“Never mind sweet-talking me,” Aunt Catherine continued undaunted. “A woman does better in this world with a husband. Why not Ingleby?”
He was another man with more than a touch of violence about him. It was in his eyes and the tight way he held himself. Althea recognized the signs and suppressed a shiver. “I don’t find him attractive.”
“Attractive? That’s of little importance. We are talking about a husband, not a lover.”
Her aunt’s husband had died some years ago. A generous, quiet man, a good deal older than Catherine. She studied her aunt, whom she was said to favor. Catherine was still arresting in a Gros de Naples gown of deep violet, the color of her eyes, which had not dimmed. Might she have taken a lover at some point? Althea dismissed the idea immediately. There had never been a whiff of scandal attached to her.
“You can’t say the Irishman, Montsimon, isn’t attractive,” Aunt Catherine said, nodding to where he moved through the crowd, a head taller than most around him.
Althea turned in his direction. “Yes, he is, and a rake.” Lord Montsimon was part of the King’s immoral court.
“Some woman will tame him. Rakes make the best husbands once they settle down.”
“If they settle down,” Althea said with a laugh. “Wasn’t it Samuel Richardson who disputed the idea of a reformed rake making the best husband? According to him, it was a false and inconsiderate notion.”
“Pooh,” Aunt Catherine said rudely. “You have simply no idea how to enjoy life, child.”
Althea did not add that Montsimon had attempted to woo her into his bed. Since she had been widowed, many men pursued her. Widows were seen as fair game. Men assumed she was dying of frustration! She supposed she was an oddity. Younger widows often remarried after a year of mourning. Others found suitable arrangements outside marriage. Her treatment since she’d been widowed had shattered her confidence. After her marriage ended as brutally as it began, she enjoyed her freedom and wished for neither husband nor lover, but still came under criticism. Ladies with roving husbands glowered at her while their husbands made discreet advances.
Aunt Catherine motioned with her fan. “Have you noticed the way Montsimon looks at you? If you play your cards right, you’ll be the one to tame him, my dear. Well worth the effort, I’ll wager.”
“How do you suggest I do that?” she asked, surprised by her curiosity. She had a vision of taking a whip to a panther and almost giggled.
“You allow him to hope you will invite him into your bed. And you play him like a salmon on a hook. For a clever woman like you that shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“It sounds downright dishonest, Aunt!”
“Don’t be so naïve. Look around you. The ton thrives on deceitfulness and game playing! And you will deliver on that promise. Eventually. Not to do so would be unsporting. And gazing at Montsimon, I would consider it foolish.” Her aunt’s cheeks flushed, and she vigorously applied her fan. “At first let him get to know you. Let him begin to want more from you than merely someone to warm his bed. When he can’t live without you, then…”
Althea gasped. Perhaps she’d misjudged her relative. “Aunt…”
Her aunt laughed. “You’re surprised?”
“I knew you to be wise, but I never suspected you capable of such…” Failing to find a polite word, she fell silent.
“Cunning?” Her aunt snapped her fan shut and smiled like a cat caught climbing the dove cote. No doubt pleased to have stunned her. “You are of my blood, and just as smart yourself. You just need practice.” She gazed over Althea’s shoulder and opened her fan to cover her mouth. “Montsimon comes to ask you to dance. I would advise you not to shun him. It would be bad ton and such a dreadful waste!”
To refuse Montsimon would be wrong when she’d been dancing earlier. He advanced on her decidedly panther-like through the crush. Could she keep a man such as him on a loose leash? He had all the charm of the Irish in his soft burr and the looks to go with it, a kind of loose-limbed grace and elegance. Althea flicked her fan, refusing to ogle him like the women around her, including, she feared, her aunt. Only when a pair of darkly clad legs of supreme length and shape stood before her, did she look up. His unusual, smoky gray eyes held a spark of humor. She admitted to not being entirely resistant to his élan, which she suspected came as easily to him as breathing. Humor was attractive in a man. That was why she’d been avoiding him.
But there was no avoiding him now. He bowed over her aunt’s hand and then hers. “Might I have the pleasure of this dance, Lady Brookwood?”
His eyes held a gleam which defied her to refuse as she had snubbed him in the past. She had to admire his persistence. She nodded with a polite but distant smile. “Yes, my lord.”
If he were surprised she’d accepted him so readily, he had the grace not to show it. Leading her onto the floor, he clasped a hand at her waist as the musicians began to play. Althea marveled that in spite of his long list of lovers, no serious scandal had attached itself to him. In the ladies’ withdrawing room, women did talk, but only praise and regret had reached her ears. Silver-tongued, he bewitched them. The Irish were known for it. She needed to develop some sort of armor against him, for they met often during the season. She’d become a challenge she suspected, for few women would refuse him and she’d quite deliberately done so. To keep a grip on her emotions, she settled her gaze on the surrounding dancers and imagined she danced with the king who held no attraction for her. It proved to be difficult; Montsimon’s shoulder felt hard beneath her gloved hand. She gazed at his wide chest encased in a silver waistcoat. He was lean, but she guessed his body would be strong. Her eyes drifted downward. She felt her cheeks heat. Aunt Catherine had lowered the standard of her thoughts.
When she looked up again, the invitation in his gray eyes almost robbed her of breath. A smile lurked on his handsome mouth.
“You don’t wish to talk, Lady Brookwood?” He swept her expertly around the floor. “The last time we danced you took exception to something about me. Was it the management of my neckcloth, perhaps? Or is it my dancing which displeases you?”
“Not at all, my lord. I’m a trifle breathless,” she said as he deftly turned them. “You dance extremely well.” As she supposed he did most things.
“An accomplished partner makes a man look good.”
“You are too gracious.”
His hand holding her gloved one tightened, settling her closer. “Too gracious? Would you prefer me not to be? I am of a versatile nature. I can be whatever you wish.”
She glanced up through her lashes. “I am gratified, my lord, that you desire to please me.”
“You have only to tell me what it is you wish of me,” he said, his tone persuasive, while his eyes held a wicked twinkle.
The music ended, and couples began to leave the floor. Unaccountably hot, she rested her hand on his arm. “My wish is for you to return me to my aunt, my lord.” How smug he looked. She would love to take men like him down a peg or two. She would never embark on such a scheme as her aunt suggested. It was too devious, even though she liked few men, and as for rakes, they deserved all they got.
“Ah, Lady Brookwood, you disappoint me. Here I was thinking there was more to you than being content with the quiet life you appear to lead.” He offered her his arm as they joined the rest to leave the floor. “I sensed a desire for adventure, romance. I’m sure I glimpsed it in your lovely eyes.”
She rested her gloved fingers lightly on his silk-clad arm. “I am most concerned for your sight, Lord Montsimon. Perhaps a physician?” she said crisply, annoyed by his assumption that she had nothing in her life. It would appear dull to such as him, she supposed, but that was how she preferred it.
He grinned and the glance he gave her caused her to lose her breath. “You look as pretty as a garden tonight in that gown adorned with roses and bluebells. But a man might be in danger of being stung by a wasp if he ventures too close.”
“You have the right of it,
Lord Montsimon.”
He chuckled as he deposited her with her aunt. Without further ado, he bowed and left them.
“Well?” Aunt Catherine leaned toward her.
“Well, what?”
“Did you arrange an assignation?”
Althea took up her fan and waved it before her hot face. “Of course not. It would be most improper.”
“Silly girl. Do stop that action with your fan. It looks like you are swatting at insects. You have missed an opportunity.”
“I declare you wish to live vicariously through me, Aunt.”
Her aunt snorted. “A widow must make her way in the world. He talks now to Maria Broadstairs. See how she laughs with him and how elegantly she employs her fan.”
“It’s common knowledge that the duchess adores her husband. She merely likes to flirt.”
Her aunt’s eyebrows rose. “Have you never enjoyed a lighthearted dalliance?”
Althea sighed. “It would be dishonest of me to encourage anyone when I am not in the least interested in them.”
“Flirting is one of the few enjoyable pastimes a woman can participate in without censure.” Aunt Catherine shook her head despairingly. “I believe you need lessons, Althea.”
Althea shook her head at her aunt with a bemused smile, excused herself, and went to speak to good friends, Hetty, the vivacious redheaded wife of Baron Fortescue and Sibella, the smart, dark-haired beauty who married John, the Marquess of Strathairn two years ago.
“I watched Lord Montsimon approach you,” Hetty said with a grin. “He had a very determined look in his eye.”
Althea shook her head, refusing to be drawn. She was aware that her friends wanted to see her marry again. “He dances well.”
“Althea!” Sibella’s green eyes danced. “Is that all you can say about the man practically every woman in the room is ogling?” She laughed. “Even I can admit that apart from John, and Guy, of course, he really is one of the most handsome men in the ton.”
“And charming,” Hetty said.
“And rather nice, as well,” Sibella added.
“He is a rake and part of the king’s set,” Althea said. “He wastes his time pursuing me.”
“What a shame,” Hetty said with a sigh.
“Indeed,” Sibella agreed.
Althea laughed. “You shall not turn my head, ladies. Tell me, how are your delightful children?”
Chapter Two
At first, Flynn had believed Lady Brookwood would welcome his advances. But it now seemed there was little hope of her doing so. He hadn’t yet found the reception warm enough for him to broach the matter of a liaison. If she refused him, manners would require him to desist. He wondered why her indifference bothered him as he nodded to Miss Rutherford, who cast him an arch, come-hither smile. Wise to move on to where the reception was warmer, but he found it difficult to do. Althea’s crisp wit and beautiful violet-blue eyes both intrigued and aroused him. He roamed the length of the ballroom and pushed his way through the crowd gathered around King George. The king beckoned from where he slouched on a high-backed gilt chair. He dressed in the color of mourning while at the same time upholding his aesthetic sensibilities with the liberal addition of gold braid and buttons.
“Your Majesty.” Flynn sank into a low bow.
The rotund king nodded impatiently. “We had little time to speak at my father’s funeral, Montsimon. Did your visit to Ireland go well?”
“It did, thank you.” Flynn had failed to find a tenant for the house but saw no point in mentioning it.
“Excellent. Then you have no need to visit again for some time.” He beckoned Flynn closer. “Alterations to the Pavilion go splendidly. John Nash’s stables are a tour de force.”
Flynn steeled his mouth where a smile threatened. He had just read Hazlitt’s comment in his Travel Notes: The King’s horses (if they were horses of taste) would petition against such irrational a lodging.
King George wiped his cheeks, then employed the monogrammed silk handkerchief to shoo his lackeys away. He said in a low voice, “Come to Carlton House tomorrow at two. We would have words with you.”
“Certainly, Your Majesty. Might I enquire as to the reason?”
“Tomorrow,” the king snapped.
Patently aware of the king’s ability to abandon political principles and forget friends with barely a backward glance as he had Beau Brummell, Flynn bowed. “Your Majesty.”
Flynn made his way over to Guy, Baron Fortescue where he stood within a circle of men. They turned to greet him. “Montsimon, you might wish to take up Alvanley’s bet at White’s,” Guy said. “It concerns who among the dandies’ latest fashion disasters would Brummel most condemn. Petersham’s trousers or Mildmay’s coat?”
Montsimon chuckled. “Of equal fortune, I fear.”
Seated nearby were three lovely ladies. Guy’s wife, Horatia, chatted with Althea Brookwood and John’s wife, Lady Sibella. It was Althea that drew his eye. With her fair hair swept up in the latest fashion, she had the most graceful neck he had ever seen. He studied the widow’s shapely form with regret as he wondered what King George wished to discuss with him. George had looked unhealthy for some time, but in the hot ballroom, he was perspiring heavily, his sweat-drenched hair curling around a pallid forehead, his fleshy cheeks flushed. Worse than that, he appeared to have developed a nervous tic. It might be the result of criticism for the huge debts he incurred while lavishing money on the Brighton Pavilion. But more likely, it was fear that his wife, Caroline, who he refused to acknowledge as queen, planned to return to England and insist on attending his coronation as his consort. Whatever it was, Flynn felt sure George expected him to solve it. Did he think Flynn had the wisdom of Solomon?
*
Slough, Buckinghamshire
Alone again after spending Christmas with her Aunt Catherine, Althea breathed in the fresh country air with the hope that a spell away from London would revitalize her senses.
The hackney coach entered the busy market town of Slough. She enjoyed Aunt Catherine’s company, but of late, she seemed determined to see Althea married. “I don’t wish you to spend your life alone,” she said more than once. “With no children to brighten your old age.”
Her aunt’s marriage had been happy, but no children had resulted from it. Althea sympathized with her, which made it impossible to dissuade her aunt from her view. And she wasn’t about to reveal the appalling truth of her marriage to Brookwood.
Althea gazed out the window and winced fearing she’d made a poor companion. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had a good laugh; her melancholy was like a steel weight she seemed unable to shrug off. Owltree Cottage would make her feel better. It always did.
Ahead, a stagecoach sounded its horn, blasting its arrival through the air, before halting outside the Crown Inn. Travelers from Bath alighted. While fresh horses were led from the stables, passengers traveling to London hurried from the porch of the inn to take their seats clutching bundles and bandboxes.
Althea’s carriage continued past the butcher’s shop on the corner and, passing the gray-stone church, climbed the hill, leaving the melee behind, entering a peaceful country lane edged on one side by forest. A mile farther on, the hackney slowed and turned into the circular driveway at Owltree Cottage.
As her tense limbs unwound, Althea viewed the country house she had inherited years ago which had become the secure, quiet bay she needed. It was too modest a dwelling to interest her late husband, who had ignored its existence for years. In the month before Brookwood died, however, he’d struck fear into Althea when he’d come there twice in the space of a few weeks.
Owltree Cottage had been built four hundred years ago. A thatched-roofed stone cottage, with cream painted shutters, it nestled in an old garden, surrounded on three sides by her neighbor, Sir Horace Crowthorne’s woodland.
Althea alighted from the carriage. She stretched her legs and breathed deeply of the cold fresh air while her trunk was heaved in
side. Brought up in the country, the daughter of a Dorset farmer, she had found it difficult to adjust to London Society’s habit of staying up most of the night and sleeping half the day. During the season, she was constantly tired.
After she paid the driver, he climbed onto the box, seized the reins, and the hackney trundled off again. Althea turned to her maid waiting in the entry. Sally, a fresh-faced, reliable young woman who hailed from the village, greeted her with a bob. “Did you have a good trip, milady?”
“We were fortunate the rain held off, thank you, Sally. Has Mrs. Peebles returned from visiting her sister?”
“Friday, milady. But everything’s been made shipshape for you.”
Althea smiled. “Shipshape, Sally? Has Ned Thomas returned to port?”
The maid grinned. “He’s been on leave.” Her normally cheerful face drooped. “But he returns to duty again tomorrow.”
“I expect I’ll lose you soon.” Removing her fur hat, Althea patted her hair as she entered the front door.
“We plan to wed when Ned leaves the Navy next year. He hopes to one day become the landlord of the Red Cow.”
“A fine goal. What an asset you will be to him. I wish you both well and will help in any way I can.”
“Thank you, milady. We’ll be ever so grateful.”
After Sally assisted her out of her olive pelisse and took her things upstairs, Althea entered the snug salon where leaded windows gave a view of the garden. The leaves of the magnificent old oak hung like curled dusty fists on the branches, and beyond, the trees in the wood were still skeletal, waiting to be painted in fresh green leaf. Althea gazed about her, pleased to see that, as usual, every surface was polished, and every rug soundly beaten. This house, humble though it was, had kept her sane through the bad times.
Althea needed no urging to come home. It was here in this small, quiet corner of England that she had escaped her husband’s company when he was busy with his own pursuits, and had no need for her to act as hostess at his country seat, Brookwood Park. Her husband’s nephew, Aubrey, had inherited the estate, along with the other entailed properties, but she didn’t miss the draughty old mansion. She had no need of grand establishments.
The Viscount’s Widowed Lady Page 2