by Anita Mills
Even as she emerged into the upper hall, she was surprised to hear Crome greeting someone below. Curious, she leaned over the railing to see Viscount Lyndon in the foyer, looking up at her.
“Good morning,” he called out.
“I thought fine lords did not rise so early,” she muttered.
“We tend to sleep late after dissipation, Miss Cole, but as I retired early last night, I am for a turn in the park this morning. I thought to stop by and inquire of your father—and to see if you might be persuaded to drive out with me.”
“Alas, I would not. As for my father, he is more than a trifle hagged, but his temper is strong, and that is a good sign, I think.”
“I do not suppose you would come down, that we might converse in a more normal tone of voice?” he coaxed.
She started to tell him she had nothing to say to him, but thought better of it. “All right, but you find me scarce ready for company, my lord.”
She didn’t suddenly start patting her hair into place or smoothing her gown nervously, and Tony liked that instantly. It denoted an unconscious acceptance of her beauty and made her even more attractive when compared with the young misses of his acquaintance. Most of them would titter nervously and fret about their looks until a man couldn’t converse decently with them. He watched and admired as she came down the wide steps, the hem of her sprigged-muslin day gown touching the polished wood softly. Her glorious hair had been brushed until it shone, and it hung down past her shoulders artlessly. In that moment he wondered how he could ever have mistaken her for a Cyprian.
“Very well,” she announced crisply as she stepped off the last stair, “I am here. What is it that you wished to discuss with me?”
“Is there someplace where we may be more private?”
She looked up at him suspiciously, trying to discern his motives, but his brilliant blue eyes were friendly and his smile disarming. Despite her prejudice against him, she found herself responding to that ready smile of his. “Yes,” she answered, “my father’s library—the maids are cleaning the front saloon.”
She waited for him to follow her into the richly paneled room, tall bookcases lining its walls. As she left the door slightly ajar, he moved to examine the nearest shelves appreciatively. “Your father has all the classics,” he murmured in approval.
“Those are mine—as are all of them on this side of the room.” Noting his skeptical expression, she added, “When one does not go about much, one reads. Alas, but you have contracted yourself to a bluestocking, my lord.” Unbending slightly, she gestured to the opposite wall. “My father’s are over there and make for dull reading. You would not credit it, but he has one entire shelf devoted to the construction of ships. Papa,” she added proudly, “has never been a sailor, but I’ll warrant he knows every board in one of his vessels.”
“And I admire him for it,” he responded sincerely. “Miss Cole, you must not think that I look down on trade. I have owned a ship myself.”
“Yes, of course—the one that went down.”
“A deuced bad piece of luck, but I shall come about. It was not my only investment, despite what everyone thinks.”
“Of course you will come about—with my money,” she countered acidly. Moving to lift the rich drapery that darkened one of the tall windows, she looked outside. The sun was shining warmly and there was not a sign of a cloud in the sky. Spring flowers blossomed in profusion in plantings that ringed the house, bringing with them the promise of summer. Her thoughts immediately went to her father, and the lowering thought crept into her mind that he might not live to see her entry into the world he’d so desperately sought for her. She dropped the curtain as her spirits sank.
“I think my father is very ill,” she said quietly, as much to herself as to Lord Lyndon.
He came up behind her, and without thinking placed his hands on her shoulders. “I hope not. But if you would wish a consult, I can arrange—”
“No. Dr. Fournier understands Papa, and that is important. I doubt another physician would have the patience to deal with him, for Papa can be quite obstreperous when he wishes.” She drew away and turned to face Lyndon. “Your pardon—I am merely blue-deviled today.”
“Perhaps with good reason, my dear.”
Her eyes widened at the sympathy in his voice. Kindness was the last thing she’d expected of a man like Lyndon, but then he wished to share her father’s fortune. Resolutely she steeled herself to remain aloof, to ignore his efforts to win her goodwill.
“Lord Lyndon, it is imperative that we understand each other—I am not your ‘dear,’ as you chose to put it,” she told him firmly, striving to keep him at a distance.
“A manner of speech, merely, Miss Cole—but it does become tiresome calling you ‘Miss Cole’ when we are betrothed.” He favored her with a rueful smile that threatened to disarm her. “Think how we shall be remarked when we go about in society together whilst persisting in such formality.”
“You are funning with me, my lord.”
“I assure you that I am not. I think that if we are to establish you amongst the ton, Miss Cole, we ought to pass this off as a love match.” This time he emphasized “Miss Cole” so heavily that he made it sound ridiculous. “Unless, of course, you wish it to be said that I have been bought with your father’s money.”
“But you are bought with my father’s money,” she reminded him.
“But do you wish to hear everyone say it?”
“I do not care what they say!” she retorted.
“Miss Cole, I do not care if you fling epithets at me when we are private, but in public you will call me by my given name—’tis Anthony, but my intimates call me Tony.”
“I do not intend to be one of your intimates!”
“Not at all?” he asked with a faintly injured air. “A man has the right to expect certain things from his wife, you know.”
“You may expect Papa’s money. If I were to be plain on that head, sir: if I could think of any way to decline your offer without oversetting Papa, I should do so on the instant. I do not particularly wish to be a titled lady. In fact,” she added dramatically, “I do not even wish to know you.”
“You are forgetting the matter of my succession, Miss Cole—you behold the last Lyndon Barsett.”
“That, sir, is no concern of mine.”
There was no point in arguing the matter now, Tony decided, for he was still reasonably certain that he could change her mind once they were wed. Instead, he tried another tack. “At least flirt with me when we are in company.”
“Ί should not know how.”
“I never met a female who wasn’t born to it.”
“Obviously you have known the wrong sort of females.”
His temper snapped under the weight of her persistent rebuffs. “I do not know who you think you are, Miss Cole, and I do not know where you got the maggot in your brain that you make the only sacrifice in this marriage! You are mistaken, you know, for I have enjoyed my freedom immensely.”
“Then cry off and keep it! You cannot come in here and tell me how ’tis to be—how I am to go on amongst your tonnish friends. I’ll not have it! My father wishes me to appear the lady, not the fool!”
“Here now, miss!”
She spun around guiltily, and to her horror discovered her father dressed to go out. “Papa, you must not—”
“I ain’t going to lie abed—got things to do, damme if I don’t. Now, what is the meaning of this?”
Tony was the first to recover. “I came to see how you fared, sir, and to tell Leah that my aunt Davenham means to present her at Davenham House Thursday next.”
“Told you he was relation to the Duchess of Davenham!” Jeptha Cole crowed triumphantly at his daughter.
“The dowager duchess,” Tony corrected him. “Actually, I am related to all of them, but ‘tis the dowager who gives the party. Owing to a digestive complaint, my cousin’s wife is taking the waters at
Bath this spring.”
“There is no need to educate my father, Lord Lyndon,” Leah cut in coldly.
“Didn’t take it amiss, my dear—have to know that sort of thing if you are to succeed in this lady business, after all.”
“Your pardon, Miss Cole—’twas not my intent to instruct so much as to tell which duchess gives the party,” Tony fired back. Turning to her father, he added easily, “ ’Tis the warmest day yet this spring, and I am on my way to take a turn about in the park. Perhaps I could persuade you to drive out with me? I have a new pair to put through their paces.”
“No . . . no, my lord. Ain’t expecting you to put me before the world—it wouldn’t be seemly.”
“Nonsense,” Tony dismissed this objection briskly. “If you think I mean to hide you in the family closet, you are mistaken. Besides, I should like your opinion on the rum market, sir.”
“Rum is always sound—men of all classes will drink rather than eat, my lord. But if you was to ask me about speculating in that market, I could tell you a thing or two, I suppose. Now, if ’twas me, I’d hedge a bit—not put all my blunt in one pocket, you know. Damme if I don’t think I will go, sir—that is, if you was truly to want me.”
“Of a certainty.”
“ ’Course, it ain’t seemly . . .” The older man hesitated again. “I mean, what if you was to meet some of your fancy friends, my lord?”
“I’d introduce you as my papa-in-law-to-be,” Tony answered firmly.
“Well . . .”
“If he does not wish to go, my lord—”
“The air will do him good—better than an office on a day like this,” Tony argued.
“Now, you leave me and his lordship alone,” her father intervened. “We got things to talk about.”
Following the older man to the door, Tony turned back to grin at Leah. “Good day, Miss Cole. I shall be back to take you up tomorrow.” And while she glowered at him, he had the impudence to wink.
10
Leah tugged nervously at her pearl eardrops as her maid pinned an errant strand of blond hair into place. She had no doubt about the elegance of her toilette or her appearance, yet she approached her impending introduction to the haut ton with considerable trepidation. That she was guest of honor at a party given by Lord Lyndon’s elderly relative gave her no illusions about her acceptability, particularly not since the dowager had not even called in person to discuss her plans.
“Please, mademoiselle, but you must sit still if I am to finish this,” the petite French maid complained. “You will wish to be beautiful for Lord Lyndon and his friends.”
“If you would have the truth of it, Jeanne, I care not what they think of me. They will let me know soon enough that I am not of his world.”
Leah rose from the dressing table to survey herself in the cheval glass. Lyndon had made it quite plain to her father that she should wear something simple and white for her debut, and she did not think the color became her nearly so well as almost any other. But then Lyndon was quite free with unwanted advice, and she was not inclined to take much of it. For well over a week, he’d fairly haunted them, spending much of his time with her father, so much in fact that she’d tasked him with it. But her pointed hints had fallen wide of their mark, and he’d merely smiled and replied that he rather liked the old fellow.
“I shall look the veriest dowd,” she muttered, taking in her reflection in the mirror. “They shall dub me ‘the milkmaid’ or some such sobriquet, and I shall not have a chance.”
“Mais non, mademoiselle,” Jeanne protested. “All the gentlemen will think you trés belle—I swear it.”
Leah eyed herself doubtfully and smoothed the softly clinging white material with damp palms. The Grecian drape of the gown clung to the curves of her breasts and hips almost indecently, she thought, and yet Lyndon himself had chosen it, remarking that he wanted to be certain she did not appear again in blue taffeta and plumes. “He probably is more used to the company of Cyprians than ladies, and does not know how I should look, if the truth were known,” she groused under her breath.
The maid shook her head. “You will have all the beaux in London at your feet, mademoiselle.”
“Ah, Jeanne, you are just like Papa,” Leah sighed. “You forget that without my money I am a totally ineligible female. And even with it, ’twill be said behind my back that I am an encroaching upstart, probably even by those who deign to speak to my face.”
“Lord Lyndon awaits, Miss Leah,” one of the upstairs maids announced through the closed door.
“I thought ’twas unfashionable to be punctual,” she grumbled as Jeanne stood on tiptoe to repin a Grecian curl that nestled at the nape of her neck. “Have done—’tis time for this travesty to begin.”
She swept out into the hallway and paused briefly at the head of the curved, stately staircase. Her hands and feet felt like ice as her wrapped kid sandals trod the first few steps slowly. She stopped to take a deep breath at the landing, unaware that the sunset framed her through the sparkling leaded panes behind her.
Tony looked up and his breath caught almost painfully in his chest. Despite Crome’s pointed remark that “Mr. Cole is in the library, my lord,” he’d chosen to wait for her to come down. There was something so regal, so graceful about her on the stairs that he thought he’d never tire of seeing her thus. And tonight she looked like a grand painting, a portrait that ought to be forever captured for posterity. He made a mental note to have Lawrence paint her if he could be enticed back to England. He’d have her just as she was now, with that draped gown, her hair piled in cascading curls, her neck and shoulders bare save for the single strand of pearls at her throat. The effect was stunning—he’d be the envy of every man he knew once she was seen.
He moved with easy grace to stand at the foot of the staircase, where he caught her hand as she executed the last step and carried it to his lips. “Venus descending,” he murmured over her fingers. “Your hands are cold, my dear,” he added, chafing them between his warm ones.
“ ’Tis the evening air, no doubt.” She quickly pulled away as though she were afraid to touch him.
To the footmen and maids who peeped from the service-stairs doorway, they were a breathtaking pair. “Gor—he’s beautiful!” one of the girls sighed dreamily, only to be brought to book by a footman, who shook his head. “Naw, Miss Leah outshines ’im.”
“There is no need to play the lover here, Lord Lyndon,” Leah hissed in a low undervoice.
“Tony,” he reminded her.
“Pray save the informality until we are in company.”
“Look like a god and goddess,” Jeptha Cole said in approval from the library doorway. “Ain’t a soul there as won’t think you was a lady born once you are seen, Leah—looks like a queen, don’t she, my lord?”
“She does that,” Tony agreed sincerely.
It was then that Leah noticed her father wore his plain brown coat and his tan kerseymere pantaloons. “You are not coming?” she demanded in panic.
“Now, don’t be in a taking, puss—you and Lyndon make my regrets to Her Grace the duchess. I’ve not a doubt but what his lordship here’ll see to everything for you, anyways.”
“But—”
“I’d not disgrace you, Leah.” He shook his head definitely and turned to Tony. “You understand, don’t you, my lord? I’d not spoil it for her, and if I was to go, there’d be somebody to say I smell too much of the shop.”
“I assure you—”
“No, no,” he cut Tony short. “I know you don’t hold it against me anymore, but there’s them that would. You run along and take her with you—it does me proud just to look at the two of you afore you go. Just wish Marianna could’ve lived to see you, though.”
“Papa, you are quite certain you are feeling well?”
“Right as a tick,” he reassured her. “Tired, that’s all. Going to read a bit over my brandy—and don’t say I cannot have any, ’cause
I ain’t had any today. Now, go on with you—the duchess is waiting to meet you!”
“Oh, Papa.” Leah brushed past Tony to embrace her father and brush a kiss against his cheek.
He patted her awkwardly, as though he feared to ruin her gown. “There, now, missy—enough of this,” he told her gruffly. “You got Lyndon for that sort of thing now. Off with you both.”
He watched proudly as Tony took her fringed Norwich silk shawl and draped it around her bare shoulders, and then he walked slowly back into the library. Uncorking a decanter, he poured himself a stout glass of brandy and held it up beneath the blond woman on the wall.
“Well, Marianna, ’tis better than we ever hoped for—fellow pleases me more every time I see him. Now, if I can just stay to see m’first grandson, I’ll be content.”
Leah and Tony rode the better part of the way to Davenham House in silence, each viewing the approaching party with misgivings. Twice Tony attempted to make polite conversation to alleviate the tension, only to be rebuffed by her terse answers. Finally his patience snapped.
“I sincerely hope you are more animated at your betrothal party, else everyone will think I have contracted myself to a peagoose,” he muttered after her last monosyllabic reply.
“A rich peagoose,” she corrected.
“And that rankles you, doesn’t it? Your sex is to be congratulated when you ensnare rich men, but mine is to be condemned for fortune-hunting when we marry well.”
“They’ll not congratulate you for wedding a merchant’s daughter.”
“With a title and money, one can be forgiven almost anything, Miss Cole,” he retorted. “When you are a viscountess with heirs in your nursery, there will be few to remember you were ever anything else.”