Talk of the Ton

by Rebecca Hagan Lee

  “That’s right,” Emily said, nodding. “He’s a particular interest in me,” she said, and watched Tabitha’s eyes widen with surprise. And all right, then, a bit of shock, too.

  Chapter Seven

  A few days after the May Day Ball, Kate and her father returned from their weekly calls to the elderly in a bit of a deluge; it was as if the heavens had opened up and poured out a sea of water on London. They were met in the foyer by William, a servant in the vicar’s employ.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Mrs. Becket, but ye’ve callers,” he said, taking her reticule from her.

  “Callers? In this storm?” Papa asked, and exchanged a curious look with Kate. Together, they walked to the door of the small parlor of the vicar’s guest house and peeked inside.

  There were four men inside, all right, and they surged to their feet almost as one the moment they saw Kate. Papa strode into the room; behind him, Kate hastily removed her bonnet and tried to smoothe her hair before following him.

  “Mrs. Becket,” they muttered in unison. “Mr. Crowley.”

  “Rather a nasty day to be about making calls, sirs,” Papa remarked dryly.

  “Ah, but what better opportunity to call on the fair Mrs. Becket,” Lord Connery said and quickly stepped forward from the pack of men and extended his hand to Papa. “She knows me well.”

  “Does she indeed?” Papa drawled, squinting up at Connery. “And here I believed her to have only a passing acquaintance with you, my lord.”

  Lord Connery was not the least bit intimidated by Papa’s challenge; he grinned and bobbed his head at Kate as a rotund gentleman elbowed his way in front of him.

  “I daresay I’ve not had the pleasure of making Mrs. Becket’s formal acquaintance,” the rotund man said, bobbing at Papa before turning to Kate. “Madam, if you will allow me. Lord Moreland at your service,” he said, and bowed low.

  “Mr. Anglesey at your service, too!” another gentleman all but shouted from the back.

  “And lest I be overlooked, madam, Baron Hardwick.” You may recall that we met at church services approximately two months past.”

  “I, ah . . . I am certain I will recall it in a moment,” Kate said, feeling a bit flustered by all the attention. And confusion as to why the sudden attention.

  Papa was confused, too, judging by his suspicious expression as he eyed them carefully. “Seems rather odd, the four of you calling on my daughter all at once and in a bad rain.”

  “I am certain I mentioned I’d be calling the last time I had the pleasure of Mrs. Becket’s company, sir,” Connery said with that despicable smile of his.

  “You did not have my company, my lord,” Kate reminded him.

  That earned her an oily smile and a shrug from him.

  “Nevertheless, no one has asked my daughter if she is disposed to receiving so many gentleman callers today,” Papa said sternly and looked pointedly at Kate.

  Hardly—she was wearing a drab gown, her hair was mussed from her hard walk across Mayfair in a downpour, and her feet, while shod in her best walking boots, were killing her. Not to mention her general confusion as to why this spate of callers were at her door to begin with. She’d rather thought that a gentleman called as the result of some mutual understanding betwixt himself and the lady. She had no such understanding with any of these gentlemen. Or the three who’d called earlier this week.

  Nevertheless, the four gentlemen looked at her expectantly as they jostled about a bit to stand before her. Kate self-consciously put a hand to her hair and said, “I beg your pardon, good sirs, but I am not, at present, quite prepared to receive callers. I’ve had a rather arduous morning and really must tend to my father’s, ah . . . business this afternoon.”

  The four men looked at one another. Lord Moreland was the first to waddle forth; he paused before Kate and snatched up her bare hand, pressed his thick lips to it before looking up and pinning her with a very strange look. “I shall call again if I have your leave, madam,” he said low. “I think you will find me a most pleasant companion.”

  “Oh! Ah . . . I’m, ah, certain that you are, my lord,” she said, having no earthly idea what to make of it.

  Mr. Anglesey and Baron Hardwick both sought to take their leave next, and Kate had to suggest that perhaps Mr. Anglesey go first, as he was closest to her. Both men exited quickly, eyeing Papa nervously as they vowed to call again at a more convenient time.

  Lord Connery, naturally, was the last to leave, and he sauntered toward her, his head lowered, his gaze prurient. “Lovely Mrs. Becket,” he purred over her hand. “How long shall you keep me waiting for the pleasure of your company?” He bent over her hand and pressed his lips to it. She felt the tip of his tongue flick against her skin and quickly jerked her hand back.

  “I thought I had been perfectly clear on that, my lord,” she said, smiling sweetly. “You shouldn’t wait at all, as I do not intend to grace you with my company.”

  He was completely unrattled by her, and simply smiled in a way that made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. “Very well then. I shall wait,” he said, and with a wink, nodded his good day to her father and continued his affected saunter out of the parlor.

  Kate and her father walked to the front of the parlor room and looked out the window at the departing gentlemen as they walked quickly across the lawn, their umbrellas bobbing above them.

  “Like rabbits, the lot of them,” Papa said, scowling. “Hopping eagerly about when the widow comes out of her weeds. There’s not an honorable one among them, I’d wager,” he opined and turned from the window.

  “I can’t understand it, Papa. I’ve scarcely spoken to any of them, other than to greet them at church.”

  Her father laughed. “You are not aware of your charm, Kate. But I think that just as well, for there is nothing more appalling than a woman convinced of her own appeal. In the future, mind you have a care about the bachelor gentlemen of our church.”

  Kate laughingly agreed and glanced over her shoulder at her father. “You should rest, Papa.”

  “I am rather tired,” he said, nodding. “Have William wake me before supper, will you?” he asked, and with a yawn, walked out of the parlor.

  Kate thought to rest, too—the trek through the rain had been grueling. Perhaps she would lie down for a few moments in here, in the dark of the parlor. She turned round, went to the window again to draw the drapes closed, but she noticed someone standing at the gate. She stepped closer to the window and peered out.

  It was Montgomery, leaning up against the wrought-iron fence, one leg casually crossed over the other, holding an umbrella over her his head as he absently twirled a timepiece around his finger, then out again, then in. He nodded in something of a silent greeting.

  A smile, golden and warm, slipped across Kate’s lips. With a furtive glance over her shoulder to assure herself her father had gone, she looked out the window again and could not help the small laugh that escaped her; Montgomery had moved forward and was standing now, his legs braced apart, one hand shoved deep in his pocket, staring up at the parlor window.

  There was something about that man that drew her like a magnet, and Kate pressed her hand against the glass pane. From where she stood, she could see that he grinned. She abruptly whirled about, walked to the door of the parlor, gathering her bonnet from the chair where she’d dropped it as she went into the entry hall. Picking up the umbrella William had put next to the door, she slipped out.

  He was standing beneath the overhang of the small front porch. “Good afternoon, Kate,” he said, quietly smiling.

  The tenor of his voice reverberated in her chest, almost stealing her breath. “My lord,” she said, returning his smile. “What an unusual way you have of calling.”

  “I would have presented myself, but it seemed rather crowded within.” He closed his umbrella. “I thought it best to wait under the old oak,” he said, nodding to a tree at the corner of the guest house, which could not be seen by the departing gentlemen, les
t they turned fully around.

  Kate laughed. “And did you not think, sir, when you saw the other gentlemen depart promptly, that perhaps it best if you joined them?”

  “What? And leave you quite alone?” he asked playfully, tapping the tip of his umbrella against hers. “It was quite clear to me that you were sending them forth so that you might honor me with the particular pleasure of your company.”

  Another warm smile soaked through her. “My, my, your flattery grows more eloquent with each passing day!”

  “That is because I cannot possibly adore you enough,” he said with a smiling bow. “Casual words are increasingly insufficient to describe my esteem for you, so I must improve my thoughts and speech to capture your lovely essence.”

  “That’s really very lovely,” Kate said with a coltish tap of her umbrella against his boot. “But I confess to being quite in the dark as to the true motives behind such eloquence, my lord.”

  “My lord, my lord . . .” He sighed wearily. “When will you take leave to call me by my given name, Kate? I shall remind you once again that it is Darien, the name of my grandfather, and his father before him. As to my motive, I think you have deduced it quite accurately—it is simply to hear my name on your breath as I make you succumb to pleasure.” He gave her an easy, roguishly charming smile.

  A blush spread rapidly across her cheeks. It was strange, she thought, how this sensual banter between them never failed to both appall and appeal to her. Certainly Richard had never spoken to her in this way. She was glad of it. Richard had not been as . . . exciting . . . or dangerous . . . as Lord Montgomery.

  Kate leaned forward onto her umbrella so that she was only inches from him, and tilted her face up to his. “You shall hear that name on my breath, Darien, when I accuse you once again of being a roué.”

  “Ah,” he breathed, and clapped a hand over his heart, closed his eyes, and laid back his head. “ ’Tis as sweet as I’ve imagined.” With a chuckle, he lifted his head and held out his hand to her, smiling broadly. “Yet there is so much more I’ve dared to imagine. Come with me now, Kate.”

  “Come with you?” She laughed. “Are you mad, sir?”

  “Yes, quite. Mad with thoughts of you, constant and unabashed thoughts of you and your shimmering green eyes and creamy skin and golden-red hair. Come with me, Kate—I’m so bloody mad that I’ve arranged a picnic, in your honor, just for you.”

  “A picnic? Today?” she cried, and laughed again. “Have you not noticed, my lord, that the skies are pouring rain?”

  “I hardly notice the earth or the sun or the moon in your presence, Kate. You overshadow them all.”

  That prompted a hearty laugh from her that had him smiling. “I could never fault you for being less than poetic in your persistence, but you know very well that I cannot possibly attend a picnic with you!”

  “Why not?” he demanded, leaning forward on his umbrella, so that she could not miss the shimmer in his eyes, nose to nose as they were.

  “I’ve explained, have I not?” Kate demanded, poking him in the chest with her finger. “Very well, then, I shall endeavor to explain it all again. It would be unseemly of me to go off with you, a confirmed bachelor, without escort. Can you not imagine what the parishioners might think?”

  “I have not a care for what they might think,” he insisted sternly. “I have often been the subject of wretched speculation. Just this week, I have heard tell that I intend to offer very soon for a debutante, can you imagine? Yet I give it not a thought, for I know what is in my heart, Kate. There is no debutante, there is you, only you, and has been you since almost the moment I laid eyes on you, there in the church, beneath the organ pipes, looking quite angelic.”

  Kate knew better than to allow flattery to seduce her, but how could she help the butterflies that winged in her belly when he spoke to her so earnestly, his dark brown eyes glowing deeply? “You may not have a care, sir, but I do. And what of my father? Have you a care for what he believes?”

  “Where is he, then?” Montgomery demanded. “I shall at once beg his leave that you may accompany me to a picnic!”

  With a laugh for his bravado, Kate playfully pushed him back. “He’s resting! And I shan’t wake him for your amusement.”

  “Ah, there, you see?” he asked, grabbing her hand and holding it tightly in his, bringing her knuckles to his warm lips. “It is our good fortune to be blessed with such a dreary spring day, while your father rests and the parishioners sit about their drawing rooms, moping,” he said with a wink. “Fate is smiling on you, Kate. Don’t be so foolish as to turn your back on it.”

  “And now you would have me believe it is fate?”

  He pressed her hand against his chest, covering it with his big hand, and the smile faded from his face. “I certainly do. I say this not to amuse you but to convey nothing but the utmost respect and adoration that I have come to hold for you. I only want to be with you, Kate. Rather, I must be with you, or I will truly go mad. Say yes, say you will spare this poor man’s heart. Come with me.”

  There was something in his voice that rang true; she forced herself to drag her gaze from him and look about. Fortunately, as the guest house was stuck in the corner of the vicar’s Mayfair estate, no one could see them, save her father and their man William, were he of a mind to look out the window.

  “You mustn’t fret about prying eyes. I’ve taken care of everything.”

  “What do you mean? And how can you possibly intend to picnic in this rain?”

  A grin, boyish and pleasing, turned the corners of his mouth. “You must come with me to have your answer. I promise a picnic for you, a perfect setting and fit for a princess, if I do say so myself,” he said, bowing slightly. “Come with me, Kate,” he urged, stepping backward now and tugging her along.

  Come with me, Kate. Her heart was beating rapidly, the blood flowing hot through her body. She could not deny the desire she had to be with him, either. The kisses they’d shared had awakened the dead and shriveled-up woman inside her. She felt as if she’d literally come alive these last few weeks, and at the moment, she was feeling her body and her heart push her toward him.

  “No one shall ever know; I give you my word,” he vowed.

  As much as she wanted to go, as much as she longed to go, she knew what sort of man he was, and she knew very well what a man like him would want with a widow. Hadn’t her father just said as much? And as much as she might want the same, she could not risk her honor. “I scarcely trust a man with your considerable reputation, sir.”

  “Aha. Then you have heard me labeled a scoundrel, have you? I will freely confess to being a scoundrel and more, if it pleases you,” he said, with a fetching grin. “It’s all quite true; I will not lie. But that was all before you, Kate. You have my word that I will honor you, as you have my word your honor will be protected always with me.”

  When she did not immediately respond, he tugged her closer. “You know I adore you. You know I want you. And if that desire is unrequited, I scarcely care—I will honor your wishes if you will just be with me for the afternoon.” And then he smiled in that devilishly charming way he had, tugging lightly at her hand, and Kate felt herself light up inside like one thousand beeswax candles.

  “You must fear for your eternity, my lord,” she said, taking a tentative step toward him. “For you will surely suffer the consequences of spiriting a widow away from her father’s home.”

  “Madam, I am more than prepared to suffer the fiery pits of hell for it,” he said cheerfully and popped open his umbrella as he carelessly pulled her into the rain.

  Chapter Eight

  They ran across the manicured lawn beneath their umbrellas, Kate’s bonnet dangling from her hand, through the mews that ran along the side of the vicar’s house and out to the main street.

  At the gate, Montgomery stopped and stood on tiptoe to peer out through the ornate wood carvings that adorned the top of the fence. “Perfect,” he said low. “There’s no one about
in this wretched weather.” He grabbed the gate handle, pulled it open, then took Kate’s free hand securely in his and pulled her along behind him, through the gate, and to the left, striding purposefully down the walkway, Kate running to keep up.

  She felt as if she were eloping, running off to something spectacularly secret.

  At the corner of the street, there was a large black landau coach, fully closed, with a gold crest painted on the side, attached to a team of four grays. Two men were perched atop the driver’s seat, their hats pulled low over their heads and the collars of their greatcoats turned up around their ears.

  Upon seeing the viscount, one of them hopped down and quickly put down a small footstool before the coach door.

  He pulled open the door as they reached the coach. “Milord,” he said, bobbing his head.

  “Thank you, Percy.” Montgomery held his umbrella high over Kate, took hers, and handed it to the man before helping her into the interior of the coach.

  Kate gasped as she settled onto the velvet bench; the interior walls were covered with red silk; the two opposing benches were covered in bloodred rose petals that filled the coach with a heavenly scent.

  Montgomery came in behind her, landing directly across from her on the dark velvet squabs, his knees almost touching Kate’s, beaming proudly as the door swung shut behind him. “What do you think? Is it to your liking?”

  “It’s lovely,” she said. “Breathtaking. I shudder to think how many innocent roses met their demise here.”

  He laughed, tapped the ceiling, and the coach lurched forward.

  “Was it some sort of accident?” Kate asked, looking at them scattered on the floor, on the bench, and sticking to his wet boots and her wet hem.

  “Ach, have I failed so miserably? I rather hoped you’d find the look and scent of them appealing.”

  “Oh, of course I do,” she said laughingly. “But it’s a pity that they’ll lie inside your coach while we . . . while we are elsewhere? Or do you intend to picnic in the coach?”