Momentarily appeased, Randall led her to a table that had just been vacated. He pulled out a chair for her and took the one directly across from her. A waiter appeared, his pencil poised over a small tablet of paper. “Good afternoon. What may I get for you?” he asked.
“Two lemonades, and for ices, we’d like a strawberry and a bergamot pear,” he stated, watching Constance’s reaction as the waiter gave a short bow and hurried off. Randall wasn’t disappointed to see her look of anticipation turn to one of pure joy.
“I love strawberries,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Unless you ordered it for yourself,” she said suddenly, her eyes widening.
Randall felt a bit of relief at hearing her claim. “I did not,” he replied with a grin. Had she said strawberries made her break out in hives, he would have given her the bergamot pear, his favorite flavor. “What else do you love?” he wondered, suddenly realizing he had never before asked the question of a woman. How odd! After spending so many evenings in the company of women, how was it he was only now asking it of his companion?
Having glanced about the shop, Constance returned her attention to Randall. “Horses. Roses. Bubbles in my bath. Champagne. The color purple.” Her eyes widened as a carefree giddiness seemed to possess her.
Randall swallowed, stunned at her simple responses. He had expected she might mention Paris or Rome or the Kew Gardens, or gemstones like sapphires or diamonds. “Easy to please then, are you?” he responded, allowing a smile at her infectious behavior.
Her happiness seemed to abate a bit. “I ... I suppose,” she replied uncertainly, her eyes once again darting about the room, her manner suddenly betraying her nervousness.
Damnation!
Randall realized his mistake too late. “What else do you like?” he asked, hoping to restore her unguarded manner. But before she could answer, the waiter appeared with their order.
“Thank you,” he said as he gave the man a coin. “Keep the change,” he added when he saw the waiter reach into his apron pockets.
“Much obliged, my lord,” the waiter said before scurrying away.
Randall lifted his lemonade and held it up. “I hope you enjoy it, my lady,” he said before he drank nearly half the glass.
Constance tore her eyes from Randall’s cravat, her attention having been on his throat as he swallowed the lemonade. On his Adam’s apple as it bobbed up and down. She couldn’t remember having noticed it on another man, probably because it was always hidden by a cravat. Or a second chin.
She blinked as she turned her attention to the pink confection in the porcelain dish. “I most assuredly will,” she said, lifting a spoon the waiter had delivered with their order. “I will pay you back, of course,” she said as she regarded the sorbet for a moment before bringing the spoon to her lips.
“You will do no such thing, my lady,” Randall replied, tucking into his own dish of sorbet. “I appreciate your company. Indeed, I hope that I might be allowed to spend more time in your company,” he added carefully, watching to see her reaction.
In the middle of her first taste of the sorbet, Constance’s eyes widened. She swallowed and regarded Randall for a moment. “For what purpose?” she asked, suddenly suspicious of the man’s motives.
Randall realized he might have said too much. “The Little Season doesn’t start for several weeks, and I find myself rather ... lonely. I merely wish for the company of someone to walk with me in the park or ... have an ice with me here,” he explained. “There is nothing else implied, I assure you,” he added, realizing she might be left with the wrong impression.
She was left with the wrong impression.
Constance left her spoon in her dish and moved to stand up.
“My lady, please,” Randall said quickly, one ungloved hand waving to indicate she should retake her seat. “Your hasty exit will be noticed,” he warned with an arched eyebrow. “Please, do not leave me looking as if I have offended when no offense was intended.”
Glancing about to see if anyone had noticed her sudden move, Constance pretended to readjust the skirts of her gown as she slowly lowered herself back into her chair. “I am not offended, Mr. Roderick,” she said, her eyes going to the rather large signet ring he wore. The dark purple stone embedded in a gold band reminded her of what she had admitted only moments before. Goodness! She had dropped her guard and given him a list of everything she loved! He probably thought her a mindless chit. “I am merely being—”
“Cautious,” he finished for her. “Yes, I understand,” Randall agreed. “As you should be. London is not a town in which a young woman should be walking about without the benefit of a companion or chaperone. I merely wish to act in that capacity.”
Constance relaxed in her chair and regarded her dish of sorbet. The man seemed sincere. And the well-dressed man a few tables away seemed to have recognized him when he gave them a wave upon their entrance to the tea shop. “Very well,” she finally said. She took another bite and allowed the cold confection to slide down her throat. Realizing her comments had stilled their conversation, she wondered what she might say to restore the ease they had enjoyed only moments ago.
Remembering how she had offered information about herself, she thought to coax some out of her companion. “Tell me, Mr. Roderick. What do you love?” she asked boldly.
Randall allowed a grin, understanding her need to clear the air and let him know she accepted his explanation. “Well, now,” he replied with a nod, realizing he couldn’t say things like “a well-turned ankle” or “bedding a woman”, not that he particularly loved bedding a woman. At least, not like he used to. Not when he knew there would be nothing beyond the bedding. No waking up in each other’s arms. No breakfast together in the parlor. No dinner together. No sitting by the fire until it was time to share a bed.
Randall shook himself from his reverie, hoping he hadn’t paused too long before providing an answer. “I can admit to loving a good scotch. Reading a book.” He paused, his face suddenly screwed up in disgust. “Not those dealing with farming, however. I am speaking of fiction here,” he clarified. After another pause, he added, “My horse.” He said this last as he dared a glance in her direction, secretly glad to see her look of approval. “And, at some point in my life, sooner rather than later, I would hope to love the woman I marry. And my children, of course.”
Constance was forced to tear her gaze away from the handsome man who sat across from her. Did he have any idea of how his words affected her just then? She would never marry, so there would never be a husband to love. Never a man with whom to share her bed. A man to wake up next to every morning. A man to read the paper while they enjoyed the morning meal in the breakfast parlor. A man with whom to eat dinner. To sit with by the fire once he had enjoyed his brandy and a cheroot in his study.
She would never have the children he spoke of so sweetly, but she found herself imagining them. She imagined what they might look like given their handsome father. Imagined him lifting them into his arms, hoisting them into the air. Imagined hearing their high-pitched voices as they giggled and begged him to do it again.
Her chest suddenly felt as if a great weight had settled on it. Sure tears would form any moment, she tried to concentrate on her strawberry ice, tried to remember how delicious the cold treat tasted. When she could not, she reached for the lemonade and took a long drink, trying hard not to allow her gaze to rest on Randall Roderick.
Did he have any idea of just how handsome he was? How debonair he appeared with his hair cut and combed into place so precisely? Did he know his eyes were the perfect color of everything? That the fine lines on either side of them gave him the air of someone who had lived a good life and enjoyed it? And then there was that jaw line, so bold, with just a hint of stubble that hadn’t been there this morning when they first met. His mouth ... well, she had to swallow when she considered what it might be like to kiss those lips.
Or be kissed by them.
A delightful shiver made its way to
her core, forcing her breath to catch and reminding her she was on the verge of tears.
Constance set down her glass and placed her hands in her lap. She managed to take a deep breath without sobbing and regarded her escort for a moment. “You really should warn a woman before you say such things,” she admonished him.
Randall angled his head to one side, wondering what had her scolding him. He had spoken of a wife and children. He had spoken hoping she might see herself in the role of his wife, for he was quite sure he wanted her in his life, and he knew he wasn’t looking for a mistress.
“I apologize, my lady,” he said quietly. “I really do love my horse,” he teased. “He’s a cross between a ...”
Constance giggled, one hand moving to cover her mouth as the sound burbled forth.
“You dare laugh at my love of a horse?” he asked rhetorically, a smile replacing the dour expression he had displayed only moments before.
“Mr. Roderick!” she replied in a hoarse whisper. “That is not what I meant, and you know it,” she said as she leaned toward him.
Given the small size of the table, Randall thought he could kiss her without having to leave his seat. “Ah, so you were moved by my words of love for a wife and children I do not yet have?”
Constance sobered and leaned back a bit. “I was,” she admitted with a nod. “It is refreshing to know there are romantic men in London.”
Randall sighed. “There are, indeed. Like them, I can imagine seeing to it my wife has bubbles in her bath as well her champagne glass, and a stable full of horses. And I would arrange for her salon to be redone so she is surrounded by roses and the color purple.”
Gasping at his words, Constance stared at him for a long moment before she blinked and shook her head. “Your wife will be a very lucky woman, indeed,” she murmured, suddenly feeling a bit of jealousy at the idea of someone other than herself enjoying his generosity.
As much as she wanted what he suggested with his words, she knew it could never be for her.
Taking a breath, Constance glanced down at the table and realized he had finished both his lemonade and his sorbet. “Now, perhaps you can tell me all about your horse while we make our way back,” she suggested brightly, the quiet moment gone.
Randall gave her a nod. “As you wish, my lady,” he said.
As they took their leave of Gunter’s, the waiter hurried to open the door for them. “Thank you, guv’nor,” he said as he gave them a nod.
Randall placed his top hat on his head and gave it a thump on its lid to be sure it was secure. Holding his arm out for Constance, he was relieved she took it without him having to invite her to do so.
“Why did he call you ‘governor’?” Constance asked, noting how the man matched his steps to her own, despite his longer legs.
Randall gave a shrug. “Can’t say as I know,” he replied quickly, not wanting to tell her he was a titled man just then. “Now, my horse is a cross between a Cleveland Bay and a descendant of an Arabian that was bred to other bays,” he said, picking up where he had left off in the tea shop.
“A half Thoroughbred, then?” Constance queried.
Randall allowed a chuckle. “Half of that and half of that again, I suppose,” he replied. “Apollo is large, but he’s fast, and he has the stamina for a hunt or a good ride around my entire property.”
Constance frowned. Goodness! He must own all of Cavendish Square and half of London if his horse has the stamina he claims it does. “Do you ride him in Cavendish Square then?” she asked.
The marquess laughed out loud. “No. He’s not even in London, my lady,” he said with a grin. “I wouldn’t subject him to such torture as having to live in London. He’s on my property in Reading. Not too far west of here,” he added, in case she wasn’t familiar with the geography.
A bit surprised the man would have a townhouse in Curzon Street, a house in Cavendish Square, and property in Reading, Constance was about to ask him what else he might own when she realized he was watching her. “What is it?” she asked as she angled her head so she could see him better.
“You’re not the least bit impressed, are you, my lady?” he asked with a smirk.
Her eyes widening with his claim, Constance shook her head. “I am if you wish me to be,” she countered. “From the moment you introduced yourself this morning, I figured you had to be well-to-do.” When Randall displayed an arched eyebrow, she added, “From your manner of speech, and your clothes, and your boots. And your ... address, I suppose.”
Randall blinked. “You know where I live then?” he asked in surprise before remembering he had mentioned the house in Cavendish Square. Of course, that was the address she was referring to, he thought.
A blush colored Constance’s face. “I wasn’t sure until I saw you leave early this morning. You were headed toward the park.”
Randall nodded, realizing he wasn’t the only one who noticed what his neighbors were doing. Goodness! He had been watching her come and go without any thought to her doing the same of him! “Truth be told, I saw you earlier today, as well,” he admitted. “When you and your maid returned from the park.”
Constance nodded. “I thought you did. I do hope you’ve forgiven me for my maid’s behavior earlier.”
“Of course,” he answered, giving her gloved hand a pat with his own. He would have to be requesting the same of her once she learned his true identity.
If it ever came to that.
Realizing they would be coming upon her townhouse— or Norwick’s, rather—within the next block, he turned the subject back to one of her comments. “Now you must tell me about the horses you love,” he insisted. Even without looking at her, he could tell the topic had her filled with joy.
“There are eight of them.”
“Eight?” he repeated in surprise. All racehorses? he nearly asked.
“Yes, and they all have the sweetest of temperaments and the most attractive coats.”
“Indeed?” he interjected. “What breeds are they?”
Constance sighed. “The mare, Amasia, is a Cleveland Bay—”
“Good choice,” Randall said with a nod.
“And her colt, Mr. Tuttlebaum, is a Thoroughbred, as is his younger brother, Mr. Wiggins. Then there are five others, four of whom are draft horses we use for haying, and finally, one who is Yorkshire Trotter. The Yorky is the one I like to ride,” she added as she returned her attention to Randall. Her smile faltered when she saw his expression. “What is it, Mr. Roderick?” she asked in a whisper.
Randall had to prevent himself from pulling her into his arms and simply kissing her senseless. Did the chit know how she lit up when she spoke of her horses? How she turned into a completely different person when she described life in her native Sussex? “Nothing, my lady,” he said with a shake of his head. “But I must commend you for your love of horseflesh. I have never met a woman who was so enamored with horses. It’s a pleasure to know one such as you exists.”
The pleasant sensation of flutterbies passed through her belly, forcing her to inhale sharply and hope the man didn’t notice. “Thank you, Mr. Roderick,” she finally replied.
“But what of the sires?” he asked suddenly, remembering her comment about the mare and two colts. The one had been a racehorse. What of the younger Thoroughbred?
“Bounder?” she replied.
Randall frowned and stutter-stepped. “Are you accusing me of being a bounder, Miss Fitzwilliam?” he wondered, trying to decide if he she felt offended or happy she was comfortable enough with him to tease him.
Her wide eyes told him she wasn’t teasing.
“Of course not!” she replied. “Unless you are?” she added, one eye nearly winking.
Chuckling, Randall shook his head. He had been called far worse than “bounder” in his younger years. “Tell me about this ... bounder, then,” he encouraged.
Constance gave a slight shrug. “Bounder is Viscount Bostwick’s Arabian. He sired both of Amasia’s colts,” sh
e said in an off-hand manner.
Randall nearly stopped in his tracks. Good God! he thought suddenly. Was it possible the younger Thoroughbred could be a racer? “Do you plan to race Mr. ... Mr. Wiggins, was it?” he wondered, hoping he remembered the name correctly.
“Yes, but I rather doubt it,” she replied with a shrug of one shoulder. “The racing, I mean,” she clarified, wishing she could see his reaction more clearly. But Randall was facing forward and she couldn’t make out his expression.
“A bit of a shame. Seems he might be worth a try on the track,” he commented, wishing they weren’t already at her townhouse. He wanted to know more about Mr. Wiggins. “Will I see you again in the park? Tomorrow morning?” Randall asked just as they arrived at her townhouse.
Her eyes widening, Constance wondered if he thought to arrange a liaison. Perhaps he was a bounder. “I don’t yet know my plans for tomorrow,” she managed to say before digging her key out of her reticule.
Randall felt a stab of disappointment. “I’ll be happy to escort you whilst you’re in the park, should our paths cross again,” he said. “I should like to speak with you more about your horses. And thank you for going to Gunter’s with me. I hope we can do it again very soon.” He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it before tipping is hat. “Good day.”
Constance gave him a curtsy. “Thank you, Mr. Roderick.” Without a look back, she quickly ascended the few stairs to the front door and disappeared inside.
Chapter 26
A Meeting with a Father
Four o’clock in the afternoon
“Has Lord Middleton arrived yet?” Lord Wakefield asked of the footman who held open the front door to White’s. The men’s club seemed busier this afternoon, no doubt because many of its members had returned to London for the start of the fall sessions of Parliament. However, few balls or soirées had been scheduled; most invitations would go out next week for the Little Season events.
“I believe Lord Middleton is in the card room, my lord,” the footman answered as he took the earl’s hat. Despite the slight chill in the air, Charles had elected to leave his townhouse without a coat. He tossed the man a shilling and made his way through the club, nodding at acquaintances and passing by others with his eyes on the card room door.
The Love of a Rake Page 17