“Honore,” Lydia began, “you are a lovely young lady, one of the prettiest I’ve seen here in town this Season. You are also intelligent and charming when you choose to be. You can reach much higher than a nobody from the provinces playing at man-about-town.”
“There is nothing higher than the heart.” Honore’s words defied Lydia’s remark about the girl’s intelligence. “And you and Cassandra chose men you lo—”
“Cassandra.” Lydia nearly leaped to her feet. “Where is Cassandra?”
“With her ballooning friends,” Honore answered.
Lydia didn’t like the fact that she missed Christien. More than missed him. She found herself waking in the middle of the night remembering being close to him, and an emptiness surrounded her like a void of darkness. She was not . . . hadn’t been so foolish as to . . . wouldn’t let herself be in love with him.
But for all her days beginning early and ending late, packed with preparations for the ball, painting whenever she could spare a moment, and attending one social gathering after another with her sisters in tow and never let out of her sight for a moment, the barrenness of her heart warned her she may have committed the second greatest error in her life.
She had failed to keep her heart free of entanglements.
Cassandra claimed she had too. “I take more pleasure in discussing aeronautics with my friends at the Chapter House coffee shop than in kissing Whittaker” had been her comment when Lydia, Christien, and Honore had tracked her down at that highly respectable establishment.
Respectable if accompanied by proper chaperonage, anyway. Alone with two gentlemen took Cassandra beyond the pale. Fortunately, no one who mattered had seen her there.
“But if I ever catch either of you behaving like worse than hoydens,” Lydia lectured the two of them in their room, “I will pack your trunks myself and drive the carriage out of town if I have to.”
“Just don’t tell Father.” A little pale, Cassandra worried a sketch of a balloon and basket in her hands. “I know I shouldn’t have gone, but Honore wanted to go to Vauxhall, which I cannot abide. And the men and I began to talk, and one of them wanted to show me his new design, and . . . I shouldn’t have done it. But if Father finds out, he’ll worse than send us away.”
“What could be worse than that?” Honore asked.
“Picking a husband for us,” Cassandra grumbled.
Not even Honore argued with that. She knew Father was perfectly capable of doing so, someone he considered suitable—one of his political cronies, like an older man with five children to keep his wayward daughters too busy to get into mischief.
“I’d run off to America first,” Honore said.
“Let’s get your ball under way before we worry about that.” Lydia managed to distract both girls.
They endured final fittings for their gowns and matched acceptances of invitations with the list of guests invited. They ordered the correct number of ices from Gunter’s and then reordered them, as the guest list changed at the final moment.
That final moment approached with a rapidity that left Lydia drinking coffee instead of tea to keep her awake and wondering if she should have chosen a more matronly purple satin instead of the youthful silver gauze with pink embroidery for her ball gown. Too late to change it now. It hung in her armoire beneath a sheet of muslin to protect it from both white and black hairs and tiny claws.
The possessors of those hairs and claws ruled as king and queen over her bedchamber. After initial hissing on both parts, they decided to be friends, companions in mischief, and playmates. Chasing one another around the room at high speed, they managed to create havoc such as knocking over her easel, clearing her dressing table of ribbons and the rice powder box, and sending Barbara sprawling on her face.
“Either they go or I do,” she declared, picking herself up.
“They need a garden to run in and lots of creatures to terrorize.” Lydia smiled at the twin pairs of eyes peeking out from beneath the bed. “Perhaps I can send them back to Devonshire somehow.”
But the idea of not having their furry bodies snuggled up with her at night left her aching. Still, it was only for a few weeks. A very few now that the wedding had been called off. Even if Honore snared a husband, she wouldn’t get married until autumn at the earliest.
“Give me time to find a way to make everyone happy.”
In a huff, Barbara stalked through the dressing room to her tiny chamber.
Lydia finished getting ready for that night’s rout, the entertainment of choice—Honore’s, not hers. She wore her plainest evening gown, one she’d worn twice already. No one noticed clothes at a rout. The crush of people, engaged in no more activity than strolling through the rooms of the house and returning outside again, tended to be too great for one to notice more than the face or waistcoat of the persons coming down the steps as one walked up. If someone didn’t faint from the crowd or heat, the night was a failure.
Lydia tamped down her sarcasm about what she considered the most ridiculous of entertainments and called to Barbara to come hook up the back of her gown. “Are you certain you don’t wish to come?”
“I’m going to read to your dear mama. She’s had a headache all day.”
Lydia compressed her lips and said nothing about Mama’s increased number of headaches.
“I think it’s her grief over losing her daughters,” Barbara continued. “She firmly believes Cassandra will marry Whittaker in the end, and Honore is sure to find someone soon.”
“I don’t think she should. She’s too young in her behavior. No judgment.”
“And since she is losing her daughters . . .” Barbara glanced past Lydia’s shoulder and met her eyes in the dressing-table mirror. “She’s asked me to come to Bainbridge Hall and be her companion, and I’ve accepted.”
“Accepted.” Lydia repeated the words like a sailor’s parrot—hearing the word without comprehension of its meaning. “You can’t. I mean, of course you can, but I count on you for respectability.”
“You’re respectable enough without me. Indeed, Sarah’s household is far more to my liking, you know.”
Sarah? Lydia started. She so rarely heard her mother’s name she barely remembered it. Even Father called her Lady Bainbridge.
“Yes, she can pay you more than I can.” Lydia glanced at her latest painting, only half finished and already sold. At last she was developing a tidy nest egg through the print shop buying her pictures, but she could never offer Barbara the luxury of Bainbridge, just mild comfort.
“And Sarah would never consort with Frenchmen who are enemies to this country,” Barbara added like a slap.
“Chris—Monsieur de Meuse is not an enemy to this country.”
“Then why was he in Dartmoor?”
“I’ve told you. It was a mistake, an accident.”
“Humph. And don’t think I missed your slip there, calling him by his Christian name.”
“He’s my friend. He—”
Voices in the corridor interrupted Lydia. A moment later, Honore and Cassandra burst into her room on a cloud of white muslin and pastel ribbons, lilac scent and quiet giggles.
“Look what someone sent you.” From behind her back, Honore whipped out a bouquet of lilies of the valley. Their fragrance overrode Lydia’s own linden blossom scent and Honore’s lilac with a sweetness that made her heart ache with longing for woodland meadows and fresh air.
The attached card said simply, “Until I can see you again.”
No signature accompanied the card. She’d never seen Christien’s handwriting to know for certain, but she knew the flowers came from him, wherever he was of late.
“You have a secret admirer.” Honore clapped her hands.
“Perhaps not so secret.” Cassandra winked. “N’est-ce pas?”
“No, it isn’t so. Not that sort of admirer you wish I had.” Lydia clipped out the denial even as she brushed the waxy, pale blossoms against her cheek. She told the truth. Christien’s admiration wasn’t secre
t at all, not to her. Not to her heart.
God help her—no, He hadn’t helped her. If He had a plan for her life, as the Bible said He did, and He allowed this to happen—even perhaps made it happen—she rebelled against the Lord’s will. She did not, must not, could not love Christien de Meuse.
The quivery warmth inside her chest at the sight of the flowers, the sorrow gripping her at the realization he must be away and wouldn’t return for a while, and the way she couldn’t get his kiss out of her too-frequent thoughts told her if she had failed at anything, this might be the worst of her shortcomings.
She was in love with Christien Christophe Arnaud, Comte de Meuse.
She needed to be finding a traitor instead, concentrating on the words, gestures, and actions of her fellow English aristocrats. She should be helping Christien, not mooning over him like a schoolgirl.
But she tucked the flowers into the neckline of her gown, where their perfume rose as a constant reminder of his thoughtfulness. His thinking of her.
“So who is it?” Honore asked.
“Never you mind. We need to be on our way.” She showed them toward the door but paused for a glance back at Barbara. “Perhaps Mama can find a more comfortable bedchamber for you than that box room. I’ll hire a maid.”
Barbara paled. Good if she found Lydia’s dismissal uncomfortable. She was abandoning her in the middle of the Season.
Or perhaps she had simply failed her cousin.
No, she wouldn’t accept that edict, not even from herself. Barbara had chosen to live with Lydia, knowing the conditions. If she’d chosen to ingratiate herself with Mama to gain a better position, it was on her head and good for her for going after something she wanted.
Especially her heart.
Lydia paused on the first floor landing to take a deep breath. The lis de vallée scent permeated her senses, heady, enticing. So French for a man who had called England his home for more years than France.
A tingle of uneasiness rippled up her spine. She decided to trust him, believed him because someone had tried to harm her when it could not have been him, had tried to harm both of them. She shook off the frisson of suspicion and set her foot on the top tread down to the entryway and her waiting sisters.
“Where are you off to tonight?” Father stepped out of Mama’s sitting room.
“A rout. And you?” She tried to smile at him.
“My club. I don’t hold with being crushed half to death.” He glanced down the steps, then fixed his cold gaze on Lydia. “There are wagers in the betting book at White’s as to which of you girls will marry first. Right now, the odds are none of you for being stubborn minxes. I can scarce hold my head up in there anymore for the shame of it.”
“The ones wagering should be the ones who are shamed.” Lydia’s nails pressed into the carved banister. “Such gaming is disgraceful. We won’t ruin our lives to suit some people’s penchant for gambling.”
“You’ll ruin your lives for not marrying. It’s a woman’s only rightful place.”
Lydia’s jaw bunched, and she spoke through stiff lips. “Then let us be on our way so we can find these men worthy of us.”
“I doubt you’ll find them at a rout. I’d rather you found country men, not these city bucks and Corinthians who care more about their cravat ties and how many bottles of wine they can drink in a night than the people who grant them the income to do so. But your mother wanted you all to have a Season. I thank the good Lord Honore is the last of you.”
Lydia stared at him, her heart softening. “You know, Father, I agree with you. But there are some of those in town seeking wives. Whittaker is one, which is why he isn’t here trying to woo Cassandra back.”
“Indeed. Well, I think I’ll be sending you all back to the country shortly. London grows less acceptable every year.” He looked so tired all of a sudden that Lydia reached out a hand and touched his arm.
“I think we all might enjoy a relief from this constant activity. Even Honore. Let us first see how things go with her ball. She has so many admirers, one or two are surely acceptable.”
“I hope as much.” Without another word, he brushed past her and entered his bedchamber.
Footfalls slow, Lydia descended the steps to her sisters. They didn’t say anything until the three of them were settled in the carriage and the vehicle was on its way to Bedford Square.
“What did Father want?” Honore demanded.
“Us to be married in a week or so.” Lydia grimaced. “Preferably to men like Whittaker who aren’t afraid to get their cravats dirty.”
“Whittaker is a lecher. I mean—” Cassandra clapped her hand over her mouth.
Honore giggled. “Don’t be the pot calling the kettle black.”
“I know. I’m as bad as he was. Perhaps we should have simply eloped sooner and put an end to all the temptations. That is—Lydia, I miss him terribly and think I made a mistake sending him away over something so easily fixed.” Cassandra gulped.
“Don’t cry, now,” Honore admonished.
“I won’t.” Cassandra sniffed. “I was just so ashamed and thought getting rid of him was the only way to redeem myself, but that’s silly. God redeems me just for the asking. If He can forgive me, I should forgive myself for giving in to the flesh. But now it’s too late.”
“I don’t think so, my dear.” Lydia’s mind raced. “A well-penned letter telling Whittaker exactly what you’ve told me just might change things.”
And Cassandra would be settled. If Lydia managed to repair that relationship, she would have succeeded at something. A good something. Even more so, Cassandra seemed to have a better understanding of God than Lydia did. He forgave human shortcomings, so one should forgive oneself for them too.
She would talk to Cassandra about it further. At the moment, the carriage was slowing to enter the line of vehicles disgorging passengers into the Square. Serious discussions could be interrupted at any moment.
“I’ve tried to write,” Cassandra said, “but we have other matters between us too, like him wanting to curtail my translating because he thinks that’s why my eyes are bad, and he wants to stop me from studying aeronautics. I know a husband has a right to stop all these things, but I’ve had a lifetime of sneaking behind Father’s back. I don’t want a lifetime of sneaking behind my husband’s back.”
“And Father is easier to bamboozle than a husband would be. Father is so often away and meeting with his friends all locked away in his study.” Honore leaned toward the window and lifted the curtain. “Oh, look, there’s Mr. Glendenning. I wonder if we’ll see him inside.”
“From the look of this line of vehicles,” Cassandra said on a sigh, “I don’t think we’ll see anyone.”
“Nonsense.” Lydia laughed. “We’ll see everyone.”
They were both right. Squeezing up the steps of the house and walking on a circuit through all the rooms set up for the guests, they saw scores of persons, most of whom they had encountered somewhere else during the Season. They managed nothing more than a lifted hand, a smile, perhaps a polite word. But they didn’t see anyone who interested them long enough to bear the crush for any longer than necessary.
Necessary proved to be two hours, by the time they jammed their way into the overflowing house and managed to return down the steps and then await their carriage.
“Has there ever been a more ridiculous form of entertainment?” Lydia stared down at her crumpled gown, its Vandyke hem torn from where someone had stepped on it coming down the steps.
Her shawl was missing, and two curls bobbed against her cheek, their mooring pin lost somewhere after she’d caught it on the waistcoat buttons of a gentleman who had reeled into her, apparently having imbibed too freely before attending the rout. The only part of her ensemble that appeared unharmed remained her nosegay of lily of the valley. It nestled at her throat, warm and fragrant, each breath of the perfume a reminder of her foolish heart.
“Shall we do something sensible now?” Lydia conti
nued.
“Like go home?” Cassandra asked.
“Yes.” Lydia slipped her arm through her sister’s. “Honore?”
“Yes, I want to go home. Perhaps all the way home to Bainbridge.”
Lydia glanced at Honore. “What—oh, my dear.”
Tears glistened on Honore’s lashes.
“What is it, child?” Lydia tucked Honore against her with her other arm.
“Him.” Honore shook her head, blinking hard. “Gerry is there with another female. With Olivia Tarleton, my dearest friend. I thought . . .”
And the wealthiest heiress of the Season. Probably more proof that he was nothing more than a fortune-hunting gamester. Yet he still bore watching because of his connection to Barnaby. The gambling, the heiress-wooing might be a cover for other activities.
“He’s not good enough for you, but I know that doesn’t help.” Lydia spotted their carriage and guided her sisters toward it. “Let us go home and enjoy hot chocolate and Shrewsbury biscuits and a good cry if we like.”
They went home to find the house quiet. Lemster informed them that Lady Bainbridge had retired to her room. Miss Barbara was reading in the sitting room, and Lord Bainbridge was still out.
Lydia ordered the chocolate and sweets, then directed her sisters up to their rooms to don wraps and night rails and meet her in her chamber. There amidst the antics of the cats, Lydia’s paintings, and reams of foolscap as Cassandra tried to compose a letter to Whittaker, they feasted on cakes and biscuits and laughed together as they hadn’t done since Lydia had left home to marry. They went to their beds at midnight, early for the Season in town, but the next day was May 11, the date set for Honore’s ball.
As much as she wished to, Lydia didn’t sleep late. She woke at eight o’clock and began her work of inspecting last-minute details. Before the ball, the Bainbridges would entertain thirty guests for dinner. Christien wasn’t one of them. She had considered placing his name on an invitation, but Mama said no, it would displease Father to have the Frenchman at the table.
“He doesn’t trust him, you understand,” Mama said.
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