miss Hamilton,” she said in careful but perfect English. “I wish you many years of happiness in your marriage.”
Esmée felt awed by the woman. “Thank you, my lady.”
The contessa’s dark gaze swept down her again. “You must forgive us for intruding on what was obviously meant to be a family celebration,” she murmured. “Chesley did not perfectly explain the occasion.”
“Oh, don’t rake me over the coals, Vivie,” said the earl. “I can’t keep up. What difference does it make?”
The contessa turned her penetrating gaze on Lord Chesley. “Why, none at all, I’m sure,” she said coolly. “Miss Hamilton seems all that is amiable.”
Just then, they were called to dinner.
“Thank God!” said Aunt Charlotte. “I’m famished. Come along, girl. You can acquaint yourself with the others after dinner. Oh, I do hope Mrs. Prater has made her famous curried crab tonight.”
But Esmée did not have to wait until after dinner. Instead, she found herself seated beside the pale young man who had come with Lord Chesley. The contessa was seated some distance away. Lord Wynwood sat to Esmée’s left, at the head of the table, but he seemed disinterested in polite dinner conversation. Esmée’s aunt sat with Sir Alasdair MacLachlan to one side, and the Contessa Bergonzi directly opposite, and she looked none too pleased about either.
The young man beside Esmée breathlessly introduced himself as Lord Digleby Beresford, younger son of the Marquis of Something-or-Other. Esmée was beginning to lose track of who was who, and her brain was now jettisoning the names of anyone not actually present. Lord Digleby, thank heaven, did not require much of her. He seemed content to rattle on about himself and about his work with the great Signor Alessandri.
“You are a composer, then?” asked Esmée, surprised.
The young man blushed—for about the third time since the soup course was served. “I am indeed, Miss Hamilton,” he said with an air of confession. “Well, primarily a librettist. Nel Pomeriggio is to be my first full opera, and Chesley was bound and determined I should have help with the score.”
“Chesley was determined?”
Again, the blush. “He is my patron, Miss Hamilton,” said Lord Digleby. “All the famous composers have them, you know.”
Esmée rather thought that patrons were for starving artists. If Lord Digleby was the son of a marquis, it seemed unlikely he fell into that category. “Well, I hope you are finding inspiration for your work here in Buckinghamshire,” she murmured. “It certainly is lovely.”
Lord Digleby, it seemed, was indeed inspired. He was happily ensconced, he explained, at Chesley’s country house for the duration of his creative efforts. Signor Alessandri had been coaxed from Venice to advise him, based on Chesley’s kind assurances that Digleby’s was a rare talent.
Secretly, Esmée wondered if having now met the young man, Signor Alessandri and his beautiful daughter weren’t ready to flee rural England on the first boat back to Venice. But perhaps Digleby was really quite good? In the midst of pondering it, Esmée again felt the heat of someone’s stare. She cut a swift glance down the table to see Alasdair staring boldly—and
quite perceptibly—in her direction. Quickly, she looked away, and felt warmth spring to her cheeks.
What an awful coil! The arrogant devil she both loathed and desired would not take his eyes off her, whilst the man she was to wed seemed all but unaware of her existence.
Soon came the worst part of all. Lady Wynwood asked the guests to drink a toast to the happy couple. Esmée sat quietly by as the entire table lifted their glasses, and shouted “To Esmée and Quin!” That happy moment was followed by a round of good-natured jests from the gentlemen, and a series of warm wishes from all the ladies. Esmée sat through it all feeling like the world’s worst fraud, and watching Wynwood smile mechanically down the table at his guests.
But dinner did not last forever, nor did the coffee and impromptu dancing which followed it. This time, however, Wynwood remained at her side until the guests began to straggle from the room, led off by Great-aunt Charlotte. Wynwood surprised Esmée then by taking her hand and leading her from the drawing room and into a quiet alcove near the library.
“You must be tired, my dear,” he said, entwining her hand in his. “You look as though you long to go up to bed.”
“Aye, desperately,” she admitted. “But I shall wait awhile yet. I would not have your mother think me ungrateful.”
Wynwood was silent for a long moment. “Esmée, I—” He stopped abruptly, and shook his head. “I have not been very attentive tonight. It is unforgivable. Yet I ask your forgiveness. I shall try to be a better husband than fiancé.”
Esmée held his gaze, and carefully considered her next words. “My lord, rest assured that if you are having second thoughts—”
He cut her off sharply. “Absolutely not,” he said. He tried to smile with some success, but his eyes were wan.
“You look tired, too, my lord,” she said. “Did you not sleep well last night?”
The smile deepened into something more sardonic. “Not especially, no,” he said. “Look, there are Mamma and Lady Tatton at the foot of the stairs. Everyone is going up, it seems. You should go, too. Sleep well, my dear.”
Mechanically, Esmée turned her cheek for his kiss, then stepped out into the corridor and followed the remaining guests up to bed. But she wondered even as she did so if Lord Wynwood was secretly glad to be rid of her for the evening.
At the top of the stairs, she bade her aunt good night.
“Shall I send Pickens to you, my dear?” asked Lady Tatton. “You look all in.”
Esmée shook her head. “I will manage,” she said. “Good night, ma’am. And thank you.”
She retired to her room, and began to undress. It had not been a pleasant evening. She released the clasp at the nape of her neck and let Alasdair’s pearls slither into her hand. They puddled in her palm, warm as the tears she had shed for him. As heavy the heart in her breast.
But her heart was safely hidden, and her tears she had always shed in private. She let the pearls pour through her fingers and onto the dressing table. She could not bear to see the green velvet box again. Pickens could put them away tomorrow.
Slowly, methodically, she stripped away the rest of her clothes and tossed them onto the divan. She could not escape the feeling that tonight had been a disaster for Wynwood, too. She had made a mistake, she feared, in accepting him. What he had said was quite true. He had not been attentive—and the worst part of it was, she had not cared. It would have made no difference. She could not have told from one moment to the next when he was in the room or out of it—though she could have said to the very inch just where Sir Alasdair MacLachlan had stood at every instant.
No, she did not yearn for Wynwood’s companionship. Her stomach did not turn flip-flops at the merest sight of him. And it never would. Well. She had wanted a marriage of the head, not the heart. Perhaps yearning and flip-flopping were too much to hope for.
Esmée took down her hair, then crawled into bed with a novel she had brought from London, but tonight, it seemed banal. She read the third chapter for the second time and finally comprehended that it was not holding her interest. Her mind kept returning to Alasdair. To the sardonic look on his face. The way he had lifted his glass as if wishing her well, even as his eyes had mocked her.
She closed her book with an angry snap. He was not indifferent to her. She sensed—no, she knew—he was not. But he was also “not the marrying kind.” He had used that as an excuse when he’d sent her away—and she believed him. He was six-and-thirty, and if rumor could be trusted, had never so much as considered marriage. So what did he want? Lord, what did she want? To be the next Mrs. Crosby?
Esmée hurled the book across the room with unrestrained violence. It flew open, smacked against the opposite wall, and slithered into the floor. She realized with a start that it had felt good to do something violent. Perhaps it was time she began giving in to her impulses more often. She wished she could toss Alasdair out of her head so easily.
She looked again at the ormolu clock by the bed. She knew she would not sleep another wink in her present state of agitation. Silently, she slid from the bed and drew on her wrapper. Surely there was something worth reading in that vast library of Wynwood’s? Preferably one of those fat mythological tomes about Amazons who pitched uncooperative men into vats of boiling oil. Or was she mixing up her mythology and her history? No matter. She liked the notion of boiling oil.
Carrying an extra candlestick, Esmée made her way back down the grand staircase, which was lit by the occasional sconce. She turned into the corridor which led past the withdrawing room, the morning parlor, and on to the library, carefully counting off the doors. Yes, this one.
She pushed the door open on silent hinges, and was surprised to find that a fire still burned in the grate. Intending to light her candle, she started toward it. Too late, she realized that the room was occupied.
“Looking for Wynwood, m’dear?” asked a dry, laconic voice from the hearth.
Alasdair sat in a large high-backed chair, his feet propped up on a table, and a glass of something golden dangling from his fingertips. Esmée looked down at him pointedly. “No, astounding as it may seem, I was looking for a book.”
Alasdair unfolded himself from the chair and stood. “Then by all means, choose one,” he said, waving his hand about the room. “I believe there are some eight thousand volumes here.”
Esmée peered about at the shadows. “Are you alone?”
Alasdair came toward her with a bitter smile. “Merrick and Quin found my company disagreeable,” he said. “They wished me to the devil and went up to bed.”
Esmée refused to budge. “Well, you have been disagreeable,” she said. “You’ve looked daggers at everyone all evening. I don’t know why you came if all you mean to do is quarrel.”
Alasdair rocked back on his heels and studied her. “Are we quarreling, Esmée?”
She cut him a quick, sidelong glance. “What would we have to quarrel over?”
“Ah, what a question that is,” he said, setting his glass aside. “Sorcha? The weather? Your choice of husbands?”
Esmée held his gaze quite steadily. “Have you some sort of quarrel with my choice?”
For a moment, his expression shifted. There was something…something different in his eyes tonight. Sorrow? Regret? He was not drunk, she thought. Indeed, she had the strangest impression he’d been nursing the same glass of brandy since dinner.
She gentled her own expression and approached him, setting a hand on his arm. “Alasdair, perhaps I have made a mistake,” she said quietly. “I do not know. I know only that it is something Quin and I must work out for ourselves. But I won’t hurt him, Alasdair. And I shan’t disappoint my aunt, either.”
“So you mean to go through with this foolishness?”
She lifted one shoulder. “Perhaps it has gone too far to stop,” she answered. “And frankly, no one has given me reason to do so.”
The emotion in his eyes darkened. “Tell me something, Esmée,” he rasped. “Does Quin know about us?”
“Us?” Her voice was arch. “There is no us, Alasdair. You could not have made that more plain.”
“Damn it, you know what I meant,” he said. “Does he know we were lovers?”
Esmée felt the blood drain from her face. “You—why, you said there was nothing between us!” she choked. “You told me I was a virgin and free to marry where I pleased.”
His jaw tightened. “Not to marry someone like Quin!” he returned, seizing her by the shoulders. “Esmée, he is little better than I! Besides, you do not love him.”
“Love!” she said disdainfully, jerking her gaze from his. “I begin to think you know nothing of the word, Alasdair.”
His hand, cold as ice, cupped her chin, forcing her face to his. “Look me in the eyes Esmée,” he growled. “Look me in the eyes, and tell me that you love him, and I swear I’ll never touch you again.”
“I don’t want to love him!” she cried. “Oh, Alasdair, can’t you see? All I can hope for now is to marry with my head, not my heart! I don’t want to be a fool like my mother, falling imprudently in love and wedding one pretty scoundrel after the next.”
His eyes searched her face. “But Esmée, that’s just what you are doing,” he whispered. “That’s just what Quin is.”
She looked at him boldly, her words angry and impetuous. “Do you desire me, Alasdair?” she demanded. “Is that what this is about? If it is, why not just have me? What would it matter? Lord Wynwood made it plain he did not require a virgin in his bed.”
His fingers slid round her cheek, then into her hair. “I ought to, by God,” he growled. “I ought to drag you down onto the floor this very minute, Esmée, and have my way with you. If you mean to throw yourself away on a worthless scoundrel, it might as well be me.”
If it was meant as a threat, it didn’t work. Instead, his words sent a shiver of raw lust down her spine. And like a fool, she couldn’t keep her temper and her frustration from flaring. “Go on,” she challenged. “Do it. I dare you.”