It might have remained nothing more, but that night chanced to be the first since his lordship’s return to London that was not overflowing with engagements. He dined alone and long after the last plate had been cleared from the delicate lace covering the lengthy table, he sat gazing unseeing at the flames pirouetting upon the candletops of the branched silver candelabrum. His long legs were stretched out before him as he sprawled within his chair, one hand draped over the wooden arm while the other idly twirled an empty crystal glass.
He meant to write the news of his betrothal to his grandfather and was thinking of how his message would be received when out of the candle flames came two very vivid, very unpleasant images. The first was that of his dashing fiancée shuddering with repulsion as his lips fell upon hers. And the second, the look of pure scorn directed at him from Miss Rose’s gray eyes. The crystal ceased to spin. The viscount’s hand clenched, snapping the long stem of the glass in two.
“My lord!” exclaimed the footman as he started from the shadows behind the viscount’s chair.
“It’s nothing!” Stratford assured him crispy. He wrapped the linen napkin about his hand, though the ruffled wrist of his shirt had already been stained with his blood. “A scratch—nothing more.” He stood, staring a moment at the broken shards, then turned to leave the room, saying over his shoulder, “Tell Felton to have my carriage brought round, if you please.”
Lord Stratford was shortly to be seen amongst those ambling through the walks of Vauxhall Gardens. From the rotunda the strains of an orchestral concert could be hard as all manner of people passed along the delightfully graveled walks and through the triumphal arches. Class distinctions did not apply to the pleasure gardens. Anyone with the shilling for admission came to enjoy the beauty of the groves festooned with thousands of lamps, to watch the fireworks or to listen to the many concerts given each night. Everyone from ruffians to royalty, from the lightest light-skirt to the grandest grande dame was to be seen there.
Viscount Stratford paid little attention, however, to the many attractions. As a holder of a silver season ticket, he had seen it all before. But as he drew near the boxes which opened onto the colonnades, he evidenced rather more interest, pausing to scan the occupants through a ribboned quizzing glass.
In one box, supping in splendor, sat a copper-haired beauty wearing a daring green silk gown with a plunging décolletage that clung enchantingly to her fine figure. A spangled shawl slid artfully off her bare shoulders. Sapphires hung from her ears and circled her throat. Her cropped curls were ornamented with a gold band from which two soft feathers extended, accentuating an altogether ravishing sight.
When the beauty at last caught sight of him, her surprise was apparent for the color faded from behind her rouged cheeks and she turned rapidly to make conversation with her blond companion.
Stratford sauntered forward, a mocking satisfaction playing upon his lips. “Lady Holden, Mrs. Loveday,” he said with a slight bow to each as he neared. “I must confess my amazement seeing two such charming beauties dining alone. I must ask, have the men of the ton gone blind?”
Giggling, Lady Holden hid behind her painted silk fan. Her laughter heightened her ruddy complexion, already nearing the shade of her beribboned cochineal gown.
His fulsome compliment was not, however, so thoroughly enjoyed by Mrs. Loveday. She eyed him coolly. “You were not moved to say such pretty things this afternoon. Have you had perhaps a change of . . . heart?”
He smiled, an attractive, appealing smile that yet escaped his eyes. “I’ve been told I haven’t got a heart. Would you mind if I joined you? Or are you indeed waiting upon someone?”
“Why, no, my lord,” a simpering Lady Holden said as she dropped her fan. “Should w be likely to wait upon anyone else when we might have your company instead?”
He responded to this flirtatious quip with a kiss upon each lady’s hand before turning to come round the box. The instant he stepped away, Thalia leaned toward her friend and said beseechingly, “Can you make some excuse to be absent for a time?”
Promising nothing, Lady Holden looked knowingly at her, but stopped short of winking. When Stratford joined them, she endured a fulminating glance from Thalia as she playfully tapped his fingers with her closed fan. “You did not linger long, my lord. I declare, ’tis said, where’s there’s haste, there’s a randy man, to be sure!” On this vulgar shot, she rose. “I must stop to chat with friends I’ve chanced to see. Do not be doing what I should not, Thalia!” she added with an arch wag as she exited through the back of the booth.
His lordship took her vacant seat. “That woman shows clearly to be the cit’s widow she was before Holden married her money. I wonder that you’ve take her up, Thalia.”
Thalia knew all there was to know about throwing out the lures with which to catch a man’s interest. But for once, she did not make use of such tricks, saying instead with simple sincerity, “I’ve not given up hope of your returning to me, Colin. Am I wrong to dare hope?”
This worked as feminine wiles would not have done. The viscount captured her slim wrist, encircling it with his square hand. “That depends, my dear.”
She caught her breath. “On what?”
Stratford pressed his mouth warmly on the point where her pulse wildly coursed. His deep dark eyes then rose to meet hers. “On how much you tempt me to want you.”
“Oh, Colin, how I’ve missed you!” she whispered as his head bent over her wrist once more. Her eyes drank in the vision of him, moving from the thick black hair past the firm jawline to the full lips nuzzling her skin. As he released her wrist, she noticed the cut along his palm. “What happened to your hand?”
A cloud passed over his features. “It’s nothing. I was careless and cut myself.”
He rose abruptly to stand behind her, running his hands restively along the creamy flesh of her shoulders. Then he bent to drop a kiss upon the back of her bare neck when from the corner of his eye he caught sight of a tall, slim woman in a drab olive gown. Stiffening, Stratford raised his gaze.
Across the spacious, well-lit lawn he saw Miss Rose Lawrence, her smile fading as she recognized him. Cold distaste crossed clearly over her face. Nettled, the viscount pressed his lips on Thalia’s neck with slow deliberation. For good measure, he followed this with a kiss planted firmly on her shoulder. But when he looked up to see the effect, Miss Lawrence had gone.
“Darling,” Thalia murmured, twisting her head to face him. “Shall we leave?”
He sat back down beside her. “I think that I’d much rather stay and enjoy the pleasures of Vauxhall.”
She hid her disappointment and smiled gaily as he filled their wine glasses. But inside, she ached to be alone and in his expert arms once again. She ran her hand along his cheek and though he caught her hand and kissed it, she had the oddest notion that he did so absently. It now seemed to her that his attention was devoted to the passing crowds, and Thalia set herself to be as tantalizing as she well knew how to be.
Despite her efforts, his lordship was considering leaving the booth to wander through the gardens, wondering if he could again see that olive gown amongst the various groves and lanes, when a man unexpectedly entered the box behind him.
Soberly, but fashionably, dressed, he was of medium height and had a build that had once been athletic, but now tended to the paunchiness of middle age. The hands gripping his gold-topped walking stick had whitened and he bore an air of suppressed rage.
“One might term such a touching scene intimate, but I believe intolerable might be more apt,” he rasped through tightened lips.
“Robert! What a fright you’ve given me!” Thalia exclaimed rather shrilly. “Coming in like that!”
“I do not doubt, madam wife, that you did not expect me,” he leveled at her. “But I found no occasion to remain in the country once I learned of a certain lord’s return to London.”
Robert Loveday was quite some years older than his wife. His lined face seemed older st
ill in the glaring light of the box as his anger engraved each line more deeply. His eyes continued to bore through the viscount as he stood rigidly facing him.
Stratford gradually unfolded himself to stand before the older man. “I do not like your tone, sir, or your implication,” he said in voice devoid of emotion.
The walking stick jerked up, but whatever Loveday meant to say or do was never known.
On the instant, the door to the box again swung open and Rose Lawrence stepped in saying brightly, “Dear Lord Stratford, you were quite right! The Grand Cascade was indeed a wonder to behold.” Turning, she applied to her sister for affirmation. “Was it not, Helen?”
Entering behind her, Helen nervously agreed that it was indeed a wonder, just like a real waterfall.
Rose smiled brilliantly upon them all before focusing her radiant attention on the stunned Thalia. “Mrs. Loveday, it was most kind of you to include us in this expedition. The gardens are all I’ve ever read or heard they were.” As no one seemed inclined to speak, she directed an inquiring look at the graying gentleman scowling fiercely at her. “I don’t believe I know . . .”
With a blatant look of admiration, Stratford performed the necessary introductions, causing Rose to exclaim, “Oh, Mr. Loveday, you are so fortunate to have the dearest wife! No one could have been more kind to my sister or me during our stay here in town. Though it’s not yet been made public, Helen is betrothed to the viscount, you know, and we’ve met with graciousness from all his friends, but most especially from dear Mrs. Loveday.”
While dear Mrs. Loveday sat in wordless dismay, Helen put in a tremulous, “Yes, indeed, so kind,” which earned her a derisive glare from Thalia’s husband.
There was nothing Loveday could do but accept the situation Miss Lawrence had thrust upon him, though he did so will ill grace, whispering harshly to the viscount, “Do not think, Stratford, that this makes an end to it!”
His lordship replied with surprising calm that he thought no such thing, but his apparent amusement only served to further infuriate the outraged husband and Stratford decided it was perhaps time to absent himself.
“Did I not see your Aunt Thacker here?” he said, interrupting Rose’s flowing chatter. “Should we not join her?”
“If you wish,” she answered. Taking Thalia’s hand, she said in a voice dripping of honey, “I know that when Helen and Stratford are wed, they shall have you often to visit, so I look forward to seeing you again. Goodnight, Mrs., Mr. Loveday.”
Stratford accompanied the sisters out of the box, leaving Thalia to face her husband’s frustrated fury alone.
His own enjoyment of the situation was clipped short some twenty feet from the box when Rose rounded on him, her eyes flashing. “If you’ve no thought for your own reputation, you might do well to remember Helen’s!”
“Please, Rose, don’t,” Helen begged, turning ghostly pale. “There is no need. I am not—”
“There is every need,” her sister objected. “Someone must tell this fatuous—”
“I’m quite certain you shall do so, Miss Lawrence,” the viscount broke in, “but I don’t think you wish to do so here. Unless, of course, you wish to create precisely the kind of scene you’ve been working so strenuously to avoid.”
Miss Lawrence appeared to have lost the power of speech as her mouth fell soundlessly open. She allowed his lordship to lead them to her aunt’s booth, not listening to the steady stream of inconsequential comments to Helen. By the time they joined the Thacker party, she had regained enough of her usual composure to greet them steadily.
Three pairs of eyes scrutinized Stratford, each with a different measure of curiosity. Amy’s violet eyes were openly agog with interest; Elizabeth’s examined him in consternation; it was left to Daniel Baldwin’s eyes to provide the disapproval which his lordship expected.
Throughout the brief time he remained with them, Stratford was treated to a display of frigid disdain from Miss Lawrence, while he saw readily that he would soon be subjected to another inflamed interview with his cousin. His fiancée was unexpectedly courteous and before he parted from them, he pressed her hand and said softly, “I must ask your forgiveness.”
“It’s nothing, I assure you,” she told him. “But, please, please, Stratford, do not be arguing with Rose. I—I do not think I can bear it!”
With a greater degree of warmth and understanding than she had yet had from him, Stratford assured her that he desired nothing more than to be on good terms with her sister. He left them on a promise to call in Brook Street the following morning.
Rose fumed in silence until they at last returned to the Thacker’s town house. After tapping once sharply on the door of her sister’s room, Rose stormed in to demand, “How could you be so pleasant to him? Was it not the outside of enough that we must debase ourselves with his mistress?”
“But, dearest, you suggested it,” Helen pointed out timidly.
“To avoid a scandal! It was apparent Loveday meant to challenge Stratford and a fine thing it would be to have him involved in a duel over Thalia Loveday a week before he’s betrothed to you! Though if he’d been killed it would have served him right,” she added with bloodthirsty relish.
“But, Rose, if I do not mind his connection with Mrs. Loveday, I do not see that you have any cause to complain! You must remember that ours is to be a modern marriage, like the French marriage of convenience.”
Rose stared unbelieving at Helen, then stated firmly, “Even so, I know that if he were my fiancée, I would not suffer the likes of Thalia Loveday.”
So saying, she retired with a slam to her own room to scheme with satisfaction all the cutting things she meant to say to his lordship on the morrow.
Chapter 11
Adroitly maneuvering his restive pair of grays through the heavy morning traffic on Bond Street the following day, Viscount Stratford was startled to espy a well-know ruffled mobcap progressing down the street, apparently quite alone. He pulled roughly on the reins, causing Jem to protest loudly, “M’lord! To be yanking at the horses’ mouths like that!”
“Get down and hold their heads,” Stratford ordered tersely as he leapt lightly from the curricle. Three swift strides brought him to the side of the tall, slender figure wearing the mobcap, where he said without preamble, “Come with me. I’ll see you home.”
Rose Lawrence turned slowly to face the owner of that hated voice. “Thank you, but I am not yet going home.”
“Where is your maid?”
“I have none with me.”
“Then you are most assuredly going home with me now.” The viscount put out a peremptory hand.
Rose saw no option but to take it. She was soon seated beside Stratford in his curricle as it proceeded toward the Thacker’s town house. As they drove through the crowded streets, his lordship rang a pithy peal over her head on the improprieties of young ladies strolling down Bond Street unescorted during the height of the season until at last Rose could no longer restrain the laughter burbling up within her.
“And just what are you laughing at?” he demanded in a thunderous voice.
“Why at you, my lord!” she answered through her merriment. “Anyone less suited to be lecturing on propriety, I cannot imagine!”
“Your reputation, Miss Lawrence, is no laughing matter,” he bit out.
“But, surely, Lord Stratford, I am well past the age of such considerations.”
“Well past . . . my God, you are worse than the greenest schoolgirl! If you’ve no more sense than to wander about town attracting the attention of the vulgar, then your reputation should be left to its own deserts!”
One glance was sufficient for Stratford to realize that Miss Lawrence was wholly insensible to the gravity of her morning’s solecism. The mirth clearly sparkled in her eyes and it appeared that only by pressing her lips firmly together was she able to refrain from again exhibiting a display of hoydenish laughter.
Rose was indeed amused. It was not in her nature to rema
in out of temper for long, and the white fury of the night before had dimmed with the first bright rays of sunlight. With calm reflection, she had decided that he best course lay in seeing as little of her sister’s fiancé during her stay in London as possible. That she had run almost directly into him on her first expedition about town was humorously ironic. That he should issue such a lecture was, to her view, nearly a cause for hysterics.
Though he managed to remain remarkably expressionless as he stood behind the fascinating exchange between m’lord and the lady, Jem had difficulty restraining himself when, as they pulled up before the Thackers’ tall town house, the viscount again jerked at the ribbons in a manner quite unlike his usual gentle handling of his grays. He was further surprised when the lady climbed nimbly down and attempted to forestall m’lord by thanking him for the ride.
“Although I do think perhaps I should make you explain to my cousin why I’ve arrived home without the lavender water I promised to procure for her.” Her humor turned to alarm as Stratford began to follow her down. “No, Sir, there is no need!”
“You mistake, Miss Lawrence,” he countered as he took one elbow and guided her along. “There is plainly a need for your aunt to be informed of your excursions. I’m quite sure she is completely ignorant of your doings.”
She had the grace to flush and allowed him to lead her up the steps. Pausing at the top, Stratford added, “And I had promised to call upon Helen today.”
“My sister . . .” Rose began before breaking off abruptly.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“Is much too good for you!”
“If you mean to argue with me, my dear girl, you must do better than that. It is a point which even I cannot argue,” he said with a provoking smile.
He held open the door and Miss Lawrence passed into the house without responding. But as she began to mount the stairs, she halted to cast a speculative look at him. “I did say, did I not, that you were no fool.”
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