A Lady Most Lovely

by Jennifer Delamere

  Tom would have declined, but he wanted to find out what kind of explanation Denault would give for the broken engagement. Denault was likely to hound him more about the railway, too, but nothing he could do or say would get Tom to buy in now.

  Denault took a seat behind his half-eaten lunch and a tankard of ale. Tom grabbed the chair opposite and sat down as the barmaid sauntered up. “What’ll you have, sir?”

  Tom gestured to the ale in front of Paul. “The same.”

  “Anything to eat?”

  In truth, Tom was hungry. The tantalizing aroma of roasting meat wafted out from the back kitchen, and Tom’s stomach growled in protest. But Lizzie was expecting him for luncheon. He shook his head. “Just the ale.”

  “Right then—the poor man’s lunch today,” the barmaid said, throwing him a disparaging look before going off to fetch his drink.

  Tom pulled out his watch and checked the time. “I can’t stay long,” he told Denault.

  “Well, then, let’s get right to it,” Denault said cheerfully. “At our last meeting, you said you wanted to take some time to consider the company’s prospectus. I assume you’ve done so?”

  “I heard the wedding between you and Miss Vaughn was called off,” Tom said.

  At first this abrupt change of subject took Denault off guard. Then he laughed—a dry, bitter sound. “You and everyone else in London.”

  “Care to enlighten me as to why?”

  “Well, just between us…” Denault pushed his plate aside and leaned forward, speaking with an air of confidentiality. “It was a mutual decision, and entirely amicable. It should not be taken to reflect badly on Miss Vaughn.”

  Tom snorted. He couldn’t help it. “How does it reflect on you?”

  Denault waved that question away. “Poole, you’re a man of sense. You should know that what does or does not take place on London’s social calendar has no bearing on the business at hand. Let’s talk about the Saint Louis and Western, shall we? Are you with us? The banks are still open. I suggest we go there today.”

  Tom might have laughed at the man’s gall, if he wasn’t so appalled. “Can you really dismiss a wedding to Miss Vaughn as a mere hiccup on the social calendar?”

  “I don’t see why it should concern you,” Denault countered. A gleam came to his eye. “Unless you have some particular interest in Miss Vaughn. Some connection perhaps?”

  Tom refused to rise to the bait. There were better ways to fight back. So he said in a deliberately offhand manner, “As for the railway, I regret that I’m not in a position to invest in it just now. Something has arisen that requires the use of my funds elsewhere.” Tom had learned all the right business jargon from Sullivan, and he took a malicious pleasure in spouting it to a dealmaker like Denault. “It’s a long-term project, which, although risky, might yield appealing dividends.” Tom pushed back from the table and stood up to signal that the conversation was over.

  Denault quickly rose and stepped in Tom’s path. “Has that little charmer been spreading lies about me? She was supposed to keep her mouth shut. We agreed—”

  Tom took hold of him and pushed him against the wall. “Agreed to what?”

  Denault made no move to get away. “Perhaps I ought to warn you about something, my friend,” he said caustically. “Margaret is drowning in debt. You’re a fool if you think she wants anything but your money.”

  “What Margaret does is no longer your affair. Nor do I need your advice.” With one more shove, Tom dropped his hold on Denault and stalked to the door.

  Behind him, Denault shouted, “You’ll regret this, Poole!”

  As Tom turned his head to throw back a scathing reply, he bumped into another man who was walking in his direction. The man was tall and about as broad as the door. No wonder Tom had run into him.

  He shoved Tom aside with a rude, “Watch where you’re going,” and pushed past.

  Tom was sorely tempted to give the man a taste of his fist. Just let it go, he told himself. It’s not worth a fight.

  It was only after Tom was outside that he realized the other man had been heading in the direction of Denault’s table. Was this another potential investor? It would serve him right if he was, Tom thought. Let Denault fleece whomever he could; Tom was glad to stay out of it. And yet the stranger had seemed vaguely familiar. Probably one of the dozens of pompous idiots he’d been introduced to. Tom hadn’t gotten a good enough look at the man’s face to be sure.

  Tom shrugged it off, resuming his walk back up the broad avenue toward Mayfair. He was glad he’d had an opportunity to close out his dealings with Denault. Now he could concentrate on Margaret—and in truth, he did not want his thoughts anywhere else. He and Margaret were bound now—by the loan, at least. But Tom wanted more. He knew that now. His impulsive proposal had been a shock to them both, and yet Tom knew it had been taking root in his soul from the moment she’d raced him down the green at Hyde Park. Probably even sooner than that.

  He picked up his pace, nimbly dodging the carts, vendors, and street sweepers as he went. A strange joy surged through him. He had the sense that all the upheavals of the past few years had been nothing compared to the way his life was about to change.

  Lord, he thought, if this is Your will, lead me on.

  He could hardly wait to see what was going to happen next.

  Chapter 10

  Good evening, Miss Vaughn.”

  Tom Poole must have been practicing the bow; Margaret was certain the formality did not come naturally to him. It was without a doubt an entirely different entrance than he had made yesterday, when he had thrown the door open and filled the room with his presence, looking ready to take on all comers like a boxer in a ring.

  Everything about him was more reserved tonight. Gone were the disheveled riding costume and muddy boots. Now he wore a stiff black suit and an expertly knotted cravat, looking every inch the gentleman as he held his top hat in his gloved hands. An odd thought strayed across her mind, that somehow he looked more handsome in his rumpled brown riding coat. Odd, too, that she should find him handsome at all, but he was—in a rugged sort of way. Normally, she would never give such a man a second glance. But he had deliberately placed himself into her life. Even now he caused competing thoughts of gratitude and resentment to wrestle within her, combining to form some other emotion she had no name for.

  He offered up his arm to escort her outside, and a tiny, alarming sensation raced across her stomach as she laid her hand on his arm. She was not—could not be—attracted to this man. When the debt was paid, they would go their separate ways. It was a hope she clung to. Her finances, and by extension her reputation and social standing, were precariously dependent on this virtual stranger. She was desperate to regain a firm hold on her own life.

  He led her out to the steps of the town house. “Where is your carriage?” she asked, seeing none waiting in the street.

  “Carriage?” Tom said, sounding genuinely surprised.

  “Yes,” Margaret said. “Surely you don’t expect us to walk across the park?”

  He did, it seemed. “Why, I never thought we’d need a carriage. A child could throw a rock and hit the Somervilles’ house from here.”

  “Really, Mr. Poole. It’s most impolite to expect a lady to walk across mud and grass in her evening clothes.” She may be in debt, but she still had her dignity. “I shall go back inside and order a carriage.”

  “It is only a very short way,” he insisted, stepping between her and the door. “It seemed unnecessary to go through all the trouble of hitching up the horses and bringing them out just to ride around the square.”

  “You really don’t see the impropriety in escorting me on foot, do you?” she said.

  “You’re right,” he returned crustily, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “Clearly I don’t know enough about the ‘proper’ way to do things. Because of this gap in my knowledge, I’ve had to fall back on common sense instead.”

  Margaret stared at him, unable
to believe her ears. He truly expected her to walk through mud and traffic, like some servant on an errand.

  Her mutinous glare did not seem to ruffle him at all. He reached out to place her arm once more on his. “Shall we?” he said.

  As before, his touch was warm, his grasp gentle but irresistible. Margaret had a sudden, unsettling impression that whatever this man reached for, he got. And so, with a curt murmur of acquiescence, she allowed him to lead her on. If he wanted Margaret to stain his sister’s carpet with mud the way he had done with hers, then she would not be responsible for it.

  They walked across the square in the fading light. An afternoon shower had left the shrubs moist and green, and the scent of lilacs hung in the air. The moon had risen early and was already visible through the scattered clouds. It might almost have been romantic—if she were not being led in such an embarrassing fashion to a dinner party she had no desire to attend. She kept her face turned away from the street, hoping no one in the passing carriages would recognize her.

  Why was he bringing her to the Somervilles’ tonight? If there was one thing she’d learned over the years, it was that everyone had an ulterior motive for their actions. Especially men. Her uncle, her father, her former fiancé—all had pursued their own selfish aims without the least consideration of what harm they might cause to others. Whatever Tom’s motive was, it would surely be revealed soon enough. In any case, she would remain vigilant.

  With these dark thoughts swirling through her head, she was completely taken aback when Tom said, “Miss Vaughn, I must apologize.”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “My sister has been trying to instill some of the finer arts of etiquette into me, but I admit I’m not the best student. Now I see I have committed a gross faux pas.”

  “Faux pas?” she repeated, bemused to hear this phrase coming from him.

  He gave her a sheepish smile. “It’s French, I think.”

  Disarmed, Margaret could only say, “Well, yes. Thank you.”

  They began walking again. When they reached a spot where the little path branched, Tom led her to the right instead of taking the more direct route. “This way has drained better and there are no puddles,” he explained. “You will not soil your shoes.”

  “How do you know?” Margaret asked in surprise. “Did you inspect all the paths?”

  “Of course,” he replied without hesitation.

  What an odd contradiction he was. He had not brought a carriage, and yet he had taken the time to examine the pathways between their houses with her in mind. Margaret could not decide whether he was truly daft or had just rendered an unusual act of kindness.

  True to his word, he led her expertly along the dry paths to the opposite side of the square. Her shoes and dress were still reasonably unscathed when they reached the Somerville home.

  Margaret’s wariness returned as the butler led them to the parlor. She had no idea what to expect from Lady Somerville, a woman who was the illegitimate daughter of the late Sir Herbert Thornborough, and yet now was married to a peer of the realm. The official story was that she’d received a blow to the head that made her think she was her long-lost half sister Victoria. Apparently the resemblance was so strong that everyone else, including the family matriarch, Lady Thornborough, had believed it, too. Then, somehow Lizzie had regained her senses and remembered who she really was. Her husband, Lord Somerville, had been a clergyman in a very poor parish before he had unexpectedly inherited a barony. He had passed up more advantageous marriage connections and chosen Lizzie Poole instead. It was a wildly improbable tale, to be sure, and one that Margaret found nearly impossible to believe. And yet her brother had his own amazing tale, which was irrefutable. Margaret could only conclude that no one in this family did things in an ordinary way.

  As they entered the parlor, Margaret saw immediately that the lady was quite beautiful, with pale blond hair and delicate features. She was also—to Margaret’s shock—very pregnant. That would explain why she had made no appearances in society this summer. Her husband, Lord Somerville, stood beside her. He was every bit as handsome as the gossips had said he was. They were indeed a striking couple.

  Lady Somerville looked expectantly at her brother and said softly, “You must introduce us, Tom.”

  “Forgive me,” Tom said. “I forgot.” He paused. Margaret could almost see him mentally reviewing the rules of etiquette before he said, “Lord and Lady Somerville, may I present Miss Margaret Vaughn.”

  “How do you do,” Margaret said.

  Her attempt at formality was lost on Lady Somerville. She took Margaret’s hands into her own and regarded her warmly with eyes that were a very intense shade of blue. Violet, almost. “Thank you so much for coming. How wonderful that we should meet at last!”

  Margaret threw a quick glance at Tom to verify that his eyes were deep brown, as she had remembered. Clearly, he and his half sister had inherited their physical traits from their different fathers.

  “Won’t you sit down?” Lady Somerville said, motioning to a sofa.

  Margaret took a seat, and Lady Somerville gently eased herself into a chair. A tiny sigh of relief escaped her as she did so.

  “It is kind of you to host a dinner party in your condition,” Margaret said. “These things can be so complicated and very stressful.” What she really wanted to do was chastise the woman for even contemplating such a thing. Surely it was dangerous to her health.

  “This isn’t really a dinner party,” Lady Somerville said. “It’s just the four of us tonight.”

  They had invited her to a family dinner? The implied intimacy of this gesture was unnerving. Margaret had been expecting a larger party; she would have been more comfortable with the easy, shallow conversations at such events. On the other hand, perhaps it was a good thing no others were present. Her newly broken-off engagement could have subjected her to embarrassing questions from those who were seeking grist for the gossip mill.

  “How odd to be living so close to one another and never to have met!” Lord Somerville observed. “Especially since London is the smallest city in the world when it comes to its social circle.” He reached out to give a gentle pat on Tom’s back. “We are fortunate that Tom has made your acquaintance for us.”

  It was the kind of polite compliment that Margaret had heard before, but he sounded truly sincere. They were doing all they could to make her feel welcome, and by the time they all went down to dinner Margaret’s qualms about spending the evening here had diminished.

  She was impressed by the effortless protocol they followed during dinner, which was served flawlessly by a well-trained staff. Even Tom acquitted himself well, although Margaret noticed he kept a close watch on his sister in order to follow her lead as the various courses were served. He seemed content to let the Somervilles do most of the talking.

  Although they discussed mutual acquaintances and recent society events, nobody mentioned Paul or her broken engagement. It was not until they had reconvened in the parlor after dinner that Margaret had a brief moment of discomfort. Lady Somerville said, “Miss Vaughn, Tom has told us something very interesting about you.”

  “Has he?” Margaret sent a worried glance at Tom. He had promised he would tell no one about their arrangement—their business arrangement, she reminded herself forcefully. Had he broken his word? Tom shook his head, as if to refute her unspoken allegation.

  “I understand you rode together in Hyde Park.” Lady Somerville’s eyes sparkled. “He says your horse gave Castor quite a good run.”

  “I enjoyed that race very much,” Margaret said, relieved not to be talking about Paul or her debts. “There are not too many gentlemen who are willing to race a lady flat out like that.”

  “Happily,” interjected Tom, “I am not a gentleman.”

  He said this with a self-deprecating smile that made her regret her earlier harsh words. “But you are a gentleman,” she contradicted, drawing a quizzical look from him. “You allowed
me to win.”

  His smile grew wider, causing his eyes to crinkle around the edges. He did not try to defend himself against the accusation; in fact, his impish grin seemed to slyly admit the truth of it. It also caused her heart to give an odd little jump. Here among his family members, Tom seemed a different man altogether. The agitated scowl he had worn so often on previous occasions had made no appearance tonight. “So tell me,” Margaret said, “are those fantastical stories they tell about you true? Were you really taken in by Aborigines?”

  He nodded. “They found me unconscious on the beach, with Castor nuzzling me as though he were trying to wake me. They took me to their camp, where their medicine man performed all sorts of healing incantations. I’m grateful for this, of course, although I suspect it was the fresh water they kept forcing down my throat that finally brought me around.”

  “How odd that must have been,” Margaret mused, trying to imagine the scene. “It must have been like waking up in another world.”

  “Indeed it was,” Tom agreed.

  “So what happened after that? How long did you stay with them?”

  “It took me about three weeks to regain enough strength to travel. In the meantime, they treated me very hospitably. I ate their food, met their people, learned a bit of their language. But I set off for Melbourne as soon as I could. I knew Lizzie would be sick with grief, thinking I had died. I had to get word to her that I had survived.”

  “Those were hard times,” Lady Somerville acknowledged with a sad sigh.

  “For us both, dear sister.” He gave her a tender smile, which she returned, her eyes growing misty.

  At times Margaret had wondered how her life might have been different if she’d had siblings. But it was only now, as she saw the affection between Tom and his sister, that she felt the lack so intensely.

  “On top of everything else,” Tom continued, “the weather had been oppressively hot. In the summer, those gum trees can ignite faster than dry tinder. I was still some distance from Melbourne when the entire countryside caught fire around me. Tens of thousands of acres were burning, not to mention the lonely outposts of sheep and cattle. It was… well, words cannot describe it.” His hand gripped his teacup so tightly that Margaret feared he might crush it.