Perhaps she was threatened by his lordship’s marriage, though such inconveniences were commonplace to the demimonde and should really have affected nothing at all. Perhaps the sight of Amaryllis in her wedding gown had come as a shock.
Lady Luttlow, who had come by her title by a scandalous marriage to the Baron Westenbury, who had thankfully not survived the Peninsular wars to know how many times he had been cuckolded, was annoyed. She had been perfectly reconciled to a simpering little wallflower becoming Stephen’s bride. Indeed, she had laughed at the matter, for even those who are not admitted to the illustrious venues of the haute ton know something of what takes place within their hallowed walls.
Amaryllis, as far as she had been aware, was one of those unfortunate young ladies who simply did not “take.” For all her acceptable lineage, she was an antidote.
No one—no one—had said anything about her being an entrancing beauty with lashes that she, Eugenia Ponteforth Luttlow, would have personally killed for. She might have scratched Amaryllis’s eyes out if she’d had the opportunity. Since she had not, she had spent the first weeks of this annoying marriage endeavoring to make the new countess a laughingstock. Now, she made her first grave mistake. She passed an uncomplimentary comment about Amaryllis to Stephen’s face, never dreaming that he would be offended.
“How is your little wallflower? How terribly dreary for you to have to marry such a creature!” Lady Luttlow tittered seductively and fanned herself with an ivory creation topped with seven curling plumes in seven dashing colors. Stephen, who had been about to explore Lady Luttlow’s scant bodice, now straightened himself up coldly.
“I will not have you speak that way of my wife.”
A trilling laugh greeted this comment.
“Oh, but how perfectly sweet! The . . . countess . . . has a gallant at her disposal. So medieval, don’t you think?”
The earl, who had not missed the hesitation over “countess” nor the veiled hint that Amaryllis needed a defender, closed his eyes.
He was unused to such waves of anger as he was experiencing. It had obviously not for a moment struck Lady Luttlow that he might actually like his wife. That his paramour should feel patronizing was simply too much for him. Suddenly, he found her scent more than just overpowering—it was nauseating, and he could not help but notice the fine lines that creased her forehead and eyelids, but were penciled over in alabaster paint. None of these details had ever concerned him, but even her buxom advantages seemed to have lost their thrall.
Perhaps because he was comparing them with soft, shy, rounded curves . . . but he must not think thus! He opened his eyes and stood up coldly.
“My lady, I think you and I have reached the end of our acquaintance. You will find I am not ungenerous if you call upon my banker, Hargreaves and Fireston on the morrow.”
Lady Luttlow paled. Her veiled threats had been meant as a taunt, not to be taken at face value! Stephen was every courtesan’s dream—generous, handsome and seasoned enough not to be a tiresome greenhorn. There was every advantage to maintaining the alliance,
The only other men on her horizon was Lord Fortesque, who no one—simply no one—could compare with Stephen, and Mr. Gregory Dacks, who was a skinflint. She seethed, but was careful enough not to show Stephen her extreme displeasure. Instead, she leaned over very calculatedly, so his view of her charms was really first-rate. She tried a childish giggle at his silly humor, but when that wouldn’t fadge, she became cloyingly seductive so that Stephen had to literally hold her at arm’s length, his masculine strength obvious with every tensed muscle.
This galvanized Lady Luttlow into even more panic at her loss. Unfortunately, it also caused her to forget that jealousy was not a particularly enticing trait. She fought to narrow the gap between them challengingly. Then, in a low voice, she spat out her fury.
“What? So leg-shackled to that . . . that . . . creature that you cannot see the advantages of experience over youth? It is not as if she is a diamond of the first water! Far from it! She failed to take this Season and if it were not for your intervention she would very likely be packed off to Bath with no more hope of a match than . . .”
“Than yourself?” Stephen’s tone was smooth and belied his sudden desire to catch Lady Luttlow at her jeweled throat and throttle her. He did not, of course, but Eugenia was in no doubt about his restraint.
Seething at the insult, she threw a pot at Stephen. It was made of the finest porcelain from Sevres and inlaid with delicate colors that were gilded at the edges. It had been one of Stephen’s presents: an expensive knickknack that now narrowly missed his head.
Stephen said nothing. He took up his jacket and cane and let himself quietly out the door. The next day, Lady Luttlow received a bracelet of diamonds from Rundell and Bridge. Though it sparkled deliciously upon her wrist, it afforded her no satisfaction at all. The Earl of Davenport was notoriously generous with his farewells. The bracelet—particularly its price—spoke not of conciliation, but of endings. Lady Luttlow slammed the door in the face of Mr. Gregory Dacks. She was so consumed with fury, she could hardly speak.
The only good thing about London was the rain. It matched Stephen’s mood as he waved away his carriage and trudged the fashionable streets of Mayfair on foot. The fact that he was making a spectacle of himself seemed to have eluded him, for he was lost in a series of unpleasant thoughts and had the devil of a headache besides.
This, not unnaturally, was the result of several nights of fitful sleep and three decanters of smuggled port bought at a premium. None of these decoctions seemed to have helped in the slightest, hence the earl’s desperate attempt to take the air. When his butler confronted him with a salver full of invitations, he waved him away testily, announcing that whilst the countess was not in residence, there was no reason for him to attend any functions whatsoever.
Naturally, such a strange start could not go unnoticed, especially as the butler’s niece was a particular friend of the second under maid to Lady Charing, who was the greatest gossipmonger in all of England. Stephen found he could not go to so much as his tailor’s without being quizzed most damnably, and as for his greatest friend, Lord Diggory, he was the worst of the lot.
So smitten with mirth was he that he soon found himself sporting a bloody nose, a fact that had Stephen shaken out of his daze of moroseness and apologizing profusely.
“Think nothing of it, Stephen! I’ve suffered worse than a bloody nose before, I assure you! Only . . . if your wife causes you to behave in such a manner, your feelings for her must be deeper than you would have the world think.”
“What if they are?” Stephen’s tone was still fierce, despite his shock at his behavior. “Here, have my handkerchief—there is blood all over your lip.”
“Thanks. Precisely. What if they are? Is it really so terrible, Stephen, to be in love with your wife? She is a pretty little thing, if I recall, and she looked ravishing at your wedding.”
“Yes, I distinctly recall your ogling.”
“Then I am lucky to be alive, never mind sporting a bloody nose! She is fetching, Stephen, and now that she is out of her shell, she is lovelier yet.”
“And how would you know?”
“I don’t. Not personally, so you can take that growl out of your tone, but Hugh Finlay-Orb thinks she is perfection itself and . . .”
“Hugh? What has he to say to it?”
“He is only your nearest neighbor, Stephen! It is natural they should meet! What is more, if her ladyship’s eye for horseflesh is as unerring as Hugh thinks it is . . .”
“That’s it! Confound it, I am going back to Devonport! Hugh Finlay-Orb indeed, jumped-up old popinjay!”
Lord Diggory laughed. “He is actually a pleasant chap . . .”
“Pleasant! He is a meddlesome, troublesome old geezer . . .”
“. . . Who you would like to pummel the living daylights out of! Stephen, go and mend things with your wife. I don’t think society can bear much more of your tetch
iness.”
“There is nothing wrong between me and my wife!”
“There is everything wrong, Stephen! You love her and you are too much of a gapseed to tell her so!”
“I’ve loved a hundred times before! It never lasts!”
“Stephen, you are not your father. Trust yourself. It will last.”
Then Lord Diggory, the earl’s dearest and most trusted confidant, took himself off. He had said what he had come to say. He counted himself thankful that he had come off so lightly. In the greater scheme of things, a bloodied nose was better than pistols at dawn. In Stephen’s current state, pistols were a decided possibility.
It was no more than a day later that Stephen was ready to make his journey home. He’d had much time to contemplate Lord Diggory’s parting remarks to him, but in spite of everything, he fooled himself.
He simply was not—could not—be such a sapskull as to have fallen in love with his wife! He needed to take the upper hand, that was all. He would be stern but dignified. He would ignore her soft, appealing eyes and the whisper of the smile that lingered, so often, upon her lips.
He would endeavor to forget how sweet those lips were, for whilst Lady Luttlow had palled, there would surely be some equally ravishing creature to take his carnal fancy.
He would return to Devonport simply to inform Amaryllis that her conduct was displeasing to him. She was interfering with his stables, spoiling his wards, striking up unsuitable friendships with eligible gentlemen . . . oh, there was an endless list of complaints. All unreasonable, of course, but Lord Redding was not in a reasonable mood.
He was still not in a reasonable mood when he finally reached Devonport, and noticed that the cottagers had all been given a holiday, and that the children had set up games and shies, and that chestnuts from his avenues of trees were being cooked and conked with varying degrees of mirth and greed. There was laughter in the air, and though Stephen was cross, he was not so cross that he could not smile when he was saluted smartly by a small urchin on his estate, or stop when an old woman wanted to bless him.
It would have been churlish to refuse one of his own roasted chestnuts, or not to take a swing at the shy—and successfully, too, much to the applause of his cottagers. Nevertheless, his heart remained heavy, for it was unpleasant to have to scold, and he felt if he did not do so his whole world would soon be turned completely upside down.
He was just wondering what attitude he should take in his confrontation with Amaryllis—he did not want to crush her, merely resume his masterful control—when his heart almost missed a beat.
In an instant, all his well-prepared speeches flew out of his head. His anger was so absolute and devastating that he ground his nails into his palm. If he had not been wearing riding gloves, he would have done himself an injury.
There, at the top of his avenue, at the main entrance, at the very site where his own horses were meant to stop, was a fashionable barouche. It was painted in gold and emerald green and had cost no less than a small fortune.
He knew, for he had procured the item himself, from two of the best carriage makers in all the land. It was not the carriage he objected to—indeed, it was very fine and extremely well sprung—it was the owner. Unless he was mistaken, Lady Luttlow had had the audacity to darken the very doors of his estate.
Chapter Nine
The ensuing scene was not one Stephen wished to remember. Lady Luttlow was genteelly sipping a dish of tea whilst Amaryllis, pale and stony-faced, helped her to some slices of seedcake.
Too stunned to make an entrance, the earl watched as Lady Luttlow skillfully set about poisoning his wife’s mind. Her bracelet sparkled upon her wrist, and when Amaryllis’s eyes fell upon it she trilled self-consciously that “Dear Stephen is always so generous.”
Amaryllis said nothing, but Lady Luttlow, observing that her hands trembled, pushed home her advantage sweetly.
“It was only last week that he gave me this, though I have told him a dozen times or more that there is really no need. Still, I don’t think he can help himself. He is very épris, as I am sure you are aware, such a modern couple as you are! Oh, my dear, dear . . . countess. You have spilled your tea! And on such a becoming gown, too, though perhaps a little too . . . sweet for our Stephen’s tastes! Still, you hardly know him after all, so perhaps I may advise you—”
“There will be no need to advise, Eugenia! My wife wears every gown to perfection and she seems to have a profound understanding of my tastes.”
Stephen entered the room in a cold fury he hardly thought possible. He hardly dared look at Amaryllis’s face, so he walked over to Lady Luttlow, whose own tea had now spilled in her surprise.
“Stephen! What brings you here?”
“What brings me to my own home? My wife brings me, if you wish to know! Did you happen to mention to the countess that your little . . . trinket was a parting gift? No? Somehow, I thought not. Amaryllis, I am sorry you have been so imposed upon. It does not fall within your duties to entertain my ex-mistresses, however kind-hearted you might be.”
Stephen’s voice was stern, but Amaryllis thought it had never sounded more wonderful. She wondered if she was in a dream, then saw she was not, for Stephen’s top boots were muddy, and such a thing would have been unthinkable in a dream.
As a matter of fact, Stephen had been so incensed by the notion of Lady Luttlow cutting up Amaryllis’s peace that he’d had no thought for such matters. He had not even waited for his chaise to halt in an appropriate place before leaping into the dirt of his orderly flower beds.
Now, looking immaculate but for this slight imperfection, Amaryllis was engulfed in so much love she thought it must surely show upon her countenance, though she tried hard to remain cool and collected. Stephen was merely being kind. She should have known he would be too courteous to expect her to entertain his mistresses! She was glad Lady Luttlow had been discarded, for she was mean beneath her studied elegance. Amaryllis thought she might prefer someone who was sweeter tempered, even if a little more vulgar.
She must accustom herself to such thoughts. She must not think that just because Stephen was giving Lady Luttlow her marching papers he would not replace her. He had made the matter plain to her from the outset.
She smiled, and Stephen smiled back. It was not the smile of someone who was thinking of his next paramour, but Amaryllis could not be expected to know that. She did, however, feel insensibly warmed and hardly noticed Lady Luttlow make her exit.
Eugenia Luttlow was defeated at last, not by Stephen’s words but by the way he looked at his wife. Worldly-wise, she knew there was no competing with the repressed passion she read in his immobile features. Lord Fortesque, she reasoned with the ruthlessness of her kind, had the advantages of being rich, if not handsome or even young. She had her horses turned round and rapped out the address of Portman Close, Lord Fortesque’s residence at Albany.
The Countess of Devonport felt breathless. She always did, when Stephen was near, but now his eyes bored into her own and she really thought if he did not say something she might disgrace herself by swooning or worse, throwing herself into his arms.
She did neither of these dramatic actions, however, but fluttered those lashes a little, for her eyes felt misty and she was determined not to give herself away by wiping her threatening tears.
She need not have worried, for Stephen closed the distance between them almost artlessly, and it was he who offered her a handkerchief—indeed, it was he who carefully dried her eyes. He would have kissed her, too, had she not blurted out the first thing that came to her mind.
“Stephen . . . could . . . would . . . can you tell your mistresses to remain at Honeydew Street? I know it is very wrong of me, but it is really such a . . . such a shock to see them in the country. I hope you understand.”
Stephen did not understand. He had just publicly flayed his mistress in front of his wife, and she seemed not to care! Amaryllis was speaking to him as if he had dozens of such creatures—as
indeed once he had had, if one were to count them year by year rather than all at once as she seemed to be doing.
Ironically, he was shocked. His wife was not supposed to know of such matters, much less about his house in Honeydew Street. She spoke about it so composedly, as if she did not care that he was carrying on liaisons when he should be devoting his time to her. Perhaps he had misread her feelings. He had thought . . . oh, he had suspected . . . oh, what a coxcomb he was! He had taken it for granted that she loved him.
Now he was not certain. He knew that if she spoke of lovers he would not blink casually and ask her to conduct her affaires more discreetly. But she was doing no such thing. She was not raging like a banshee, she was not as jealous as a vixen, she was not slapping his face as she ought to be doing.
Good heavens, she was simply asking him to break his vows elsewhere. Perhaps she did not care after all. Perhaps his own twisted views of marriage had distorted hers. Perhaps he had been too careful a tutor in preparing her for a marriage based on reason.
He stared at her, trying to read her thoughts. Amaryllis’s eyes faltered under that stare. It was too intense for her, too probing. She did not want Stephen to read the secrets of her heart and be embarrassed by them. She forced a gay, slightly false laugh.
“Gracious, is that the time? I am due at the stables in half an hour. There is a stud foal I am particularly desirous of viewing. I had best change, for I am not exactly dressed for mud! Will you come? Sir Hugh will be there, he has been very instructive . . .” Her voice trailed off. Her husband was looking like a thundercloud.
The foal was as promising as Amaryllis had hoped. She purchased it from Sir Hugh, but her heart was not in the transaction, though good manners bade her chat peaceably with her neighbor before turning back for home. She had her groom with her, of course, but he was keeping a respectful distance, so Amaryllis could be alone with her thoughts and her secret longing to rush into the house and throw herself about Stephen’s neck.
An Imperfect Proposal Page 6