by Anita Mills
“Is no worse than yours!” she shot back.
“He’s a bloody blackguard!”
“He is not!”
“Do not be a fool, Caroline—Rotherfield is worse than I ever thought of being.”
“At least he is received! You will find him at ton parties—which cannot be said of you!” She saw him blanch and wished she could call back the words. “Your pardon, Patrick—I should not have said that.” To her dismay, he reached to pick up his hat. “I only meant that—”
“You only meant that I am a coward,” he finished for her. “I have cared little enough what a pack of fops and dandies thought of me, but I can see that it matters to you. Well, Miss Ashley, you can expect to see me at everything—if only to prove it can be done. Good day, Miss Ashley.”
“My lord, please—”
“No—you have made it perfectly plain that my suit is hopeless.” He jammed his hat on his head and walked through the open door.
She stood rooted in place for a moment, and then ran after him. “Patrick, wait! I did not mean—”
The door slammed in her face.
Tears of frustration brimmed. Behind her, Rotherfield came out of Lord Milbourne’s library. His eyes traveled to the door that had closed with such force and then back to her face. “I am sorry, my dear. I should not have left you alone with him, after all. He’s overset you needlessly.”
“No—no—I am quite all right, sir. But if you will but excuse me … ” She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a moan and ran up the stairs to hide her misery. Sobbing, she flung herself on her bed and gave vent to a healthy bout of tears.
17
Mrs. Farnsworth, an indomitable hostess who firmly believed that the ensuing gossip often made the event, greeted the arrival first of Rotherfield and his party and later Lord Westover with remarkable equanimity. Certainly, with Brummell, the Prince Regent, Lords Ponsonby, Alvanley, Grahame, Haverstoke, and a host of other leaders of the ton present, she knew her little affair would not go unremarked. But with Rotherfield, the Lyndons, and Westover—well, she could expect to hear of it for days. With an air of total self-satisfaction, she smiled indulgently as Albert Bascombe followed his betrothed down the receiving line.
“Don’t know Beethoven from that other fellow,” Bertie muttered under his breath. “Don’t know why m’father made me come. Don’t want to do the pretty by you—don’t.”
“Mozart,” Juliana hissed. “And I do not know why you are come either. I’d as lief you’d stayed home, believe me.”
Shocked by this unloverlike display by the ton’s newest engaged couple, Mrs. Farnsworth raised her glass and squinted at them. “In my day, young man,” she addressed Bertie, “a fellow didn’t complain until after the wedding! Humph!”
“Ain’t complaining—ain’t musical, that’s all,” Bertie defended.
“Mr. Bascombe,” Juliana whispered as they left the line, “have you seen Caro?”
“Miss Ashley? How could I? You was with me. If I’d seen her, you would have also.”
Juliana sighed. It was going to be an interminable evening if she did not find someone to converse with. It was uncomfortable enough receiving the good wishes of a totally mystified ton without having to endure her unwanted betrothed. And while she resented even pretending to accept the betrothal, it galled her that Bascombe did not even bother with the appearance of caring a fig about her. She looked up to see that he was already several steps ahead of her and she had to catch up. Smiling at a fat matron who appeared surprised by Bascombe’s attitude, Juliana clasped Bertie’s arm determinedly and gave him a pinch.
“Ouch! Why’d you do that?” he blurted out. “How would you like it if I was to—”
“Be quiet!” Juliana ordered.
“But—”;
Dragging him out of anyone’s hearing, Juliana hissed at him, “You might at least appear to be pleased when someone congratulates you, Mr. Bascombe. Before you bumbled into Mama’s clutches, I was considered a highly desirable female, you know.”
“Then cry off,” he told her bluntly.
“I cannot—Mama would bury me at Crosslands. I’d never get another Season.”
“Hang your mama!” Bertie looked across to where Lady Canfield stood conversing with his father. “I got other worries, Miss Canfield. If you don’t do something, m’ father’s going to have us leg-shackled in a trice. ‘Take her to Italy on your wedding trip,’ he says!”
“I would not go as far as Cheapside with you!”
“Then cry off.”
“Bascombe!”
To Bertie’s horror, Lord Rotherfield was bearing down on them. He took in the earl’s austere dress and his coldly handsome face, and a chill ran down his spine. They could talk of Patrick, but Bertie’d not want to quarrel with Rotherfield either. He put a hand where Juliana’s rested on his arm, a gesture more designed to give him security than to protect her. Amazed, he saw his betrothed change from a carping harridan to a reigning Incomparable.
“R-Rotherfield,” Bertie stammered.
“Allow me to wish you happy, sir.”
Bertie goggled when he perceived that the earl was regarding him almost pleasantly. “I say, deuced nice of you, my lord!”
“The attachment is of long standing, I presume?”
“Eh? Uh… no, not precisely.” Bertie felt Juliana’s fingers tighten on his sleeve. “Sort of hasty, actually. Met her one week—popped the question the next, I guess you could say.”
“With a trip to France in between.” The black eyebrow rose as the earl surveyed the squirming Bertie. “How very busy you’ve been, old fellow.” A faint smile curved the corners of his mouth.
“Eh? France? Uh … ”
“You are very fortunate to have come about so quickly.”
“Have you heard Mrs. Bentwood sing, my lord?” Juliana asked to divert Rotherfield.
“Alas, I have not, but I daresay I shall endure it.” The smile faded. “Your pardon, Bascombe, but I seem to have misplaced Miss Ashley in this squeeze. Perhaps you would allow Miss Canfield to assist in finding her?”
“Eh? Oh, be glad to!”
Elated despite the glare her mother cast her, Juliana took Rotherfield’s arm. His next words sent her spirits crashing down. “You must have wanted to be a countess very badly, Miss Canfield, if you can stomach Bertie Bascombe. Or were you looking for a rich but amiable fool?”
“Wha—” She stiffened in outrage. “How dare you, sir?”
“Haverstoke’s in remarkably good health and scarce out of his prime. No, if you fancied yourself a countess, you should have tried less chancy waters. His father could well outlive him.”
“I do not see this as any of your business, sir!”
“No? I could have sworn you were casting out lures to me, child. But then perhaps you considered Bertie Bascombe more of a certainty.”
“Of all the things to say!” she gasped indignantly.
“Ju! Have you seen Caro?” Patrick drew up short when he realized she was with Rotherfield.
“No, but it is all of a piece!” she snapped in asperity. “Everyone seems to be looking for dear Caro, after all. If you will excuse me, Lord Rotherfield, I really must be getting back to Albert before Mama cuts up a dust.”
“Lud!” Patrick looked heavenward when she left. “What freak of distemper ails her?”
“The price of a rich title, most likely,” the earl muttered after her. In that instant, he made up his mind on something that he had been toying with since Juliana’s betrothal became known. Turning back to Patrick, he warned, “I should not bother Miss Ashley, were I you, Westover. She finds your attentions offensive.”
“That is none of your affair.”
“I mean to make it mine.” The earl’s black eyes stared into Patrick’s hazel ones. “She prefers me to you.”
“I should not want to quarrel with you, Marcus, but I am not afraid of you,” Patrick reminded h
im stiffly.
“It may come to that, but I hope not.” Rotherfield reached to draw out an onyx-lidded snuffbox. Flicking it open expertly, he extended it to Patrick. “Excellent sort—had it from Petersham’s best mix.”
“No, I dislike sneezing.” Patrick counted silently to hold his temper in check. Looking across the room to where Leah Barsett stood chatting with her husband and their hostess, he shook his head. “I thought you were head over heels for Lady Lyndon.”
“The fair Leah? No. There was a time when I thought so, but then I realized my case was hopeless. I owe her my thanks, however—had it not been for her friendship, I should never have ventured back into the ton.”
“It surprised me that Anthony Barsett never ran you through.”
“The fiery Tony? Oh, we were to meet once, but then he realized ’twas nonsense. She loved him, after all. And I was no fool—I knew it.”
“So now you want Caro. Tell me, Marcus, who will it be next year? Or the year after?”
“Despite what you think, I am a man of honor.”
Patrick stopped. Those had been almost his very words to Caroline Ashley once. Rotherfield flicked the case closed without taking a pinch. Returning it to his pocket, he executed a stiff bow to Patrick and moved away.
The candles were being systematically doused to dim the room and still Patrick had not found Caroline. He made one last sweep of the room before reluctantly taking a seat. The matchmaking mama next to him gave him a broad smile until she placed his handsome face with his notorious name. The smile turned to a glare as she made her daughter move over another chair.
“I say, Miss Ashley,” Bertie whispered desperately behind a wall of potted palms, “you’ve got to help me! If something ain’t done, I’m going to be tied to Miss Canfield forever!”
“They cannot make you do it, Mr. Bascombe. I daresay if you go to Lord Haverstoke and explain—”
“No.” He shook his head morosely. “He thinks its a capital idea. Lud! I’d-rather marry you than her.”
In spite of the abduction and everything else, Caroline felt a certain amount of sympathy for Bertie’s plight. After having listened to how it had come out, she could see the entire scene in her mind, and she knew exactly how Lenore Canfield had coerced him. “I don’t see what I can do about it,” she mused slowly. “Perhaps Westover can think of something.”
“Patrick?” Bertie scoffed. “Un-uhhh—got his own problems just now, what with the wager and his Uncle Vernon’s will and all that. Time’s running out, you know.”
“I’d almost forgotten.” Suddenly she was struck by inspiration. “Mr. Bascombe, have you spoken with Juliana’s father?”
“Un-uhhh.”
“Sir Max is quite the dearest person. Indeed, one can scarcely fathom that he married Lady Lenore, once one knows him. Anyway, perhaps you could tell him that you never actually offered for Juliana. I am sure he would not expect you to wed with her if your feelings were not truly engaged.”
“Well, they ain’t.”
“Tell him.”
“Can’t—he’s gone to Somerset or someplace.”
“Well, tell him when he gets back. No one would expect you to marry her without her father being there.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” Bertie breathed in relief. “You know, Miss Ashley, you are a very good sort of girl—for a female, I mean.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bascombe. But I believe we shall be left in darkness if we do not find seats. Unless I am mistaken, it appears that Lady Canfield is holding a chair for you.”
“Un-uhhh. Going to sit with you—you ain’t trying to marry me,” he insisted.
The room was crowded with people milling about for seats. Caroline did not see the Barsetts or Rotherfield. Unconsciously she scanned the room for Patrick, and then saw him seated next to a woman and her daughter. Well, what could she expect? she chided herself as her spirits sank. He had to have a wife, after all, or he would lose his fortune. She finally spied half a row of unoccupied chairs in the back. “Come on then,” she whispered to Bertie, “else we shall be left standing.”
Mercifully, Mrs. Bentwood proved to be a competent songstress with a rich soprano voice. And, unlike some singers Caro had heard, she had some expression to her delivery. From time to time, Caroline glanced over to her companion, who sat in dismal silence even when the rest of the audience broke into applause. Poor Bertie, she thought. His poor brain was no match for the schemes of a Lenore Canfield. And he was right: married to Juliana, he could expect to spend a life of misery, for Caro was certain that the high-spirted girl would come to disgrace. No, Juliana needed a strong person like Patrick—or Rotherfield.
As the candles were relit after the program, Caroline rose to find that Patrick Danvers had made his way over to her. She turned around and collided with him, righting herself by clutching at his arms. “Jade!” he hissed as he set her in front of him.
“What?” She stared, stunned.
“Don’t come the innocent with me, Caro!”
“My lord, I have not the slightest notion of what—”
“You know very well! I cannot believe I was so mistaken in your character!”
Caroline looked around her and was mortified to see that they had attracted a small crowd of extremely interested spectators. “Please, my lord—”
“Patrick,” he bit off precisely.
“Very well—Patrick. I would prefer not to discuss whatever this is in public. I—”
Before she could finish her sentence, he’d grasped her elbow and was propelling her toward the French doors that had been opened to cool the room. Wordlessly he steered her out into the fragrant garden behind the Farnsworth house. As soon as they reached a dark path, he stopped and turned her around.
“Just what do you think you are doing? I shall be quite ruined—you cannot just drag me out here without—” Her words were muffled as he pulled her into his arms and bent his head to hers. She barely had time to close her eyes before she felt the strong, warm pressure of his lips. For an instant she gave herself up to the heady feel of being held by him, and then she began to struggle. Abruptly he released her. His hazel eyes glittered in the faint moonlight. “Does Rotherfield do that for you?” he rasped.
“You … you beast!” she choked. “How dare you!” She pulled away and stumbled back down the path while he stared after her. Tripping over a low bench, she literally fell into the Earl of Rotherfield’s arms.
“Are you all right, Miss Ashley?”
“Yes … no … ooooh!” Angry tears welled in her eyes, but she made no move to brush them away. Rotherfield put an arm around her shoulders and started her back to the house.
“You know that you cannot go back in like this, don’t you? Full half the place saw you come out with Westover, and the other half saw me come after you.” He stopped and took out his handkerchief. “Blow your nose, Miss Ashley,” he ordered brusquely, “and calm yourself. The tabbies are going to have a bowl of cream over this, no matter what, but I mean to spike their guns as best I can.”
Nodding, she blew and then dabbed at her eyes with a dry corner of the linen square. “I … I am fine—angry, but that’s all.”
“Good.”
When they walked back in, there were countless curious stares and a buzz of comments spread over the room. Behind them, a furious Patrick Danvers came through the double French doors. Caroline saw Lenore Canfield’s smug expression and the shock on the hostess’s face. Rotherfield stopped and calmly picked an errant leaf out of Caro’s hair before taking her hand. Moving directly to Mrs. Farnsworth, he announced baldly, “Wish me happy, for Miss Ashley is to be my countess.” The room spun around Caroline as she stared in helpless disbelief. The buzz turned into a roar. She closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them, she could see a white-faced Patrick Danvers turn and walk out. She opened her mouth to disclaim the betrothal and then shut it, realizing that she could not publicly embarrass the ea
rl for his kindness.
18
Caroline awoke after an extremely restless night hoping that somehow she had only dreamed the bizarre events of Mrs. Farnsworth’s party. All night long, she had been tormented by Patrick Danvers’ kiss and Rotherfield’s enigmatic smile. As she dawdled over her morning chocolate, she relived again every preposterous moment in the garden and saw anew the look of shocked disbelief written on all those faces when the earl had announced his betrothal. It was ludicrous in the extreme to find that she had gone from being a totally ineligible female to being pursued by two of the most notorious men in the country. Had she read her story in one of the romances at Hookham’s, she would have dismissed it as utterly ridiculous.
Countess of Rotherfield. The image of the earl floated before her for a moment—cold, austere, mocking. Why had he done it? Kindness? To pique Patrick Danvers? As much as she could remember, there’d never been any on-dits about a quarrel between the two men. Did he think himself taken with her? Somehow, as Caroline reviewed every word of conversation they’d exchanged, she did not think so. What could possibly have prompted him to take such a rash step?
Mrs. Farnsworth’s look of stunned confusion floated before her. Caro’d almost blurted out that it wasn’t so—that he’d not offered and she’d not accepted—but there was such fury in Lady Canfield’s expression that she’d said nothing. And in doing so, she’d made the fiction fact. Rotherfield. She had no more desire to wed with him than with Patrick Danvers. Not true, she admitted to herself. She had less desire to be wed to him, for she knew now that it was Patrick she wanted. Well, she’d certainly shut that door once and for all. Not even Patrick would pursue someone else’s betrothed. With that lowering thought, she pushed away her tray and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
Lady Milbourne’s dresser, Marsh, entered the room and laid out a demurely cut rose muslin gown, drawers, petticoat, and zona without intruding on Caroline’s thoughts. Usually condescending in her attitude, she now stood back respectfully and waited.
“Oh, thank you, Marsh,” Caro murmured absently without rising.