“A fine day, don’t you think?” he asked.
She glanced out the window, then back at the roses. Her fingers moved quickly, touching each of the flowers in turn. “I wonder if it will rain. I do like rain when I am not in it.”
She was counting them. For God’s sake, why? “There are forty-eight in total, Mrs. Wilcott, across both vases.”
She went still, and that quiet had an edge he recognized. It pained him, that understanding, almost as much as his dismay. He did not want to feel anything for her more complicated than his appreciation of her beauty. This pinch of his heart was as unwelcome as his curiosity. Had he not arrived at his opinion of her in London? That despite her beauty, she was a woman of little consequence.
“So many?” she said in a light voice. Having touched every rose, she now rearranged them until they sat in the vase with perfect symmetry. “I’m sure it matters not a bit whether there are twenty-four or thirty-seven. They’re very pretty. Emily adores roses.” She faced him, and she was as pleasant and empty-headed as ever. “As I’m sure you know. She’ll be very pleased you brought them. They are her color.”
“I hope you like them just as much.”
“Like all roses, they are as beautiful as they are dangerous.”
Thrale forced himself to take a mental step back. Had those words come from any of her sisters, he would have appreciated the hidden thorn. But Mrs. Wilcott? Was that possible? He’d long ago concluded she let her intellect lie fallow. A pity.
And yet. He could not shake his conviction that he knew nothing about the woman behind those so-blue eyes, and that worse, the woman he’d glimpsed was worth knowing. Roger sat near her, eyes on her as if he, too, found her beautiful beyond understanding.
She put her back to the roses. “Tea, my lord? Before the water is cold.” She gave him an empty smile. “I don’t know about you, but I do not care for tepid tea.”
He retook his seat after he saw her to her own. He ought to have been comforted by that smile that spoke of nothing, but he wasn’t. While she scooped tea from a box carved with a fanciful chevron, he watched her for any sign she was capable of the deception he suspected. He set the Milton on the table beside him.
She paused with the tongs over the sugar bowl. “One lump did you say?”
“Thank you, a smaller one if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” She used the edge of the tongs to search the contents of the sugar bowl. “I find that my day is quite destroyed if my tea is not perfect. This one?”
“Yes.”
She held out his tea and a spoon and beamed at him. He knew what he’d seen when she came in. He knew it.
“Thank you, Mrs. Wilcott.” He stirred his tea.
“Perfect, I hope.”
Deliberately, rudely, even, he held her gaze. “Yes.” No reaction to that. None whatever. “Tell me, Mrs. Wilcott, do you read?”
“Oh, yes my lord.” She leaned against her chair, her features smooth. “I adore novels. Particularly historical novels. And ghosts. I adore stories with ghosts. Mrs. Sleath’s The Nocturnal Minstrel is a particular favorite of mine.”
Thrale tapped a finger on the Milton. “I am not familiar with that novel. Ghosts, you say. What would you say about a novel with devils?”
“Blasphemy, sir.” She spoke without the least sign of irony, and he sighed. Defeated.
He liked her dog. There was that.
CHAPTER 3
A handful of weeks more, Lucy told herself, and she would never have to endure another overcrowded assembly with more people than chairs. She loathed the Bartley Green assembly. Loathed it as much as Emily adored it. She endured it for her sister’s sake alone. She did not want to dance or smile or pretend to have a good time when she did not enjoy crowds in the least. Nor did she care to drink weak lemonade or be obliged to smile at anyone.
If all went as planned, she would soon be signing a year’s lease on her own home, and she would live on her own, as befit a widow. She would not have to leave her house except to walk to the subscription library and back. She would see Emily moved in with Aldreth, and her and Roger ensconced in a charming cottage nearer to Little Merton than Bartley Green. Close enough to visit her father from time to time. Far enough away that he was unlikely to call.
She would never have to endure another supercilious look from Mrs. Glynn or a leer from Mr. Charles, who ought to be persuaded to step down from his duties of introductions at the assemblies. She would never be made to feel unwelcome, or responsible for her father’s behavior, nor endure an improper remark from a gentleman who knew or thought he knew, some portion of the story of her marriage.
For now, though, she was here with people who left her alone so long as she smiled and flirted—not overmuch—and behaved as if she hadn’t a thought in her head. She was happy to oblige. She headed toward the chairs where the older ladies sat, her stomach in a knot the size of the ocean. So much noise. Too many people. So many frowns in her direction, familiar looks askance from the people who would never forget or forgive the scandal of her marriage.
She recited Milton in her head because she needed a distraction. Poetry, often Milton, but sometimes Pope, or Dunne, or Dryden, helped keep her thoughts from rushing off to fearful continents.
At the last moment, she did not take a chair. Mrs. Glynn sat among the matrons, a hard smile on her face. Lucy would not be made welcome there. Instead, she continued around the perimeter of the room. Save her from pretentious crowds like this. There was no air to breathe. None at all.
When she reached one of the pier-glass mirrors that hung at opposite ends of the room, she looked away. She took perverse comfort in her triumph over refusing to indulge qualities she’d been told made her so weak and imperfect a vessel. The accusation that she was over-proud of her looks had been floating around long before Mrs. Glynn said the words to her face.
I will not have my son involve himself with a chit who thinks to marry above herself on account of her face.
If her husband were alive, she’d not be in this room, among people who questioned her respectability and who thought her vain. Nor would she be exhausted from the strain of not giving life to gossip. Here, she must be perfection itself and empty inside. She missed her husband with a soul-deep ache.
More than the usual number of gentlemen who were strangers to the village were present tonight. Understandable since Bartley Green was a sporting town. The Flash came here frequently because of The Academy and its pugilistic events. Whatever one thought of such men, the local shopkeepers, innkeepers, and tavern owners relied on the income.
Some of the strangers were gentlemen of good family. Naturally, they were present tonight. Others, thankfully not here, were less reputable. In town, she’d recognized a few of the men from her married life; sporting men and members of the Flash. Gentlemen or otherwise, they were here for one thing and one thing only; the rumored Clancy/Granger battle. To take advantage of the crowds, Johnson had scheduled a series of exhibitions between the best fighters in England. No fewer than three battles had been privately arranged from among the fighters present.
The rougher sort of the Sporting set would never dare appear at the assembly—there were other establishments for their nocturnal amusements. The gentlemen were another matter. Though she did not doubt that they, too, made their visits to less respectable venues, they were here tonight in force, adorned in evening clothes that would not have been remiss in London. They presented cards to Mr. Charles, these Flash gentlemen, reciting the names of prominent acquaintances and relatives, or, in a few cases, identified themselves as such. So long as they left her alone and made themselves agreeable to the young ladies of Bartley Green, she was content.
Lucy pressed her back to the wall and wished she were invisible. Her father was at the other side of the room from her, a glass of wine in one hand, in heated discussion with several other gentlemen who were strangers to Bartley Green. The Flash, all of them.
She caught a glimpse of
Captain Niall. The eyes of most every lady who was not dancing followed his progression through the room. Candlelight sparkled off his hair and off the diamond stickpin in his cravat. Lord Thrale was beside him. He was not as splendidly dressed as Captain Niall, but he was a compelling man, with his dark brown hair and gray eyes. Not unappealing, if one liked men of physical prowess.
A wave of reaction followed their progress. The young ladies of Bartley Green and Little Merton knew these two were from London, one a hero from the wars and the other a marquess, and both unmarried. Their parents knew, too. What parent of an unmarried young lady would not make a point of knowing which eligible men were present?
Emily was in conversation with Harry Glynn and his sister Clara. Though she had to admit Harry had grown into a handsome man, she could not see him now without resenting that his mother had decided Lucy was in love with him when she never had been. That was so even though there had been a time when she’d been in love with someone new every month. She’d never fancied herself in love with Harry. There’d been no convincing Mrs. Glynn of that.
The sound of slippers and shoes chasseéing and tapping on the floor made a lovely contre-point to the music. There was a great deal of conversation as well, of course, with the occasional laughter or shout that rose above the general noise. If she stood silent, who would notice her? No one, she hoped.
After the set ended, there was a break for the musicians and the usual refreshments for the attendees. Lucy headed for Emily. What a crush. She counted backward in her head to settle herself. So many people here. Too many, and could not someone open a window? Her shawl drifted off her left shoulder and floated behind her until she slowed enough that the end fell to the floor. She turned right, half way around, waving her hand to catch the trailing end, and with about as much success as a dog chasing its tail.
A Dungeon horrible—
She’d know the lines better if that dratted Lord Thrale hadn’t taken her copy of Milton. In the same spin that had her missing the end of her shawl, Lucy looked over her shoulder and saw Emily and Clara Glynn had left Harry. The two were now, predictably, at the center of a group of at least eight gentlemen seeking an introduction. Lucy, still turning and attempting to catch a corner of her shawl, finished her impromptu pirouette.
Someone grabbed her shoulders and steadied her, and she gasped, startled, but prepared with an expression of cold unconcern. Lord Thrale released her shoulders and took a step back.
“You,” she said. She lost her place in the lines of poetry she’d fixed in her mind.
“Madam.”
A dungeon horrible, on all sides something something…
He handed her the wayward corner of her shawl. Nothing ever ruffled him, did it? She took it from him and then remembered to smile. “My lord. Forgive me.”
“For?”
Captain Niall joined them and gave her an excuse to make Lord Thrale no answer. The captain beamed at her. “Mrs. Wilcott. I hope you are enjoying yourself at this splendid assembly.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I think I never saw so many pretty girls in one place.” Captain Niall surveyed the room. “Did you ever see prettier girls at an assembly, milord?”
“Indeed, never.” Which words Thrale uttered without an ounce of enthusiasm. His attention shot sideways. To Emily, it happened, who was approaching with Clara. Was that not interesting? She’d always thought Thrale and Emily would suit, but she had never had the impression from either that a nudge in the other’s direction would be welcome.
“Lucy, there you are.” Emily pressed a hand to her forehead when she and Clara reached the spot where she stood with Lord Thrale and now Captain Niall. “I am absolutely all in. Aren’t you, Miss Glynn?”
“What?” Captain Niall asked. “But there will be at least one more set. Do you mean you will not dance? Not either of you?”
Emily tugged on Lucy’s sleeve. “I’m parched, and I cannot abide the orgeat here. You know how sour it is.”
Lucy knew very well what her sister was up to. Emily was no more ready to leave the assembly than any other young lady of spirit. But she knew Lucy did not like crowds. “You have hardly danced at all.”
“But I have!”
Captain Niall leapt into the breach of this impending disaster. “Miss Glynn, you shall dance with Lord Thrale here while I partner Miss Sinclair. If we are lucky enough to persuade these delightful musicians to play a reel, why then we shall swap dance partners after. What say you, my lord? Is that not an excellent plan?”
Thrale glanced at Lucy. Was that a smile? She thought so, and that worried her that he should look at her as if she were in the least interesting to him. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you dance, Mrs. Wilcott.”
“I’m sure I did.” Some devilment made her add, “Once.”
“I’m sure you did not.” His mouth twitched the slightest amount. “Tonight.”
Emily squeezed Lucy’s arm. “You ought to dance, Lucy. You used to love dancing.”
This would not do. Not at all. “If you and Miss Glynn dance with Captain Niall and Lord Thrale, I shall count this evening a complete success.”
“Captain Niall. Ho there! Here’s where you’ve got to.”
Lucy froze at the sound of that familiar voice. She’d known it was possible, perhaps inevitable, that Arthur Marsey would be one of sporting men here for the Clancy/Granger fight. He was one of the Flash; a lifelong aficionado of boxing who had attached himself to her husband’s fortunes. She had hoped they would not meet.
“We’ve not got anywhere, I daresay.” The captain lifted a hand in greeting to someone behind her.
“I told myself I would find you here, and I have.”
She knew that laugh too well.
“Come, come. Join us,” Captain Niall said.
And so he did.
Her first thought was that Arthur Marsey had changed little in the three years since she’d seen him last. He remained a striking man with a hearty smile. Now that she’d been to London and met men like Anne’s husband, or Captain Niall, or Thrale, even, now that she’d had the opportunity to see Aldreth in anything but country clothes, she saw Marsey was not quite the man of fashion she’d imagined.
He sent a quick glance in Thrale’s direction, and she saw him dismiss the marquess as of no consequence. He surveyed Emily and Clara. And then her.
Seeing him here brought back memories of the days when every action available to her had come at an intolerable price. After her husband had died and she’d listened, grief stricken and unmoored, to Marsey say nothing while the lawyers and bankers explained why there was no money, she’d packed what few possessions were hers and, with Roger at her side, walked out of that horrible place. If not for one of her husband’s friends taking pity on her, she’d have had to walk all the way home to Bartley Green. She would have done so, too. She would have.
Thrale touched her elbow, and she flinched.
Marsey’s attention stayed on her with unwarranted boldness. With a start, she realized he knew nothing of her life here now or before she was married. He knew her as a wife and then a widow whose departure had no doubt been a relief to him.
Captain Niall thumped Marsey’s shoulder in a manner that suggested the two were not just acquaintances, but men who knew each other well. As he spoke, Captain Niall turned to Thrale. “My lord. May I introduce Mr. Arthur Marsey? We’re old friends, Marsey and me.”
Marsey’s eyebrows shot up, and Lord Thrale got another, longer, assessment.
Thrale nodded.
“My lord, Mr. Arthur Marsey. Arthur, I present the Marquess of Thrale.”
Marsey bowed with that open, friendly smile that had so deceived her husband. “My lord. I once had the honor of meeting your father.”
“Did you?” As Lucy well knew, Thrale did not warm to people easily, but even so, his reply was notably cool.
“A most excellent man, your father.” He bowed. “Please accept my condolences for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
Captain Niall put a hand on Marsey’s shoulder. “Here, sir, is one most beautiful women you’ll ever meet.”
He smiled slowly. “Charming, charming.”
Lucy stood frozen. From his smug expression, Marsey believed she would say nothing. Do nothing.
“Mrs. Wilcott.” His smile turned her stomach. “I never expected I would see you here.”
She hated his smile. She hated his smile with all her soul.
“You know Mrs. Wilcott?” Captain Niall asked.
Marsey gave Niall a look of condescension. “I was acquainted with her husband.”
“Were you, now? No introduction necessary then.” Captain Niall lifted a hand in Emily’s direction and said in his golden voice, “The Divine Sinclair. Miss Sinclair…”
She refused to drown in unhappy memories. Nor would she say nothing. Not again.
“…may I introduce Mr. Marsey?”
Lucy, who had never in her life been unkind, and who had transformed her very nature out of pure desperation to maintain her sanity, looked Marsey straight in the eye, and he had the gall, the colossal nerve to smile at her with the expectation that she would let him pass.
She turned to Captain Niall and said, “No, sir. You may not.”
The silence was sharp enough to cut to the bone, and while that blade sliced through the gathering, she took Emily’s arm, and Clara Glynn’s, too, and walked away.
CHAPTER 4
Lucy’s stomach clenched into a hard and painful knot, but she stood before her father, a cheerful smile on her lips. She wore her good nature like armor. No one, absolutely no one, would ever guess resentment was two inches from shoving her off a cliff. Not any of her three sisters, nor her two brothers-in-law, nor anyone else who had met her since she came home a widow. She settled her shawl around her shoulders and prayed she would not betray herself. “Yes, Papa?”
A Notorious Ruin Page 3