by Claudia Dain
“I beg your pardon?”
“And then, rounding out the party,” she continued, ignoring him utterly. He truly must throttle something, “there is Mr. George Prestwick, such a delightful man, and Lord Josiah Blakesley, the Duke of Hyde’s youngest. Have you met either gentleman? No? Not even Mr. Prestwick?”
“Why Mr. Prestwick in particular?”
“He just seems to know everyone, that’s all.”
They had reached the top of the stairs and he turned her to the doorway to the salon. Just steps now, mere steps. Sophia paused to study a vase on a table. The vase was French, white and green porcelain, and two feet in height. There. It was studied. Nothing remotely interesting about it.
“Of course,” Sophia continued, “you have nothing to worry about with them, either. They are both too fully into their oats to consider marriage at this time. Viscount Redding, however, is quite another matter.”
“How does this pertain to me?”
They were turned toward the salon, the vase behind them, the candlelight and the noise of voices in front of them.
“Why, haven’t I made that clear?” Sophia said. Her voice was melodic and lilting, a pleasing thing. He felt only the tingle of irritation. “Darling, I’m so sorry, but you must know. Lord Redding is quite determined to marry Miss Ardenzy. The bans are moments from being read.”
“Miss Ardenzy? He can have the other one. Take her and my blessings upon them both.”
“Oh, but Jamie, that is the problem. He has set his heart upon Elizabeth Ardenzy. She is as good as wed to him.”
That was when he knew exactly what, and whom, he wanted to throttle.
The salon had pale green walls and pale green upholstery and darker green draperies with gold braid on the pelmets; the carpet was in dark reds and deep golds; the art was chiefly of landscapes, the exception being a massive portrait of a woman in gold silk, her gown the fashion of another age, her fair hair lifted higher upon her head than was currently fashionable, her expression as vaguely self-satisfied as to be fashionable in any age.
Jamie saw all that, all that nonsense, in an instant. His eyes searched and found Elizabeth in the next instant. She was seated upon a pale green settee. Her white skirts made a halo around her. Her eyes glowed at him and for him. She glowed for no one else; he knew that. Seated next to her was one of the Thorn girls, not Lady Paignton. He knew Lady Paignton.
He might have dissembled just a bit with Sophia about Bernadette, Lady Paignton. He had almost seduced Bernadette, or perhaps she had almost seduced him. Either way, it had been almost and so it hardly mattered now. Except that it would have been simpler if she had not been in attendance, and if he had not had to seek Elizabeth out in the Helston’s den, and, as long as he was making wishes, for Ardenzy to be delighted to gift his daughter to a man without title and without name.
He approached the settee without hesitation, ignoring Sophia’s clasp upon his arm, leaving her somewhere behind him, leaving everything behind because Elizabeth was in front of him. Was love as simple and as brutal as that?
Yes.
“Miss Ardenzy,” he said, dipping his head.
“Mr. Caversham. Have you been introduced to Lady Delphine?” Elizabeth said, smiling up at him. She glowed. It was for him. It had to be for him.
He turned his gaze upon the youngest Thorn girl; she had the green eyes of Bernadette and the same faintly golden complexion, a gift from their father, the Earl of Helston. The Countess had fair skin and blue eyes, that much he had noticed. Delphine was quite pretty, as all the Thorn girls were reputed to be. Antoinette, the eldest, was a classical beauty of great fame; she was also a reclusive widow. Bernadette, the second in line, was a seductive beauty of great infamy; she was also a widow, hardly reclusive. The third Thorn girl was named Camille, he seemed to recall, and now this one, this girl of aqua green eyes and pert smile and delicate features. She was a pretty little thing.
The thought flew through his mind and was gone as swiftly as the lark. He had no thought for pretty little girls. Not now and never again.
“How do you do, Lady Delphine,” he said.
“I do very well, Mr. Caversham,” she answered pertly. “And you? Are you very well?”
Elizabeth blushed, dipping her head to hide a smile. Ah, so it was that obvious. He did not care. Perhaps it would speed things along.
“Better and better, Lady Delphine,” he said. “It was kind of Lady Helston to invite me to dine.”
“My mother is always interested in lively dinner parties, Mr. Caversham. She lives to entertain, and since it is her life’s work, she gives all her power to succeeding at it.”
“No matter what is one’s life’s work, one should give all to succeeding at it,” Jamie said.
“Will you succeed at your life’s work, Mr. Caversham?” Elizabeth asked, a smile playing around her mouth.
“Have no doubt of it, Miss Ardenzy. I am succeeding at it even now.”
Not only did Elizabeth blush, so did Lady Delphine.
“He’s got her blushing already,” Lady Helston said to Sophia. “That never bodes well.”
“Since when?” Sophia said sweetly. “A girl should blush often. It’s so very good for the complexion.”
“I am quite aware of what you believe to be good for the complexion, Lady Dalby, Yvonne, Lady Helston said briskly. “Not everyone agrees with you.”
“Don’t they? How perplexing,” Sophia said. “Yet, you may rest easily, Lady Helston. Mr. Caversham is quite taken with Miss Ardenzy. He will hardly notice your daughter enough to keep from treating her like an ill-placed table.”
Yvonne lifted her chin and pierced Sophia with a chilly blue stare. Or that was her intent, clearly. Sophia was far beyond the age of being susceptible to anything as thin as a look.
“My daughters are not the sort to be ignored, or determined ill-placed.”
“But, darling, how could you know if that is so or not? You have not seen the younger girls in nearly a six-month, and the older girls since a year before that. Or has it been two years? I do confess to being a bit ignorant about how often you are in England, tending to your girls, given that I have been in America, tending to my son.”
“Leaving your daughter to fend for herself,” Yvonne countered.
Sophia smiled in response. She did not fault the countess her temper or her travel schedule. Marriage to Helston had not resulted in the most convivial of relationships. Helston spent his time with his hounds, his horses, and his hunt, and that was not a metaphor for anything amorous. Yvonne, the daughter of a French aristocrat who had married her off and out of France years before everything there fell to small and bloody bits, could have tolerated a man who lived the metaphor. A man who preferred his hounds and his hunt to her, that she could not bear to witness. And so she had borne him four daughters when he plainly and loudly wanted sons, and then developed the habit of spending the greater part of every year touring the civilized world. Her daughters, tutored and then wed in their turn, and then widowed after that, were simultaneously both sheltered and abandoned.
It was not the way Sophia would have managed things, but then she could hardly fault Yvonne for doing things in whatever way she thought best.
“Caroline is quite contently married and producing Westlin heirs, as I’m sure you are aware,” Sophia said.
Yvonne smiled stiffly and turned her attention to the room. “I would have thought that Lord Redding would pay more attention to his intended bride.”
Lord Redding was a nicely featured man of good height and trim form and who had something of the look of King Henry VIII before he went to fat. He had red gold hair and grey blue eyes and he was standing at the window looking out at the street. He stood alone. Elena Ardenzy stood not far from him, talking pleasantly to Camille Thorn and George Prestwick. Sophia did think, in that instant, that Lord Redding was standing near to Elena explicitly and not quite aware of the other two. And wasn’t that interesting?
“Nothin
g has been announced,” Sophia said, quite sure now that nothing would be. “The point of a dinner is to mingle, is it not? I shall proceed to mingling now, if you’ll excuse me, Lady Helston.”
“Of course, Lady Dalby,” Yvonne said with a nod of her head.
Sophia, who had spent quite enough time with the Earl of Quinton earlier in the day, gave him a pleasant nod of greeting as she passed him. Quinton, as was his way, was standing in a corner of the room, almost in shadow, surveying the scene before him. The ways of a soldier never did leave a man once trained in that art, she knew. And it was well it did not.
“Lady Paignton, how good it is to see you again,” she said. “And Jos, you’ve grown a foot since I’ve last seen you.” She did not mention which part of his body had grown a foot. Since he was speaking with Bernadette, the seductress of Mayfair, the answer was obvious.
“Sophia, I had heard that you were home again,” Jos said, his light aqua eyes lit with pleasure. Josiah Blakesley, the youngest of the Duke of Hyde’s five sons, had always been a very attractive man, but he looked quite dashing now. Small wonder that Bernadette was licking her lips. “The Duchess will demand a full accounting, you know. You did see the Elliots, did you not?”
“I did, indeed. I shall call upon darling Molly the first thing tomorrow. I have such delicious gossip to share with her.”
“All gossip is delicious, is it not?” Bernadette said. “If not, it would merely be news. No one cares nearly as much for news.”
Bernadette was a sultry beauty. She knew it, of course, which was so clever of her. She abused her beauty and the power of it, which was so stupid of her. Really, someone should take dear Bernadette in hand, and she did not mean Jos Blakesley. It was clearly a task beyond Lady Helston.
Well, she’d get to Bernadette some other day. Today was for dear Jamie and the blushing Elizabeth Ardenzy. How had they all managed while she’d been in America? It was a puzzle.
“How cleverly put, Lady Paignton,” Jos said, looking quite appropriately smitten. Who could blame him?
“Lady Paignton is a very clever woman,” Sophia said. “Tell me, do you know Mr. Caversham well, Lady Paignton? He let slip that he had a passing acquaintance with you, but I did wonder if you could tell me more about the man.”
Bernadette gazed at Sophia with her green eyes smoldering. As her eyes smoldered more often than not, Sophia paid no attention to it. “He is Zoe Auvray’s son, as you well know, Lady Dalby. The gossip is that you and Miss Auvray are quite good friends. Certainly you know her son better than I do.”
“As a boy, yes,” Sophia answered. “He is a man now, and I have been away from England for two years. What is the gossip of him, darling? That is what interests me.”
“He has not been in any duels,” Jos said.
“He lacks the opportunity, I am sure,” Sophia said. “Or do you think it is a matter of temperament?”
“I have no idea,” Jos said.
Sophia turned to Bernadette, brows raised. “What are you asking, Lady Dalby?” Bernadette said.
“I am asking if Mr. Caversham has the courage to fight. I am asking if darling Jamie has the will to take what he wants and to fight for it if he must.”
“And who must he fight for, Sophia?” Jos asked.
“For a woman, of course,” Bernadette said, smiling her cat smile, looking as pleased as a kitten.
“For Miss Elizabeth Ardenzy,” Sophia said. “He means to have her. Can he attain her, do you think? Will he sweep all opposition before him?”
“Her father is the opposition?” Jos asked.
“Fathers are always the opposition to a daughter’s happiness,” Bernadette said.
That single statement explained so much about Lady Paignton, didn’t it?
Sophia said nothing. She had done her part, at least a portion of it. A few more carefully chosen words in carefully considered ears and all should work itself out as these things always did.
Gossip truly did have its uses.
“The gossip is that she went to America to walk the Indian trail with her brother. He’s an Iroquois, you know. Or that’s what I heard,” Delphine said.
“If her brother is an Iroquois, then isn’t she an Iroquois?” Elizabeth asked, looking over at Sophia Dalby, who looked nothing like an Iroquois. She was too well dressed, for one. For another, her skin was the wrong color. Beyond that, Elizabeth did not claim to possess any great store of knowledge about the American Indian.
“She is the daughter of an Iroquois father and an English mother,” Jamie said, looking entirely displeased by the turn in the conversation. Elizabeth found it a boring topic as well. Who cared? It had nothing to do with Jamie that she could see, therefore, it served no purpose whatsoever. “It is hardly a secret.”
“Isn’t it? I should have thought that would make a wonderful secret,” Delphine said.
Who Jamie’s father was, that was supposed to be a secret, she supposed. Or was it? How could something be a secret when everyone knew it?
“I don’t think that who someone’s parents are should ever be a secret, nor a subject for gossip,” Elizabeth said, looking at Delphine, thinking of Jamie. “We don’t choose our parents. It’s who we choose to be, that’s what matters,” she said, thinking of herself.
She did not have to be who her father wanted her to be. She didn’t. She had been told her whole life that she did, but she didn’t believe it anymore. Not since the British Museum. Perhaps not since Romeo and Juliet. She did not have to live her life as a tragedy. She could, she would, live as she chose. And she chose Jamie Caversham. Every time she saw him, listened to him, looked into his beautiful eyes, she knew that her future was with him.
Her life was with him.
She wanted no other.
She would accept no other.
Viscount Redding would have to find another heiress. Her father would have to see his quest met with another daughter.
Elena, dear Elena, would have to see it all done. She did feel compassion for Elena. She did. But not enough to turn her heart from Jamie.
Love was ruthless, wasn’t it? Shakespeare had tried to tell her so, but she had not seen it. Not until now.
“We don’t choose our parents, that’s true,” Jamie said. “But we do have choices, other choices, don’t we?”
“Yes. We do,” she said, staring boldly into his eyes. “I do.”
Jamie smiled, a radiant blaze of joy that warmed her to the bone. “Shall we take a turn about the room, Miss Ardenzy?”
“Thank you, Mr. Caversham. I should enjoy that very much. Very, very much,” she said, tucking her hand through his arm.
Delphine looked on, a bemused smile on her face, and then she got up and joined her mother, who was in conversation with Mr. Sebastian and Miss Elena Ardenzy.
“You’re certain?” Jamie said.
“I’m certain,” Elizabeth said, her hand trembling against his arm.
“What has happened to us?”
“We met,” she said, smiling. “We fell in love.”
They passed the Earl of Quinton, who smiled at them. Elizabeth smiled in return. Jamie did not. His thoughts were roiling. He had to see it done. He did not know how to see it done. He could not steal her; that would be a shabby beginning to the most profound event of his life.
“How angry will your father be?” he asked.
“Very,” she said simply. She did not sound at all nervous about her father. She trusted him to make it all right, obviously. And he would. Somehow. “He will get past it. Eventually.”
They passed the three Thorn sisters, whispering. Bernadette gave him an amused glance. He nodded politely in return.
“You won’t come to regret it?” he asked her.
“Never,” she said, squeezing his arm.
“It will be difficult. Canada is not England.”
“Thank God for that,” she said, laughing lightly.
If he had not loved her before, he would have loved her for that alone.
“He must set you free,” Jamie said.
“He has never formally made me his,” she said.
“Your father?”
“No. Lord Redding,” she said, looking at his profile. He searched the room, looking for Redding, and found him at the window with Elena.
“You never belonged to Redding,” he said, snarling only mildly, considering.
“No. Never.”
He grunted. He had not thought it in him to grunt. He surprised himself with every minute that passed.
The doorway to the stair hall was before him then, and without thought and no hesitation, he opened the door and ushered them through it. The volume of conversation rose behind them, and he did not care.
Surprise upon surprise.
He nearly dragged Elizabeth over to that French vase on the polished table and, leaning her against it, the vase wobbling, he cupped her lovely face between his hands and kissed her.
He kissed her mouth with gentle, nibbling kisses. A touch of his lip to hers, warm and soft, hovering, delicate, asking her to not deny him, to let him in, to let him have her. He had to have her, to taste her. He was so far beyond decorum, miles past respectability, and hovering dangerously close to the boundary of honor.
She breathed into him, her sigh a sound of release and joy and welcome.
“You are home, like finding home,” he said against her mouth, his hands lifting her chin, holding her captive.
“Anywhere,” she breathed. “I will go with you anywhere.”
His mouth pressed down on hers, harder, hotter, more desperate. He could not lose her. He would never relinquish her. She melted into him, soft and yielding.
“I love you,” he said. “I never meant to love you.”
She laughed against his mouth, pure joy pouring out of her.
“You must think me mad,” he said, kissing her cheek, her brow, her mouth again. Again and again, her mouth.
“I think you mad for love. Of me. For me. I like it,” she said, dropping tiny kisses along his jaw, her hands pressed beneath his coat, rubbing his waistcoat, pouring herself all over him. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”