Unlaced 1

by Kristina Cook

  “Eloquently driven home your point, that’s what, and managed to sound nearly...well, moderate whilst doing so. A rare feat, indeed.” The man’s pale blue eyes twinkled.

  “Thank you, sir.” Henry rose, straightening to his full height before bowing to the man.

  “Haven’t seen the House so full in some time. Men tripping over each other, all come to hear you speak. The bill will never pass, of course. But your efforts were impressive nonetheless. You’ll set men talking, and perhaps a handful of votes will be swayed.”

  “That’s a start, then.”

  “Dine with me tomorrow, Mandeville. The duchess and my daughter will be pleased with your company. I believe you met my daughter Helena last week at Almack’s?”

  “I did, sir, and a lovely girl she is.”

  “She is, indeed. The last of my girls. I will be sad to see her leave me one day.”

  “I’d be delighted to join you tomorrow.” It was exactly what Henry had hoped for. His plan was progressing nicely.

  “Good. Doesn’t take such a keen eye to see you’re an ilk above those milksops flitting about my daughter like moths to a flame. England might not yet be ready for a man like you, but soon your day will come. I can smell it.” Corning slapped one glove smartly across his palm. “We’ll speak more tomorrow. Perhaps I can aid your cause.”

  “I’m grateful for your confidence.”

  “As well you should be, my boy. Oh, and Mandeville?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t come empty-handed. Helena is quite fond of roses, after all.” The duke winked. “Favors red ones, I believe.”“Thank you for the information. I would hate to disappoint her.”

  “Good evening, then, Mandeville.”

  “Good evening, Your Grace.”

  Henry returned to his seat as the duke strutted out. He flicked open the paper once more with a self-satisfied smile.

  Would it really be so easy?

  Chapter 13

  “Goodbye Professor, and thank you,” Lucy called out as she collected her things and hurried out toward the waiting carriage. She couldn’t wait to read the equine anatomy text Professor Williams had given her. Her own texts at home were so outdated. As she closed the wooden wicket gate behind her, she searched the street for the familiar conveyance. It was nowhere to be found. With a shrug, she retrieved the new book from her satchel and began to idly thumb through the crisp, clean pages.

  Without looking up from the illustrations, she walked back to the gate to wait amongst the vendors selling nuts and oranges from wooden pushcarts. “Oh,” she cried out, startled as she felt herself bump into something solid.

  “Pardon me, miss,” a gruff voice said, “but you should look where you are...”

  Lucy swung around to the familiar voice, her eyes widening in surprise. “Oh!” she said again, dropping her book to the ground with a resounding thump.

  “Lucy?” A slim leather portfolio slipped from Henry’s hands and clattered to the ground beside her book. “What the devil? What are you doing here, unescorted at that?” he demanded.

  Flustered, she bent to retrieve her book. Her gaze fell to the portfolio, which had fallen open to reveal an exquisite charcoal sketch. It was a woman in profile with one shoulder bared, a cascade of hair framing the unmistakably familiar face. Lucy inhaled sharply.

  It was the same face she saw looking back at her in the mirror each day.

  Henry reached for the portfolio, his brows drawn into an angry line. Lucy looked away as she hastily retrieved her textbook, her cheeks aflame. Her stomach felt as if it had dropped to her knees.

  “Answer me, Lucy. What in God’s name are you doing here?”

  “I...the college. I’ve been studying at the college with one of Mr. Wilton’s professors. I come each Wednesday afternoon. Aunt Agatha accompanies me, but today she and Bridgette went to the stalls to do some shopping and they must be running late.”

  “The college? What the devil are you talking about?”

  She turned and gestured toward the arch behind them, to the words Veterinary College carved into the stone over the gate.

  “Oh, right. That. So your friend came through for you, then?”

  “Yes, can you believe it? It’s marvelous, my lord! You would never believe the things I’m learning.” She looked up into his face and saw his features reflecting amusement.

  “Really, Lucy, it isn’t safe for you to be out here unescorted like this. This isn’t Pall Mall, you know.” He clutched the portfolio tightly in his hands, and Lucy couldn’t stop her gaze from traveling back to it.

  Had it truly been a drawing of her? She couldn’t stop the words that issued forth. “That sketch, my lord. It was beautiful. Did you...is it yours?”

  He gazed over her shoulder at the horizon before turning back to face her. “Yes,” he said, looking her squarely in the eye.

  She felt her heart skip a beat. “I had no idea you were an artist.”

  He hesitated briefly before speaking. She saw his features soften slightly, and then he smiled—a warm, mischievous smile that made his blue eyes sparkle like sapphires and set her hands atremble.

  He leaned toward her, conspiratorially. “I dabble a bit. I’m here in Camden Town to pay a call on a friend of mine, James Frasier. James was my art tutor when I was a child, and he’s made quite a name for himself since. He’s got two paintings in Chatsworth right now.”

  “Chatsworth? That’s quite impressive.”

  “Yes. He’s extraordinarily talented. Occasionally I drop by and show him my newest work.”

  “I never would have imagined it. You, an artist. I always pictured you as more of the, well, the sporting type.”

  “When I was a boy I was quite...ahem, ill. I spent most of my time indoors. I couldn’t overexert myself so my father hired James to teach me to draw. I’ve always found it therapeutic, so to speak.”

  Lucy was fascinated. He simply didn’t strike her as the artistic type, nor did he look as if he’d been sick a day in his life. “I’d love to see more of your drawings.”

  “No, I’ve never—I’m afraid I’ve never shared them with anyone except James. And my sister, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “So,” he said, obviously wishing to change the subject. “I somehow found myself at Almack’s last night, and you seemed to be a popular topic of conversation.”

  “Is that so? Not too unflattering, I hope.”

  “Interesting, to say the least. All the gentlemen were talking about the Butler ball.”

  Lucy’s hand rose to her mouth to suppress a giggle. “Ah, yes. The Butler ball.”

  “One of Jamison’s carriage horses colicked, I’m told, there on the curb, and next thing everyone knew, you were outside in your ball gown, ministering to the poor beast.”

  “I’m afraid it’s true. Thankfully the Rosemoors’ footman was able to send word to me inside. Honestly, my lord, they were all standing around on the cobbles, shaking their heads, not doing what needed to be done.”

  Henry wagged his head and chuckled. “I wish I’d been there to see it. But what of your plan to act the role of proper young lady?”

  “Really, what’s the use? It’s beginning to get tiresome. I’ve done well enough, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose. I must say, the ladies at Almack’s were scandalized. Personally, I think they were a bit jealous that all the gentlemen were talking about you, no matter their reasons.”

  Lucy heard someone call her name, and looked around to see the Rosemoors’ coach pull up to the curb, Bridgette wildly waving a hankie out the window. “So sorry we’re late, miss.”

  “I’ll be on my way,” Henry said, tipping his hat.

  “Yes. Good day, then.” She turned to go but then quickly turned back to the marquess. “Oh, and Lord Mandeville,” she said, lightly laying her hand on his sleeve.

  “Yes?” he asked, his mouth curving into a smile.

  She tapped the portfolio. “Your secret is sa
fe with me.” Without waiting for his reply, she hurried to the coach and climbed in.

  “I can rest easy, then,” he called out after her, and she heard his laughter as the coach pulled away.

  Henry chuckled as he watched Lucy scamper to the carriage. What an exceptional girl, he thought as he headed on foot toward James’s townhouse. He couldn’t help but admire her resourcefulness. So she was actually studying at the veterinary college, was she? Yes, Lucy Abbington was nothing short of extraordinary.

  He glanced down at his portfolio as he turned down Crook’s Row, the heels of his boots clicking on the cobbled walk in rhythm with the beating of his heart. She’d seen his sketch, a portrait of her, and he’d noted the shock of recognition in her eyes. At least she’d had the good grace to refrain from mentioning the likeness.

  He’d been able to avoid her these past weeks, to stay away from any function where she might be in attendance, and it had been a productive few weeks, at that. He’d renewed several advantageous acquaintances, particularly that of Lord Grey. What’s more, the Duke of Corning had been receptive to Henry’s efforts at courting his daughter, Lady Helena. Henry had dined with them a sennight ago, and Lady Helena had been fawning and attentive. She’d made it clear, subtly of course, that he could have her if he wanted her. And perhaps he did. Better yet, the duke—a Tory with powerful friends—had pledged to back Henry’s education bill. All the pieces were falling into place.

  But he hadn’t been able to get Lucy out of his head. So he’d drawn her, instead.

  It had been easy to conjure her image in his memory. Each and every time he closed his eyes, he’d see her there, with her hair loose and flowing as it had been that very first time he’d laid eyes on her at Glenfield. That image was burned into his mind. Every time he was in her presence, his rogue hands itched to release that glorious hair from its bindings. He’d never forget the way she looked that night in his carriage with her hair falling around her face, her cheeks stained strawberry red, nothing between her body and his devouring eyes but a thin layer of cloth.

  He stopped, looked around the bustling street, and took a deep, gulping breath. He closed his eyes and tried to think of something—anything—unpleasant to stop the embarrassing tightness in his trousers from becoming apparent to passersby.

  Rats. Yes, rats. Awful creatures, rats.

  He sighed as the tightening in his groin lessened, and continued on towards James’s place. He could no longer deny his attraction to the girl, that much was clear. But whom one was attracted to wasn’t so important—it was the choices one made regarding it that mattered. Perhaps his father had been too weak to resist the lustful lure of an inappropriate girl, but he wouldn’t succumb.

  No, he would not let his attention be diverted.

  As for Lucy Abbington, she would surely continue to haunt his dreams, and he would continue to draw her. But nothing more.

  Henry stepped up to Number 12 and rang the bell. Moments later he found himself ensconced in James’s eclectic drawing room, a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors and patterns that never failed to delight him in their stark contrast to his stuffy and monochromatic surroundings at Mandeville House. James sat before him, looking much the same as he had perhaps twenty years past when the young, penniless artist had answered Henry’s father’s advertisement for an instructor. James still garbed himself in the gaudy hues of a dandy and his untidy curls—now more gray than brown—still reached his shoulders.

  Once the initial pleasantries were dispensed with and the port was poured, James rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “So, let’s see what you have for me today.”

  Without a word, Henry flipped open the portfolio and thumbed through. James put on his spectacles and leaned over the page, squinting.

  “Hmmmm, interesting.” James looked surprised. “You’ve changed your focus, I see. No more goddesses on winged horses, eh?”

  Henry shook his head, holding his breath. He’d long since stopped drawing that hopeful image.

  “Portraits of a woman, instead. A very beautiful woman. Is this someone you know?” He looked up at Henry, his almond-shaped eyes full of questions.

  “Yes, I know her.”

  “Henry, I...” he cleared his throat, and his eyes dampened. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Henry’s stomach lurched. Were they really so bad? Damn, he knew he shouldn’t have shown these to James. He shifted his weight uncomfortably.

  “They are inspired, Henry. Exquisite.” James flipped through the pages, studying each drawing for a moment before moving on to the next. “Not only is your craft improved, but the feelings these sketches evoke...they move me. You’ve not only captured her beauty, but her spirit, her soul as well.” He looked up at Henry, gazing at him questioningly. “Well done, my boy,” he said softly. “Well done.”

  Henry found he couldn’t speak. He gazed down at the likeness of Lucy, blinking repeatedly. “That one,” he managed to say, “that one I’ve begun in oil on canvas.” He’d sketched her from the back, her chin tipped over one shoulder. She wore nothing but a corset, partially unlaced. Her cascade of silky waves was piled high on her crown, but several golden locks tumbled unfettered across her bared shoulders, as if some unseen hands had just released a few pins.

  James’s eyes skimmed over the image. “It appears that you have found your muse at last. You are finally drawing what you see with your heart instead of with your eyes, and that, my boy, is the key to fine art. It was something you had to find for yourself, something I could not teach you. Now tell me about this girl. Is she a mistress of yours?”

  “No, not a mistress.”

  “But your drawings are so visceral, so sensual, I can only suppose that this is someone you know, well, intimately.”

  Henry’s thoughts were dragged back to that night in his carriage, but he shook his head.

  “Well, if she isn’t yet your mistress, it’s high time you made her one. This is your most accomplished work to date.”

  “She’s a...well, a lady, James, and an innocent. I’ve no intention of making her my mistress.”

  “Well, God’s teeth, Henry, make her your wife, then.”

  Henry shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, either. She’s not an appropriate match. She’s just...” He searched for the right word. “An acquaintance of sorts. However, as you so astutely recognized, things have gotten a bit more physical than propriety allows. I can’t risk finding myself forced to the altar, forced to marry so far beneath my station, when I’m so close to achieving the status I crave.”

  “But what of passion, of romance?”

  “Damn it, not you, too? I’ve already heard this rubbish from Eleanor. I’ve no need for such trivial, meaningless notions. I’m not like you, James. I am a marquess, and I intend to be made a duke before I die. I won’t be like my father.”

  “Your father was a passionate man. He loved your mother with a rare devotion.”

  “My father was a fool.” His breaths were coming uncomfortably fast. “He wasted his love on a woman who had no regard for him in return, short of what he did to fatten her purse.” He reached up to loosen his cravat. It suddenly felt as if it were strangling him. He rubbed his eyes with his palms, trying to erase the painful memory that was flooding back to him unbidden, playing itself out in his mind.

  He had been no more than twelve, thirteen perhaps, and the weakness in his chest had worsened, exacerbated by an unlucky fall into the river. It was midsummer, but his father had kept his family in the country, refusing to leave his wife alone. He had used his sick son as an excuse for missing the Parliamentary session. Again.

  Just after the sun had set, Henry had ventured into the maze in search of Eleanor. He had heard laughter, a muffled moan. Wondering what devilment his twin was up to, he had hurried through the tall hedgerows toward the sounds. He remembered seeing deep shadows cast upon the ground, reflecting the height of the hedges, and the brilliant light of the moon guiding him down the familia
r path.

  Left, left again, and a sharp right—and that’s when he had seen them. His heart skidded at the memory.

  Clearly illuminated by the full moon, he saw his mother, bent over a wrought-iron bench. Her skirts were gathered around her waist, her backside facing him. Behind her stood Lord Glenbrough’s second son—no more than seventeen—with his trousers around his ankles. Henry’s mother was moaning and grunting, rutting like a mare in heat, while the boy thrust into her repeatedly, his head thrown back in rapt delight.

  Henry had been paralyzed, completely unable to tear his eyes from the horrific scene before him. He had begun to gasp and wheeze, unable to catch his breath.

  The boy had continued thrusting as Henry’s mother turned and looked over one shoulder. Seeing him standing there, an ugly sneer spread across her face.

  “You!” she spat out, just as the boy threw his head back and let out a primal moan. Opening his eyes, the boy quickly withdrew himself and reached down for his trousers.

  Henry had turned his head and averted his gaze, the taste of vomit flooding his mouth.

  “Bloody hell,” the boy sputtered, dragging up his trousers and buckling them into place. “What if he tells Lord Mandeville? My father’ll have my hide.”

  Henry had continued to wheeze noisily.

  “He wouldn’t dare tell his father, he hasn’t the courage. Sorry excuse for a boy. Nothing but a sickly little runt.”

  “How...how d...d...dare y...you!” Henry finally managed to choke out.

  “How dare I what? Enjoy myself? Stuck out here in the country all the time, never going to Town, all on your account. No, your father can’t leave his weakling of a son long enough to go to London, and here I am with nothing but...but beautiful boys to entertain myself with.” The boy, called John, backed toward the hedge looking slightly pleased with himself. Henry’s mother had then spun on him, her face contorted with rage.

  “Good God, from the moment you were born, it was obvious you were never going to amount to much, and look at you now, barely able to breathe or stand on those weak little legs of yours. You’re pathetic.” A spray of spittle had landed on Henry’s cheek with those venomous words.