Mary Balogh

by A Counterfeit Betrothal; The Notorious Rake

  Life settled back to normal. No one, she had found, seemed to blame her for Lord Edmond’s dreadful breach of good manners to Mr. Beasley. Indeed, several people had commented when she returned to the salon that the brief argument had livened the evening. Colonel and Mrs. Hyde made no mention of the incident when she called on them the following day, and when she dined with Penelope, Mr. Hubbard being from home, her friend remarked only that actually it had been rather funny.

  “And though I may quarrel somewhat with his choice of words, Mary,” she said, “I could not help agreeing with the sentiment. It seems he was the only person present willing to cross swords with Mr. Beasley.”

  She would put the whole ghastly episode behind her, Mary thought as she prepared for the evening at the theater. There would be dinner at Hannah’s first and then on to the Drury Lane, one of a party of six. Hannah had invited the Viscount Goodrich as her escort. Mary had known him for several years and had always liked his quiet good manners and sensible conversation. He was about ten years her senior, about the same age as Marcus, in fact. Hannah had confided in her that he had shown definite interest in learning that her “friendship” with Marcus was at an end, and had asked his friend, Hannah’s husband, to pair them up for some occasion.

  “He has been a widower for eight years, Mary,” Hannah said, “and is ready to make another match, if Julian has understood the matter right. It would be splendid for you.”

  Mary tended to agree. She had not really thought of marriage since Lawrence’s death. She had grieved for a long time. And then there had been her new life to set up in London, and her long friendship with Marcus had satisfied her need for masculine companionship—while it had lasted. But she was thirty years old and childless. And she had needs—needs that had lain dormant in her since Lawrence’s death, but that had recently flared again.

  She quelled a vivid and unwilling memory of just how well those needs had been satisfied during the notorious Vauxhall night. But she needed more than physical contact with a man; she needed a relationship. Perhaps she could have both with the viscount. Perhaps she could have another marriage. It was too early to plan yet, of course. But the possibility was enough to add some pleasurable anticipation to her preparations for the evening. She wore her new rose-pink silk.

  Dinner was everything she could have hoped for. The food was superior—the Barretts’ cook had had several covert offers from other households but had remained loyal to her employers. The company was good—the Waddingtons were the other couple—and the conversation stimulating. And the Viscount Goodrich was flatteringly attentive without being embarrassingly so.

  “You should always wear such vivid colors, Lady Mornington,” he had said in the drawing room when she had first arrived. He had looked at her appreciatively. “They become you.”

  She had felt good about the evening from that moment on.

  The play that evening was to be The Tempest, by William Shakespeare. It was not one of his more entertaining plays, Lord Goodrich gave as his opinion during dinner, though it was one of his most thought-provoking. And of course it could be a visually pleasing play, provided it was produced well. Did not Lady Mornington consider Caliban one of Shakespeare’s most villainous characters?

  “I must confess that I have always felt a little sorry for the man—for the creature,” Mary said. “But it happens in great literature, does it not? The most satanic characters can be so well-developed that one cannot help but identify with them. Satan himself in Paradise Lost, for example. Perhaps there is the realization through such creatures that there but for the grace of God go we.”

  “And unfortunately,” Mrs. Waddington added, “evil aways has a rather fatal attraction for us.”

  The discussion became lively when Mr. Barrett stepped in to disagree with the ladies.

  Mary looked forward to watching that particular play. But she discovered as always on their arrival at the theater that just the place itself, just the atmosphere, was enough to arouse excitement in her. Had life only been a little different for her, she often thought, perhaps she would have been an actress.

  “Mary,” Hannah whispered, leaning toward her just before the play began, “that dreadful man has just arrived and is staring at our box—at you, I would imagine—through his quizzing glass.”

  “Where?” Mary had no doubt who “that dreadful man” was.

  “First tier of boxes,” Hannah said. “Almost opposite. Ah, he has lowered the glass. He has not pestered you since that dreadfully vulgar display he made in your salon? You showed great fortitude, I must confess, in not swooning quite away. I am sure I would have, had it happened in my home.”

  Mary did not look immediately. But she leaned a little closer to the viscount, who was waiting to make some comment to her, and she smiled warmly back at him and continued the conversation. She felt self-conscious and angry, though it was unfair to do so. Lord Edmond Waite had as much right to be at the theater as she, she supposed.

  She looked finally just as the play was beginning. Her eyes went immediately to the right box. He was alone. He did not have his quizzing glass to his eye, but he was looking directly across the theater at her, just as if there were nothing of interest to see on the stage. Mary turned her head sharply away to watch the action, and leaned another fraction of an inch closer to the viscount. Their shoulders almost touched.

  She found herself wishing over the next hour that it were one of Shakespeare’s simpler plays. She was finding it difficult to concentrate.

  The Waddingtons left the box during the interval to call upon acquaintances in another box, and Hannah and her husband stepped into the hallway to stretch their legs. The viscount asked Mary her opinion of the production of the play and proceeded to give his. She wished that she had paid it more attention.

  When the door to the box opened, she turned her head, expecting to see Hannah return. She froze.

  “Ah,” Lord Edmond Waite said, “my eyes did not deceive me. Good evening, Mary. Goodrich?”

  Mary? She bit her lower lip.

  “Waite?” The viscount’s voice dripped with ice.

  “Good evening, my lord,” she said. And when he reached out a hand to her, she felt obliged to set her own in it. And inevitably he raised it to his lips.

  “Your salon was well-attended two evenings ago,” he said. “You must have been gratified. Of course, you provided your guests with stimulating company, Mary, as always. I came to thank you for an interesting evening and to apologize for having had to leave early.”

  “I understand,” she said. “You had another appointment.”

  “You were not there, Goodrich,” Lord Edmond said, and only then did he release her hand. “You missed a splendid evening. But then, Mary’s literary evenings are quite famous. I daresay next week’s will be just as stimulating. Perhaps I will be able to stay later next time.”

  His pale blue eyes were openly caressing her. Mary was rigid with fury. What was he implying for Lord Goodrich’s benefit? That they had some sort of relationship? Some sort of intimacy? How dare he call her Mary in someone else’s hearing? Or even when there was no one else to hear, for that matter.

  “I have always intended to sample one of Lady Mornington’s entertainments,” the viscount said, his voice stiff and cold. “Perhaps I shall do so next week.”

  “And how are you enjoying the play, Mary?” Lord Edmond asked. “A little dry, would you say?”

  “By no means,” she said. “I find it quite stimulating to the mind.” Her words sounded pompous even to her own ears. And they were quite untrue.

  “Prospero likes the sound of his own voice too much,” he said. “He should be content to allow the Bard’s words to speak for themselves.”

  “But is not the whole point of performed drama to breathe life into words that are dead on a page?” the viscount asked, not even trying to hide his contempt.

  Lord Edmond considered. “I have never found words on a page particularly dead,” he said. “
Only perhaps the mind that reads them.”

  It was a masterly setdown. But quite unnecessary. And very unmannerly under the circumstances. And who was he to talk of dead minds? And to the Viscount Goodrich, of all people?

  The viscount shrugged and turned away. The insult was beneath his notice, it seemed.

  “Don’t you admire Caliban, Mary?” Lord Edmond asked. “And don’t you wish that he could rise up and sock all the other sanctimonious characters between the eyes? I would have made a hero of him if I had been Shakespeare.” He laughed. “Perhaps it is as well I was not.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. But she could not comment on Caliban in the viscount’s hearing. How could she condemn him when she had spoken up in his defense at the dinner table?

  “You are not to be drawn,” Lord Edmond said. “I think you must secretly like him, Mary. I believe women sometimes do admire what seems ugly and brutish. Beauty and the beast and all that.”

  “That would seem to imply that women crave brutality and abuse,” she said. “It does not show a great respect for either women themselves or their minds.”

  “Ah,” he said, “you become too deep for me, Mary. I do not believe I mentioned abuse. It seems that I am interrupting a tête-à-tête here. I came merely to pay my compliments. I shall see you again, my dear.”

  My dear? Mary’s eyes widened.

  “Good night,” he said. “Goodrich?”

  But the viscount, who was gazing down into the pit, did not reply. Lord Edmond looked back to Mary, winked at her, and left the box. She could hear herself exhaling.

  “Lady Mornington,” the viscount said, “I did not know you were acquainted with Lord Edmond Waite. Are you sure it is wise?”

  She looked at him in some surprise. “I have only the slightest acquaintance with him,” she said.

  “And yet he calls you by your given name?” he said.

  “I have never given him leave to so do,” she said. “He was being impertinent.”

  “The man has an unsavory reputation,” he said, “especially since he humiliated Lady Dorothea Page so unpardonably. You have heard about that?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I do not like the man, I do assure you.”

  “I am relieved to hear it,” he said. “If you had only given me the slightest signal, ma’am, I would have requested in no uncertain terms that he leave the box immediately. I do not like the fact that his visit here was made under the eye of half the ton.”

  For your sake or mine? she wanted to ask him, looking at him curiously. But he did not supply the answer to her question.

  When the last stragglers had returned to their boxes, she noticed later, Lord Edmond Waite’s box remained empty. He did not reappear for the rest of the evening.

  Viscount Goodrich’s carriage conveyed the Waddingtons home before Mary, though her house was closer to the theater. She sat alone beside him during the short ride home.

  “You are to attend the Menzies ball?” he asked her.

  “Yes.” She smiled. “I am looking forward to it. I like to dance occasionally.”

  “We are all entitled to some frivolous enjoyment in life,” he said. “Will you do me the honor of dancing the opening set with me, ma’am, and perhaps a waltz later in the evening?”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I shall look forward to it.”

  “But that is all of three days in the future,” he said. “May I take you for a drive—tomorrow? Perhaps as far as Kew?”

  Kew. She remembered another invitation to drive there.

  “That would be pleasant,” she said. “I always enjoy a stroll in Kew Gardens.”

  “Then I shall come for you after luncheon,” he said.

  He helped her down to the pavement when his carriage stopped outside her house, and squeezed her hand before releasing it.

  Inside the house, Mary handed her evening cloak to her manservant and ran lightly up the stairs, well pleased with the evening if she blocked from her mind the one discordant episode. The viscount was a pleasant, intelligent companion. And he seemed eager to see her again—Kew the next day and two sets with him at the Menzies ball.

  It would be good, she thought, to have a beau again, to have someone interested exclusively in her. It would be good to have a man to dream of. To have a possible marriage to hope for. She was ready for marriage again, she thought, for the assurance that her man would always come home to her at night. She was ready for children. It was not too late, surely. She was only thirty years old.

  She pictured the viscount in her mind with his pleasant features and slightly receding fair hair. And she saw Lord Edmond Waite’s pale blue eyes intent on hers.

  Well, at least, she thought, a new man in her life would help her banish the memories. And in future, if Lord Edmond tried to intrude himself into her company while Lord Goodrich was near, he would be told in no uncertain terms to take himself off.

  Mary thought of his saying that words were not dead on a page, only the mind that read them. And she smiled despite herself.

  SO MARY AND Goodrich were about to become an item, were they? Lord Edmond Waite thought, viewing the two of them waltzing together. His hand was spread across her back in a proprietary manner and she was smiling up at him. He himself was late. He had had no wish to run the gauntlet of a receiving line when he had received no invitation. But as he had suspected, no one had impeded his progress into the ballroom. And only a few matrons appeared to have noticed him and frowned possessively at their young charges lest they rush at him and elope to Gretna with him without further ado.

  Ah. She had seen him. And had jerked her head away and was smiling even more determinedly up at Goodrich. It was a promising sign. At least she was not indifferent to him. She was damned hostile, but that was better than indifference.

  Goodrich. He did nothing to keep the sneer from his face as he raised his quizzing glass to his eye and surveyed them through it. She could hardly have chosen anyone duller or more respectable if she had tried. A pillar of respectability. The man had had the same mistress in keeping since several years before the death of his first wife, and was rumored to have been faithful to her—apart from some beddings of his wife while she had still lived, presumably. The mistress was now plump and matronly herself, and the mother of five offspring.

  But Goodrich was a respectable soul. If he felt himself in need of another wife, he would certainly not dream of marrying the woman who had given him all for years without benefit of clergy and presented him with a whole brood of bastard children. No, he would marry Lady Mornington, who curiously had preserved her reputation for respectability despite her lengthy liaison with a married man.

  Lord Edmond’s lips thinned into an arctic smile. He wondered how eager Goodrich would be to lay even the tip of one finger on Mary if he knew just how eagerly and lasciviously she had given herself little more than a week before to a certain gentleman currently out of favor with the ton.

  The waltz was ending. Lord Edmond inclined his head to Lady Menzies, who had just caught sight of him from a short distance away and was staring at him, somewhat startled. He strolled in the direction in which Goodrich was leading Mary. They had joined the Hubbards and the Barretts before he came up to them. He made his bow to the group.

  “A grand squeeze,” he said, “for so late in the Season.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Penelope Hubbard said. “We were just saying so ourselves.”

  Lord Edmond turned his gaze upon Mary. “May I?” he asked, touching the card at her wrist.

  “That dance is mine, Waite,” the viscount said stiffly. Lord Edmond raised his eyebrows. “Which?” he asked.

  “Whichever one you were planning to claim.” The viscount fixed him with a hard stare.

  The devil, Lord Edmond thought, there could be a duel at dawn if he was not careful. That would do wonders for his reputation. Especially if he put a bullet between Goodrich’s eyes, as he would be sorely tempted to do. Five bastards might have to face the morrow as orphans. />
  “Indeed,” he said, lifting the card from Mary’s unresisting wrist and opening it. His eyes glanced through it. “Ah, but you forgot to write your name, Goodrich. And I believe it is just as well. Mary’s card tells me that you have already danced two sets with her. Would you sully her reputation by claiming a third?”

  They were one step closer to that duel, he saw when he glanced up.

  “Her card is full,” the viscount said slowly and distinctly, as if he were talking to an imbecile. “There is no dance free for you, Waite.”

  The other two ladies were shifting uncomfortably, Lord Edmond was aware. Mr. Hubbard was clearing his throat.

  “Perhaps that is for the lady to say,” he said. “Mary?”

  “Lady Mornington to you,” the viscount said. “And you will let go of that card if you know what is good for you, Waite.”

  A few other people close by were beginning to look at their group.

  “Oh, please,” Mary said. “I will be happy to dance one set with you, my lord.”

  “Ma’am, there is really no need to give in to coercion, I do assure you,” the viscount said.

  But Lord Edmond ignored him. He looked through the card. “A waltz?” he said. “The second set after supper?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice breathless.

  He scribbled his name in the space next to that particular set, made his bow to her, and withdrew to the card room, where luck was with him and he won three hands in succession.

  He wandered alone in the ballroom and anterooms and out onto the balcony during supper and returned to the card room when the dancing resumed, a spectator rather than a player. He was listening to the music, waiting for the first set to end.

  She was not with her friends this time. She was alone, walking purposefully along one side of the ballroom as if she were on her way somewhere definite. But he knew that she had merely chosen not to be embarrassed again in front of her friends. His lips curled.

  “Mary?” he said, touching her on the arm. “My dance, I believe?”

  “Yes.” Her face was pale, her jaw set. “I have never given you leave to address me by my given name.”