Chapter 10
The morning was gray, overcast, and chill, which while not an unusual event in London, was still responsible for the paucity of riders in Hyde Park. Baron Fitzrichard regretted that he found himself among them. “Are you sure,” he said to his companion, “that there ain’t insanity in your family? Some ancestor who went off his noodle? It would explain a great deal.”
“I don’t think so, although one can never be sure about these matters.” Lord Mannering refrained from quizzing Fitz about his own ancestors, although he might well have done so, for the baron had chosen to combat the morning’s gloom with a waistcoat striped vertically in bright yellow, and a jacket of equally bright green, as well as the Coup de Grace, although now that the cravat had been officially named, he was thinking of creating a different style. “What’s that on your face? I’d get my valet a pair of spectacles if I was you.”
Fitz ignored this slur upon the growth of hair that he was carefully cultivating on his upper lip. “You needn’t try and change the subject. I ain’t asked you about that bruise on your chin. We were talking about this damned nasty habit you’re developing of dragging me places I don’t want to be. I warn you, I’m riding in the opposite direction if I see the little Loversall! If you don’t watch your step, Nicky, that one will lead you smack into parson’s mousetrap, which would be a great pity, since you’ve managed to avoid the altar all these years.” Awkwardly, he turned his neck. “Unless—You ain’t wanting to get yoked?”
Gray, chill morning though it might have been, Lord Mannering’s mood was sunny. “I intend to avoid getting leg-shackled awhile longer yet. That’s where I need you, my friend. Should anyone impugn my reputation, you will swear that I behaved at all times like a perfect gentleman.”
Fitz snorted. Still, there was some truth in his friend’s raillery. ‘Twas a sad day indeed when a fellow dared go nowhere without a chaperone lest he be compromised.
If riders were scarce in Hyde Park this morning, wildlife was not. Ducks and geese and swans swam in the Serpentine, rabbits and squirrels rustled in the bushes, cows and deer grazed on the grass, and birds twittered in the trees. Nick glimpsed a pair of rabbits doing what rabbits did best. What he had wished very much to do himself just the night before, when he hadn’t behaved like a gentleman at all, and didn’t regret his misconduct a bit. Nature was a splendid thing, indeed. He wondered how his companion in debauchery fared this morning, and if she’d managed to get any more sleep than he had. And if her sleep, like his, what little there had been of it, was filled with delicious dreams. Dreams of Cara with her cheeks flushed, her hair spilling loose down her back. Her bare back, as her front was also bare, plump ripe fruit to savor to his heart’s content.
Nick saw her then, as if he had conjured her, riding toward them on a dappled mare, some distance away. She was dressed today in sapphire blue.
Not peaches today, but blueberries. Plump luscious blueberries bursting with juice. He had not realized blueberries could be so buxom. He groaned.
Fitz eyed him with concern. “Are you all right, Nicky? Because I don’t mind telling you that you look damned queer.”
Nick didn’t hear him, or if he did, Fitz’s comments were of no more significance than the buzzing of a bee. Cara looked superb on horseback, perfectly balanced in her saddle, her hands held in a natural position, her elbows close to her side.
Not that Cara didn’t look superb in everything she did. In any position she chose to assume. Such as in Nick’s bed when he managed to get her there. And if he didn’t get her there, Fitz would be correct in anticipating lunacy in the Mannering family, because it would be his.
Since the marquess clearly wasn’t going to answer, Fitz looked around to see what might have inspired his friend’s strange behavior. “By George, there’s Lady Norwood! Who’s that with her, do you know?”
Nick frowned. So bemused had he been by the unexpected sight of Cara that he hadn’t realized the charmer of his heart and soul was in the company of another man. A well-mounted, sun-bronzed, handsome man who wasn’t old enough to be her grandfather, like Norwood had been.
Hell and the devil confound it! Nick hadn’t expected competition, which this man obviously was, which just showed that he wasn’t thinking with his brain, because any man with even half his wits about him would have anticipated that Lady Norwood would have admirers, for she was both beautiful and rich.
As well as voluptuous. Her riding habit fitted too damned well. Whoever he was, that blasted man was practically drooling on her chest. Nick urged his horse forward. Fitz trailed after him down the bridle path.
Paul Anderley scowled at a squirrel cluttering upon a low-hanging branch. The squirrel twitched his tail and scampered up the trunk, as if he knew the squire was thinking of putting him in a stew. And well Paul might have done so, were he still in the country. Along with several of the rascal’s fellows, who were making an ungodly racket in the treetops.
Paul didn’t care for London. Nor did he like Hyde Park, and didn’t give a damn if kings had once hunted there for deer, or that William of Orange’s asthma had prompted him to move from St. James’s Palace to Kensington and build the Route de Roi across the wild and lawless space between the two palaces, so dangerous an area that George II was robbed there a century later of his purse, buckles, and watch.
Of all this, Lady Norwood had already informed the squire, and furthermore gave every indication of enlightening him more. Paul reminded himself that the hunt frequently lasted several hours, over challenging terrain. He had every intention of making Cara a formal declaration again this morning, as soon as she let him get a word in edgewise.
Cara knew what the squire intended. This required no especial prescience on her part: Paul made a formal declaration at every opportunity. However, she was in no mood for it today. “The Serpentine was created by Queen Caroline. As well as the Long Water and Round Pond, and the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew. A vast collection of plants from every corner of the world is displayed there, set in an attractive historic landscape with splendid architectural features, even including the wizard Merlin in his cave. Did you know that Merlin is said to have predicted the Hanoverian dynasty?”
Merlin could have predicted the collapse of the monarchy for all Paul cared. Finally, she paused for breath. “My dear Lady Norwood—"
Nick had drawn close enough to overhear their conversation. “The menagerie at Kew is also very fine,” he ruthlessly broke in. “Exotic animals from Africa, Australia, and India. I would be pleased to escort you to Kew, Lady Norwood. From time to time the gardens are open to the public. I’ll speak to Prinny if you’d like.”
Paul had no great fondness for his regent. At the rate Prinny was eating and drinking and fornicating, he would soon need a crane to get on his horse. Nor did Paul care much for the intruder, who looked every inch the haughty gentleman, mounted on a coal black horse that stood quite sixteen hands. He especially didn’t care for the way Cara smiled at him.
Paul summoned up the air of authority that served him so well in the country. “And you are, sir?”
“Nicholas Anston, the Marquess of Mannering,” Cara said quickly, before Nicky could utter the crushing set-down which clearly hovered on the tip of his tongue. “And here is Baron Fitzrichard. Gentlemen, this is Squire Anderley, a neighbor of mine. You are very visual today, Baron. That is an especially fine waistcoat.”
At last, someone with taste sufficiently refined to appreciate his efforts. The baron beamed at her. “And you are fine as fivepence, Lady Norwood! A spot of sunshine on a gloomy day.”
Fitz was not usually so fulsome. Nick wondered what had inspired his friend. Although Cara was a spot of sunshine, for not even the grayest of days could diminish her glowing hair, or her sparkling eyes, or—
Was Fitz gaping at her bosom? Nicky checked. The baron was not. Lord, but he was in a swivet, to be suspecting poor Fitz of lechery.
Paul stared at the baron’s waistcoat. What sort of man would
adorn himself in a garment the color of ripe lemons, a gigantic bunch of seals dangling from his fob? Not to mention adding tassels to his riding boots, along with garters which attached to the boot behind and passed around the knee in front. And then there was that abominably tied neck-cloth. The sorrel horse was well enough, if a little docile-looking for Paul’s taste.
This antipathy was mutual. While Paul gawked at his costume, Fitz raised his quizzing glass and subjected the squire to a critical inspection. Blue coat with brass buttons, leather breeches, top boots, and a Belcher neckerchief—How very unimaginative. Fitz sniffed.
As the two men sneered at one another, Nick deftly maneuvered his horse next to Cara’s dappled mare. Just the night before he’d kissed her, and run his hands over her fine body, and threatened to elope with her niece. He didn’t know if she would turn away from him, or box his ears. “I’ve been reading the results of some interesting investigations made by de Saussure. He believes that plants require mineral substances to achieve satisfactory growth.”
Cara glanced over her shoulder. Paul was looking like a thundercloud. Fitz winked at her and embarked upon a lecture about costume, which in ancient Greece, had been elevated to the rank of a fine art, its principles defined, its influence appreciated, and public officers appointed to prevent the violation of its fundamental laws.
Cara could have kissed him. “How do you feel about fox-hunting?” she inquired, as she returned her attention to Nick.
Ah, the familiar obfuscation. “My sympathies are generally with the fox. Why do you ask?”
Because Cara felt like a fox that had broken from the covert and was running upwind as far as she could. “If a fox clearly didn’t wish to be caught, would you let her go?”
The marquess didn’t think they were talking about foxes. “That would depend on the fox, I suppose,” he replied, a trifle absentmindedly, as he decided that his companion must be wearing stays today, because her habit fit her like a glove. If only he might unwrap the lace from around her throat and press his mouth to the pulse beating sweetly at its base. Then he’d unbutton her jacket and unlace her stays....
Nick shifted in the saddle. Soon he'd be drooling on her chest. “Lovely day,” he said.
Cara eyed him. It was nothing of the sort. Nicky looked older in the gloomy light. And not one bit less handsome. So did she, no doubt. Look older, that was, not more handsome. “And your opinion of women owning property?”
Norwood had left her with property, a great deal of it. “Why not?”
“And gardening?”
“Gardens are very nice. I have several myself.”
“Are they orderly?”
“I have no idea.” Nick remembered her fondness for green growing things. “Perhaps you would like to take them in hand.”
It wasn’t the marquess’s gardens that Cara wished to take in hand. She scolded herself. “I’ve been experimenting with hydroponics. What is your opinion of whalebone?”
He grinned at her. “I dislike it of all things.”
Cara could not suppress her dimple. “I was referring to the use of whalebone as fertilizer,” she protested.
Nick longed to kiss that dimple, to fling her silly hat to the breeze; to pull Cara off her horse and onto his and have his wicked way with her in the middle of Hyde Park. Was it possible to make love on horseback? Given sufficient ingenuity, he mused, it was probably possible to make love anywhere.
Behind them, Fitz was still pontificating. “I am reminded of a maxim of De Fresnoy’s, which applies as well to the arrangement of colors in dress as in painting. ‘Forbid two hostile colors close to meet, and win with middle tints their union sweet.’“ What Paul Anderley replied was impossible to make out, but it wasn’t uttered in admiring tones.
Cara had set Nicky a harsh catechism. All his answers had been correct, leaving her uncertain whether she was vindicated or dismayed. Time enough to ponder that later. She urged her horse to a quicker gait, so that they might not be overheard. “Zoe went to the theater last night. She was very sorry that you weren’t there.”
Easily, Nick’s horse kept pace with hers. “Were you? Sorry that I wasn’t there?”
Did the man expect her to thank him for attempting to seduce her? Or perhaps that wasn’t the right word, because if Nicky had truly tried to seduce her, then seduced she would have been. “I am reminded of Great-Great-Great-Great Uncle John, who dropped down choking after eating fruit in the middle of a play at the Theater Royal, and was only revived by a prostitute known as Orange Moll, who thrust her finger down his throat and brought him back to life.”
Nick interpreted this remark to mean that Cara was uncomfortable seeing him again so soon after he’d done what he did, which wasn’t half of what he’d wished to do. “Is this the same ancestor who appeared naked upon the balcony of Oxford Kate’s tavern in Covent Garden and preached to the crowd gathered below?”
The mare shied at a chipmunk. Cara controlled the horse easily. “It is. He was also responsible for the careers of several actresses, for he was in the habit of seducing a woman by informing her that she was so beautiful and so talented that she should take a career upon the stage. After, of course, he gave her careful instruction on how to play her love scenes.”
“And this reminded you of me?” Nick was startled. He’d never said such a thing to a woman in all his life.
Cara ignored this silly question. Nicky could seduce a woman with a single wicked glance. “John wished to wed an heiress. He discovered that a suitable young woman was on offer for sale in Somerset. Not being foremost in the running—probably not being in the running at all, I suspect, for he didn’t have a good reputation in Society, not that that seems to have slowed his amorous progress one whit—he snatched her by force from her coach at Charing Cross. As result of which, her family being no little bit annoyed by his presumption, he languished in the Tower while the rest of London was visited by the plague.”
“The choice,” droned Fitz, as he and the squire rode up behind them, “of the predominating color will be indicated by the situation, age, form, and complexion of the wearer. Your complexion, sir, would indicate a certain excess of spleen. I would suggest you wear a red jacket so that a comparative fairness might be produced.”
Nick smiled. Fitz had clearly set out to be as annoying as possible, which was very annoying indeed. “Did he marry his heiress, this ancestor of yours?”
Again, Cara urged her horse forward. “He did. Although there was a tricky moment when one of his mistresses draped her undergarments out of his bedroom window. In later years they sat down peaceably to breakfast together, surrounded by their children, his children from his various mistresses, and hers from her various paramours.”
Nick was stricken by the notion of sitting down to breakfast with Cara. “And the point is?”
Cara turned her head to study him. “Never underestimate a Loversall.”
Nick quirked a brow. “I doubt I could.”
Fitz and Paul had fallen some distance behind them. Cara drew her horse to a halt in a copse of trees. “This is serious, Nicky. Zoe informed us over the breakfast cups today that she wants you to be her first amour. Because of your vast experience. I assume, though she didn’t say it, that a daughter of Beau Loversall can settle for nothing else. However, she doesn’t wish for you to father her children, because she doesn’t want any children just yet, and by the time she does want them, you will be too old.”
Nicky had been thinking of stealing a quick kiss before they were interrupted. “The devil I’m too old!” he said.
“I don’t think you’re too old!” said Cara; the look in Nicky’s eye suggested he might try and persuade her otherwise. “When Zoe abandons you, as she intends to, your heart will be quite shattered, you poor thing.”
The marquess looked sardonic. Doubtful that he would ever be as shattered as when Cara had abandoned him. Or rather, ran away. Fitz’s voice could be heard coming closer. He was now explaining the circumstances o
f his neck-cloth, which was all the rage; to wit, that the creation had been named by no less than the divine Lady Norwood, for whom he had formed a lasting passion, not that he expected her to return his regard. Still, a gentleman in such a situation wished to rise to the occasion sartorially, so to speak, which was why he decided to drop a hint. “Don’t go getting your hackles up! I mention it for your own good. Fine feathers make fine birds.”
Would Nicky heed her warning? Cara was distracted by the sight of his hands on the reins. Those same hands that had been on her body last night. Although then he hadn’t worn gloves. She wished that his hands were on her now, at this very moment, gloves and all. Not that a person could make love on horseback in Hyde Park. Or could they? Cara wished she might find out.
Nick was charmed by her wistful look. “It seems I’m destined to have an amour,” he murmured, at the same moment Paul Anderley was heard to utter, “Curst man-milliner!” Cara looked beleaguered. Nick added, “I’ve told you my terms.”
At any second their tête-á-tête would be interrupted. Cara looked at him reproachfully. “Do I find myself a victim of blackmail?”
Nick lifted her hand to his lips. “You do, indeed.”
Fitz was first into the copse. “By Jove, I believe my honor has been impugned! I should demand satisfaction, don’t you think? After all, m’father did insist on all those fencing lessons. He‘d wish for me to defend my honor. If I fight a duel, will you second me, Nicky?”
“Mercy!” said Cara, eyes alight with amusement. “Surely not a duel! With wicked sharp swords that slash and cut? My dear baron, you can’t truly wish to spill blood.”
If Nicky wanted this Loversall, Fitz couldn’t blame him. Fitz half wanted her himself. “Oh, but I do!” he said, as Paul Anderley rode up to them. “This person compared me to a cow turd stuck with daisies! And after I’d been so kind as to point out the various means by which he might improve his own appearance! I think—I know!—there is nothing for it but that honor must be satisfied. And do pray call me Fitz."
An Extraordinary Flirtation Page 9