The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown

by Julia Quinn

  And, though she bit at her lip, Linney could not help but grin right back at him.

  “You have a dimple,” she said then. Linney slapped her hand over her mouth. She really did need to stop speaking altogether.

  Still, he did have a dimple, one, only one, denting his right cheek in a rakish way that made her knees weak.

  “And you have passion,” he said.

  Linney blinked.

  “You do not cry anymore,” he said softly. “This is good. That is…” The man glanced away and then back at her. And he lifted her fingers away from her lips and gently pressed his mouth to them.

  She was going to swoon, seriously.

  But, thankfully, the man left before she could do anything so incredibly stupid. Although she had already cried her eyes out in front of him, blown her nose loudly into his handkerchief, then shoved the soggy thing back in his front pocket, so, really, she had done much more stupid things in the last five minutes than swoon.

  Linney sighed. She really ought not to be allowed anywhere in public. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed back her hair and straightened her shoulders. She was in public, though, and she was at the theater with the man who would surely propose to her tonight.

  Oh God, she wanted to cry again.

  No! Linney closed her eyes. Marrying Ernest Wareing, Earl of Pellering, was a good thing. It was what she wanted desperately. She hoped he would ask her to marry him, and soon.

  This was exactly what she wanted.

  Linney forced herself not to think anything else as she left her hiding place and marched, rather determinedly, back to the grand seats Lord Pellering had obtained for her and her mother and her mother’s fiancé, Mr. Evanston.

  Actually, the thought of Mr. Evanston was nearly as unpalatable as her strange moods of late. The man made her absolutely want to run screaming from humanity.

  And she had another uncomfortable thought when she spied the back of Lord Pellering’s head. That ring of brown hair around his slightly pointed domed pate was becoming quite familiar, but it wasn’t tugging at her heartstrings or anything so sentimental as that.

  Shouldn’t it, though?

  No, of course not. She wasn’t some featherheaded ninny with thoughts of love and sweetness guiding her. As if the back of someone’s head could make one’s heart flutter.

  Suddenly Linney saw the back of Lord Gorgeous’s head in her mind, and though her heart did not exactly flutter, she had to admit to a slight shiver.

  She was obviously tired, or hungry. Or something equally debilitating. With a slight shake of her head, Linney straightened her shoulders and excused herself into the seat just in front of Lord Pellering.

  Her mother glanced over at her, a bit of reproach in her gaze. Linney did not see that look often, as she did try to skirt her mother’s displeasure, usually by staying out of the woman’s presence altogether. But when the urge to cry had come upon her so suddenly, Linney had known that she really must retreat to a more private sanctum than the box her family occupied at the moment.

  She folded her hands properly upon her lap and stared out at the stage, which was just far enough away to make the faces of all the actors a blur. Add to that the fact that the column to her right obscured the entire right half of the stage, and she knew that even Edmund Kean could not salvage the night for her, if he ever took the stage. The farce seemed to be taking forever.

  Her mind wandered, and suddenly she realized that she was once again thinking of Lord Gorgeous, who, admittedly, had a nice head of hair. Admitting that a man had nice, thick dark hair that curled just enough to be endearing was absolutely not admitting anything too horrible.

  And letting herself ruminate on what some man’s hands must look like without gloves was not completely ridiculous, either.

  Not at all.

  “Well, well,” her mother said, and Linney realized that the players had retreated, finally. The first show was over. “I see Lord Darington has made an appearance.”

  Linney came completely into the present, all thoughts of beautiful men with large hands and soggy linen disappearing with the cold reality that name brought to mind.

  Her mother was leaning toward the edge of the box, staring down at the pit, of all places. “I cannot believe that man. The audacity!”

  Mr. Evanston stood behind her mother. “I’ve heard, of course, that the young bucks like to sit in the pit with the peasants. They say the view is better.”

  As she had just sat staring at a column with occasional glimpses of the stage beyond for the last hour, Linney had to believe the young bucks were onto something.

  “But he has a woman with him! I think it is Miss Amelia Rellton, a woman of breeding. How dare he.”

  Linney could have cared less who sat where or that some man had a woman of breeding—why did people have to use such a term for a person?—sitting down in the pit with him, but the fact that it was Lord Darington, there in the same building with her, made Linney suddenly feel extremely ill. He had never deigned to make her acquaintance, after all. In fact, he’d gone so far as to send a letter requesting that she and her mother leave their home, and giving them two days to accomplish the act.

  Terrance Greyson, Lord Darington, was the last man Linney ever wanted to see, much less meet. She had hoped, actually, that Lord Darington had decided to spend the rest of his days locked away at Ivy Park.

  Maybe even locked away with gout and chronic toothaches. And, if he ever married, she imagined him sequestered with a horrible harridan of a wife who would kick him in the shins with her pointed shoes.

  Still, even though, of course, she never wanted to know the man, Linney found herself inching forward in her seat and peering over the short wall of their box.

  “I swear, that man is horrible. Do you know that he basically gave me the cut direct two nights ago at the Worth ball?”

  “He did not give you the cut direct, Georgie,” Mr. Evanston soothed, patting her mother’s shoulder.

  Linney, who had not gone to the ball, just looked at her mother in shock. Though she realized her mother barely remembered that they breathed the same air, Linney believed she ought to have been told that Lord Darington was in London.

  “Well, when we were introduced, the cad stared at me for a moment as if I were some sea creature from the depths, and then just turned away and left.”

  “I do think he excused himself,” Mr. Evanston said.

  “Horrendously abruptly!” Her mother glared at Mr. Evanston, and the man obviously realized that he really ought to shut up.

  “I have heard,” he said, “that Darington has become a complete bore and a pompous ass to boot. Thinks much too highly of himself, really, and doesn’t even converse with those above him, socially speaking.”

  Good old Mr. Evanston. He surely knew exactly how to sweet-talk her mother. Not that it was all that hard. Just agree with her and give her center stage.

  “You did hear what he said to Mrs. Kilten-White?”

  “I did not,” her mother whispered dramatically.

  “Well.” Mr. Evanston leaned forward and glanced around furtively. They were alone in the box, for heaven’s sake.

  “You do remember that Mrs. Kilten-White was dressed from head to toe in that hideous purple costume at the ball. She even had a purple feather in her purple turban.” Mr. Evanston arched his powdered brows—he liked powder still, even though it had gone out of style, and it made Linney sneeze horribly. “Lord Darington said, right to her face, and with no introduction whatsoever, that he hated purple.”

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  Linney couldn’t say that she enjoyed the color all that much, either. And just the thought of Mrs. Kilten-White’s rather large frame swathed in the hue as well as her enormous head wrapped in a turban with a feather, well, Linney was pretty sure that it had not been the loveliest sight to behold.

  But, of course, she would not have said anything.

  She would have thought it, but she sure
ly would not have said it.

  “Look at that!” her mother whispered harshly. “That girl just waved at him!” She pointed a few boxes down from them.

  “That girl is Miss Elizabeth Pritchard, dear,” Mr. Evanston said, smiling over at the lady as he did. Smiling, actually, was lending a rather nice description to a rather disgusting leer.

  Linney couldn’t help grimacing herself.

  “Well, someone needs to tell Miss Elizabeth Pritchard that rubies do not go with that horrible green dress.”

  Distracted from her oily future stepfather, Linney glanced over at Miss Elizabeth Pritchard and sighed softly. She had always envied Liza Pritchard, who had the confidence to say and do and wear exactly what she wanted.

  “I am sure I have never seen anything so outrageous,” her mother continued, looking away from Liza Pritchard and back toward the milling crowd beneath them. “Lord Darington just bowed to that Pritchard character.”

  Dragging her gaze from Liza Pritchard’s grinning face, Linney stood a bit and leaned forward so that she could truly see Lord Darington for the first time. She raked the crowd once, twice, and then stopped.

  That could not be he.

  It was he, she was sure. But if there was a God in heaven it absolutely should not be he.

  “Is that Lord Darington?” she asked quietly.

  Of course her mother did not hear her.

  “Really! I never!” Georgiana Starling was still going on about Liza waving and Lord Darington bowing. “Just acts the rake to all the girls, but gives such as me the cut direct. Harrumph!”

  The tall man in the dark blue jacket standing beside Miss Amelia Rellton was, indeed, smiling up at Liza. Even from so far away, Linney could see his dimple. Her heart pounded out a strange double beat that made her feel as if too much blood surged in her veins.

  And then he glanced a bit to his right, and Lord Darington was looking straight up at Caroline.

  And he winked.

  Linney nearly stopped breathing.

  “Oh my!” her mother said on a shocked intake of breath.

  But Linney ignored her and just stared at Lord Darington. Did he know who she was? Had he known, even as he stood watching her cry her heart out behind a potted palm, that she was the very same woman he had kicked out of Ivy Park?

  Had he been laughing at her as he offered his hanky with that little grin?

  And then Lord Darington’s smile deepened and she knew that he was laughing.

  The wretch!

  Linney swallowed hard and wished with all her might that the man would burst into flames and return to the devil, which is obviously where he had come from in the first place.

  With a little tip of his head in Linney’s direction, Lord Darington returned his attention to Miss Amelia Rellton.

  “I feel ill,” she said, turning quickly and stalking past Ernest Wareing, Earl of Pellering. “Take me home.” Since she did not speak very often, and never did she demand, Linney was rather sure that every person in the box was taken aback by her tone. But she did not care.

  She walked out into the hall and started for the rotunda. She would not stay in the same building as Lord Darington, and she would never allow the man to laugh at her again.

  It was bad enough that he had taken away her home in such an abrupt manner. She would not allow herself to give that man even one second of mirth, especially at the expense of her dignity.

  For once, her mother and Mr. Evanston were exactly correct. Lord Darington was a horrible rogue, who thought himself too high in the instep to be civil to her mother, the wife of the man from whom he inherited his title. His fourth cousin twice removed.

  Add that all to the fact that he laughed at her.

  Actually, she now wished that she had blown her nose even harder into the man’s handkerchief.

  And she really ought to have kept it. And never returned it to him.

  Better yet, she should have ripped the soggy bit of linen into tiny shreds and shoved it right up his nose.

  Chapter 2

  And while we are on the topic of Lord Darington, and his eviction of the dowager Lady Darington and her daughter from their lifelong home, perhaps it is past time to mention the aforementioned daughter, Lady Caroline Starling.

  This Author confesses that Lady Caroline’s name has not often graced these pages, but it must be noted now that this quiet miss seems to be headed toward the altar with none other than Ernest Wareing, Earl of Pellering.

  (As an aside note, does anyone other than This Author feel the need to recite nursery rhymes upon the recitation of the earl’s name?)

  This Author hopes that Lady Caroline enjoys country pursuits, and most especially hounds and hunting, because it is well known that Lord Pellering loves nothing so much as his canines.

  LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 28 JANUARY 1814

  It was truly an abomination of nature that one always found the most comfortable spot in the bed five minutes before one had to leave it.

  Especially when one’s bed was very warm, and one’s room could have kept ice solid for a week.

  From the fact that she could not feel her nose, Linney surmised that this last bit of conjecture was exactly true. The first part was true because everything was aligned just right, the pillows were perfect, her body completely cocooned in warmth and comfort. Ahhh.

  And then someone rapped on her door. And it wasn’t a nice soft knock, either, but a hard, staccato rap, rap, rap.

  “Linney!” Her mother.

  Bloody hell.

  Without waiting for a summons, Georgiana bustled in, her hair in curling papers and her face free of the paint she liked to slather on.

  Not a pretty way to be awakened.

  Duchess seemed to agree, for Linney’s constant companion, who had been curled at the end of the bed with her head toward the door, stood elegantly, turned her bottom toward Lady Darington, and lay back down.

  “Really, dear, I do wish you would not allow that cat to sleep in your bed.”

  That cat twitched her tail in indignation.

  Linney did not say anything. She rarely did, but her mother never seemed to notice.

  “Well, you will not believe,” Georgiana continued, cinching her wrapper tighter. “That man is in our drawing room as we speak!”

  Since Linney had not uttered a word, it seemed rather presumptuous of her mother to use the pronoun “we.”

  “I mean, really!” Lady Darington paced. “It is not even noon. Nobody calls before noon, does he not know this?”

  Obviously not, whoever the culprit was.

  “And he is so…” here her mother appeared unable to find the right words. Amazing, that. If there was something that Georgiana Starling, Lady Darington, was never at a loss for, it was words. “Well, if he thinks that he can give me the cut direct at the Worth ball and then show up in my drawing room nearly a whole two hours before noon and act as if we are bosom friends, he is most sadly mistaken.”

  Linney’s heart fluttered, truly it fluttered. How horribly melodramatic of her stupid, awful, tender heart. Perhaps she needed to have Dr. Nielson around to have a look at her.

  But, of course it only fluttered because Lord Darington was an awful cad. That was exactly why her heart fluttered and her head felt light.

  “Lord Darington is here?” Linney heard herself ask. “Now?”

  Her mother stared at her, blinking. Georgiana liked to talk; conversation, though, was rather beyond her.

  “Go to him,” her mother said with a flick of her wrist. “I shan’t, that is certain. As if I would be ready to receive at this indecent hour. I haven’t even had my tea.”

  Neither had Linney, but obviously that mattered not at all.

  “And I will certainly not receive Lord Darington, ever.” Georgiana turned on some imagined companion who, obviously, had the audacity to question her. “No, I will not! I do not approve of him at all. You saw him!” and suddenly Linney was the center of her mother’s attention once mo
re, imaginary companion be damned. “Saturday night, flaunting his horrible manners by taking that poor girl to the theater and then sitting among the rabble. Your father would be appalled that his title is being so abused.” Lady Darington bit the back of her hand to stifle a sob. “Now I am overtaken.” Georgiana swept from the room.

  Linney sat for a moment contemplating the door her mother had just left through. She often wondered if her parents hadn’t found her at the side of the road. Her mother was absolutely beautiful. Well, she had been when she was young. Now she had to work at it a bit.

  Her father had been the same; a man so lovely to look upon he could see no reason to focus beyond his mirror.

  And then there was Linney, pale, beige Linney. She was neither too tall nor too short, too thin nor too fat, too beautiful nor too ugly. “Too” was absolutely never used before her name.

  In fact, she blended right into the woodwork. No one ever noticed her.

  When her father had been alive, her parents had fought like a midnight storm, both of them constantly vying for attention, but never letting any of that attention spill over onto their progeny.

  She rather thought they did not remember her, most of the time, even though she sat in the same room with them.

  It had been like living with two three-year-olds as parents. At least now there was only one of them.

  Duchess picked up her head and gave Linney a look.

  “Oh, I know, I know,” Linney said. She eyed the washbasin across the cold floor. The water would be absolutely freezing, and that was not an exaggeration. In the last week, Linney had actually had to crack the ice to get at her wash water.

  Her mother, of course, got warm water and her fire stoked each morning by Annie. Since no one made a fuss that Annie didn’t attend to Linney, the maid didn’t bother.

  Duchess swished her tail.

  “Right, I’m off then.” Linney threw off her covers, and with great courage braved her morning ablutions.

  It was she.

  Could his crying wood nymph be Lady Darington? But no, he had met Lady Darington at the Worth ball. This must be Lady Caroline Starling.