by Julia Quinn
George finished his fig and inched to the edge of his perch where he could see Liza. He tilted his head to one side and chattered a question.
“No, no. Just a case of the winter doldrums, but…” She sighed. “I don’t know. I just feel…lost. And then today, talking to Royce…I don’t know, but it made me lower than before.” He had seemed genuinely concerned about Durham, and had even made her feel…cosseted. It hadn’t lasted, of course. He’d said Meg saw her as a sister and for an instant, she’d been tempted to ask him if he thought of her as a sister. But she’d decided not to—she was already blue enough, thank you. There was no need for her to torture herself senseless.
The really sad thing was that as special as Royce had made her feel when he’d helped her into the carriage and questioned her about Durham, she was sure it was nothing compared to the attentions Royce showered on the women he was interested in. Of course, he was careful not to pay too much attention to any woman, at least not in public. But in private…She sighed restlessly, wiggling her toes in the warmth.
What did she expect, after all? She was too old to believe in fairy tales. “Love,” she scoffed to George, who looked properly disgusted with the topic. Liza’d never been in love. In fact, she wasn’t even sure she was capable of the emotion.
Her heart tightened, and tears sprang to her eyes. That was why she was depressed; she’d waited for years to experience “the grand passion,” but it never happened. Which was a great pity, for Liza was certain that being in love was the most wonderful feeling on the face of the earth. She knew just how it would feel—the giddiness, the excitement, the overwhelming emotion. She knew because she’d seen Meg fall in love with Shelbourne. Fall in love, and stay in love, which was even better.
But somehow, though Liza waited year after year, that most elusive of all sentiments had evaded her. She hadn’t really thought of it, for she’d been busy living her life. But then, on her last birthday, she’d suddenly realized that perhaps she was not meant to fall wildly and completely in love. Ever.
The sad truth was that she was far too pragmatic for such emotion. And so she’d revised her thinking. She’d find the perfect man, marry him, and then she’d fall in love. Oh, it might not be the kind of love she’d originally dreamed of—passionate and astounding. It would be the more stable sort of love—one that would last a lifetime.
So far, Lord Durham seemed the most likely candidate. He was the most solid, honest, capable, correct, and forthright man of Liza’s acquaintance. He wasn’t bad-looking, either, providing one didn’t seat him too closely to Royce. No one, not even the darkly handsome St. John men or the fascinating Bridgerton brothers, could compare to Sir Royce Pemberley. At least, not in Liza’s eyes.
But Lord Durham had one advantage that Royce would never have—Durham was genuinely interested in Liza. All she had to do was make certain that he fit in well with the Shelbournes, and the deal would be struck. After all, Meg and Royce were her family, and she valued their opinion over all others.
Which was why she’d asked Meg to invite Lord Durham to the theater tomorrow evening. Things were progressing nicely, Liza thought, trying to talk her reluctant heart into feeling at least a little more sprightly.
A discreet knock sounded, and Poole, her butler, appeared. “Lord Durham, miss.”
Liza waited, but her heart gave no excited leap. Perhaps she just needed to give it some more time. She sat up and looked for her shoes. “Send him in.”
“Yes, miss.” The butler hesitated. A long silence ensued, and Liza finally realized he wasn’t moving toward the door.
She stopped looking for her shoes. “Yes?”
“I beg your pardon, but, ah…you might want to look into the mirror, miss. Your hair…” He gave a discreet cough.
“Mussed it, did I? It’s that damned turban.”
“Shall I have Lord Durham wait a few moments before sending him in?”
“Lord, no. It’s rude to leave him kicking his heels in the morning room. Just bring him here. I’ll fix my hair in a trice.”
“Very well, miss.” Poole bowed and withdrew.
Liza fished her shoes out from beneath the footstool and put them back on her feet. That done, she smoothed her dress and then crossed to the mirror that graced the wall over the mantel. She chuckled when she saw herself. Little brown curl-horns stuck out all over her head. She looked like a cross between Medusa and a devil. No wonder Poole had stared.
Still chuckling, she raked her fingers through her hair, managing to dispel some of the horned curls into smoothish bumps instead. “There,” she said, turning to George. “What do you think?”
George cocked his head to one side and screwed up his face.
“I know it doesn’t look good. But at least admit it looks better than before.”
Before George could answer, the door opened and Poole announced quietly, “Lord Durham.” He bowed and retreated, shutting the door behind him.
George bared his teeth at the newcomer. Then jumped off his perch and sat beneath it, his rump prominently displayed.
Durham, who had been eagerly striding across the room, slowed to a halt and frowned. “That creature doesn’t like me.”
“He’s just in a bit of a temper. How are you today, Lord Durham?”
He reluctantly turned his attention from the monkey, his round face folding into a smile. “I’m better now that I’ve seen you and—” His smile froze when his gaze fell on her hair. “I—I see you’ve been sleeping.”
She put a self-conscious hand to her crumpled curls. “I’m sorry. I was wearing a turban earlier.”
“A turban? You are far too young for such a thing,” he said gravely. “And far too pretty, as well.”
Liza decided she liked being complimented. It gave one a feeling of well-being not unlike a good hot cup of chocolate. “Thank you.” She took her seat and gestured to the empty one opposite hers.
He took the chair with a pompous sort of dignity. “I’m glad I caught you at home this morning. I was afraid you might be out running errands.”
“I just returned.” Liza eyed him speculatively. Of average height and build, he was an attractive enough man. He had brown hair and dark brown eyes and walked with a certain air of authority that she rather admired. She liked a man who knew who he was and what he wanted. Unfortunately, Durham’s confidence was accompanied by a slight sense of arrogance and a touch of stodgery; both characteristics Liza would make sure were dispelled once they were married.
If she decided to marry him, she told herself. And only if. She wasn’t desperate by any means, and she did not want to make a mistake.
He offered her a ponderous smile. “My mother sends her compliments.”
“How lovely of her. Please tell her that I hope to have the opportunity to meet her sometime soon.” Liza knew a good deal about Durham’s mother. He mentioned her frequently. “How is your mother? I daresay she misses you dreadfully.”
“Oh yes. Since my father’s death, she looks to me for everything. Not that I complain, quite the opposite. I think you will find my mother is everything amiable.” Durham gave Liza a look full of meaning. “I told her it wouldn’t be long before I returned. And that I might have a surprise for her.”
For an instant, Liza couldn’t move. It was as if her mind, on understanding the not-so-subtle intention of Lord Durham’s words, had retreated into the very back of her head and refused to emerge.
But Durham didn’t need any encouragement. He smiled and said archly, “I don’t mean to be forward, Miss Pritchard, but I have been rather plain in my intentions. I hope you don’t think I’m being overeager if I give my poor mother a hint as to why her only son remains in London after so many weeks. Would you mind?”
A hot blush crept up Liza’s neck. Yes, she would mind. Though she shouldn’t. After all, this was the man she might marry. Might marry, she reminded herself.
Good God, what was wrong with her? This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Durham was a s
olid, respectable, honorable man. He was far from destitute, owning several large holdings, most of which he cultivated. And he was pleasant, courteous, and polite. What more could she ask for?
Unbidden, an image of Royce slipped into her mind, looking at her with that unmistakable glimmer of laughter in his eyes that never failed to make her grin in return. Liza frowned. How often would she get to see him if she married? Heavens, would she see him at all?
Liza suddenly realized that Durham was waiting for her answer. Unable to think of one, she blurted out instead, “I’m looking forward to the play tomorrow. The Merchant of Venice is one of my favorites.”
“It was very nice of Lady Shelbourne to make me a member of her party. Normally, I am not one to engage in such frivolous activities, but when in Rome…” He smiled. “Are you much addicted to the theater, Miss Pritchard? I fear Somesby is not a very large town. Until recently, we did not have the opportunity to see many plays, but I hope that one day…” He rambled on, unaware that Liza was no longer listening.
She was far too busy trying to imagine herself living in a small town without the conveniences of London. It would be quite different. She looked about at her comfortable home, at her cherished belongings, at her new shoes, and wondered what she’d do with her time.
“Miss Pritchard, what do you think about cows?”
She blinked. Cows. What did she think about cows. “Well,” she said cautiously. “I like horses.”
“Yes, they are necessary creatures. But cows…” Lord Durham beamed. “I own over a thousand. And they’re the best money can buy.”
Good Lord, the man owned a thousand cows and he was proud of it. “Whatever do you do with them?”
“I breed them. Durham cows are renowned for their quality.”
Yes, but what about the Durham bull? She suppressed a giggle. Had she been with Royce, she’d have blurted the thought without worrying about his reaction, for she knew he would have laughed. They shared the same irreverent sense of humor. But she didn’t feel that easy with Lord Durham. Of course, she hadn’t known him that long, either. With time, she was certain she’d be able to share her every thought.
“You will enjoy seeing my farms,” Durham said. “They are without compare. Miss Pritchard…Liza…may I call you that?”
She took a deep breath. The relationship was progressing. Just as it was supposed to. But why did that make her feel so…restless? Liza, you are just experiencing cold feet, a normal reaction for a young lady about to embark on a flirtation that could possibly lead to more. She smoothed her skirt and said firmly, “Of course you may call me Liza.”
“And you may call me Dunlop.”
She choked. George must have thought she was choking to death, for he began to screech and jumped up and down at the bottom of his stand.
Durham sprang from his seat. “Mi—Liza! Are you ill?”
“Monkey hair,” she managed to choke out, gesturing for him to sit back down. Good Lord, she didn’t think she’d heard of such a silly name. She thought she’d just continue to call him Durham for her own peace of mind. She frowned at her shrieking monkey. “George, that is quite enough.”
The tiny monkey gave a huge, toothy grin, then swung up on his perch and settled down as if to watch the festivities.
Durham eyed the monkey with some misgiving. “Does he understand everything you say?”
“Most of it. What he doesn’t understand from the words, he can tell from tone of voice. But we weren’t speaking about George. Your cows, do you pet them?”
He laughed, his face relaxing until he no longer looked quite so stern. In fact, when he laughed he looked…nice. She suddenly felt guilty for giggling at his name.
“I don’t pet the cows, but you may if you wish.”
“How lovely. Do you wish to live in the country all year round?”
“Oh no.” His smile bordered on a superior smirk. “I’m a man who enjoys the finer things in life. I plan on coming to Town quite frequently. I daresay I will spend several weeks a year here.”
“Weeks? Wouldn’t you stay for the entire Season?”
“Not with cows to care for. You see, many people think you just have to assign their care to a herder. But I believe that with more attention, you can double, even triple their value. Imagine that, Liza.” He shook his head in wonder.
“That’s…quite impressive.” And she was sure it was. To someone else. Someone more interested in cows than she.
He gave her a rueful smile. “I’m certain you’ve more important things to discuss than my cows. Tell me about Lady Shelbourne’s ball. It should be quite an event.”
She told him about Meg’s plans, skirting the more mundane issues of decoration and refreshments. As soon as she finished, he leaned forward and took her hand in his. Only a half hour hence, Royce had held that same hand. He had, in fact, held both of her hands. And though she’d had her gloves on at the time, the casual touch had sent strange tingles up her arms. Lord Durham’s grasp, while pleasant enough, did nothing more than warm her cold fingers. She stared down at his hand.
She wasn’t ready for this. Not now. She needed at least another week before she made her decision. Yes, a week would do nicely. The ache in her knees grew.
“This has been a lovely visit,” she suddenly said, standing. Durham stood as well, looking a bit startled. Liza didn’t blame him. “But I just remembered a very important appointment to—” She wracked her brain, but that organ was no longer functioning. Good God, she was only thirty-one and there was no reason she’d succumb to senility so quickly. “I have an appointment to, ah…” Her gaze fell on the turban, now lying discarded on the arm of the settee, looking like a scrap of green felt. “Milliner’s. Yes, I have an appointment at the milliner’s and I’m already late.”
“I wish I could escort you, but I am to accompany Lord Sefton to White’s. He offered to sponsor me.” Durham wagged a roguish brow. “I fear I’m becoming something of a wastrel. I hope I don’t end up wagering away the family farm.”
He was just so nice. Liza wondered if perhaps she was being hasty. She wasn’t a young girl anymore, and she’d long ago given up her dreams of finding a prince. There were no princes.
Durham took her hand again, only this time he bowed low. “Good day, Liza. I shall return tomorrow to escort you to the theater. At seven?”
She nodded mutely, feeling more wretched by the moment.
“Seven it is.” He gave her fingers a significant squeeze, then left.
As soon as the door closed, George swung from his perch and chattered a fierce warning, all brave and brash now that Durham was out of the room.
“Oh hush!” Liza said. It was all so confusing. Her head and heart were at odds, one demanding one thing, one demanding another. “Damn Lord Durham,” she said loudly.
That made her feel better. A little. But it still wasn’t enough. So she added in loud ringing tones, “And damn Sir Royce Pemberley and his damned clefted chin.” Somehow, those words were infinitely more satisfying, but they still left her feeling very alone. Sighing, she collected Meg’s invitations and went to work, hoping to keep her mind busy with more productive thoughts.
Chapter 3
This Author has a confession to make.
When This Author sees Lady Birlington walking her way, This Author runs (quickly) in the opposite direction.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 28 JANUARY 1814
Early the next day, Royce set out in search of Lady Birlington. It took the better part of the day to find the old woman, but he finally managed to track her down. She and her grandnephew, Edmund Valmont, were just entering a lending library. Lady Birlington was dressed in an alarming puce pelisse, which clashed horribly with her ruby gown and hideously purple muff.
Royce hastily hopped down from his carriage and followed them into the library, head down against a smattering of snow. He brushed icy flakes from his coat as he closed the door. “Lady Birlington, may I have a word with you?”
Edmund turned, brightening when he saw Royce. “Sir Royce! I was just speaking to someone about you the other day. Well, not you precisely, but about your horse—the gray you sold at Tattersall’s two years ago. Remember it? It had a mark on its shoulder that looked for all the world like Italy. Strangest thing I ever saw. Do you know if the horse had ever been to Italy? I thought perhaps it was born there or maybe had just traveled through the country and the experience was so vivid that it marked—”
“For the love of heaven!” Lady Birlington said, thumping her cane dangerously near her nephew’s toe. “Stop blathering and help me out of this damp pelisse. I shall die of an inflammation before you reach a point, if you even have one.” As soon as her nephew began to assist her out of her coat, she snapped a sharp glance at Royce. “Well? What do you want? Don’t owe you money, do I?”
Royce lifted his brows. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Good. I was at the Markhams’ rout last night and I distinctly remember losing a goodly sum, but I can’t for the life of me remember to whom.”
Edmund folded Lady Birlington’s pelisse over his arm and said to Royce in a confidential tone, “Age, you know. My Uncle Tippensworth was like that. Couldn’t remember his own name at times, but he had a devilish way of remembering things one would just as soon he’d forget. He must have told every person he knew about the time I was three and stripped naked right in front of the parson’s wife—ow!”
“I wouldn’t smack your shins,” Lady Birlington said, “if you’d stop talking long enough for someone else to get in a word. I’m not losing my memory because of my age, you ninny. I had too much to drink.” She sent a slightly self-conscious glance at Royce. “Champagne. Tasty stuff, but it muddles me every time.”
“Of course. Lady Birlington, I wanted to ask your opinion of Lord Durham.”
“Durham. Hm. Sounds familiar. Not one of those new Methodist speakers, is he? Went to hear one the other day. If you want my opinion, all that depressing talk about hell will just incite the population to fornicate all the more. I know it made me want to fornicate, anyway.”