After a long, wonderful moment she pulled back, framing his face with her hands. “Oh, you terribly wicked man, why are you dressed this way, and why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” she demanded, laughing and crying all at the same time.
“I didn’t want anyone to recognize me. And I wasn’t sure of my reception,” he admitted.
“You are always welcome here,” she said, almost fiercely. Her hands tightened against his cheeks, as though to punish him for thinking such a thing. He took the moment of silence to study her. He was more than a little surprised by the changes time had wrought—the fullness about her cheeks, the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed. She was scarcely recognizable as the child she had once been. Her hair had darkened with motherhood, her figure grown more generous. She was still beautiful. Still Josephine, through and through. Just . . . older. Wiser, perhaps. It was good—if startling—to see.
Her hands fell away. “Why have you come?” A slight frown formed on the edges of her lips. “I feel certain it isn’t merely for a social call, not when you’ve stayed away for three years.”
“I was finally forced to see reason.” He glanced back at Lucy, who was waiting patiently to one side. She might be dressed like a boy at present, but he knew the kind, generous heart that lurked beneath those boy’s togs, and he was proud to present this woman to his sister. “Josephine, may I present Miss Lucy Westmore.”
“Ah.” Josephine’s voice sounded amused. Her eyes swept Lucy’s clothing and came back to rest on her face. “I am beginning to understand, I think.”
Lucy stepped forward. “Do not worry. Your secret is safe with me.” Her cheeks pinked up and she gestured to her trousers. “Clearly, I have a few secrets of my own.”
Josephine tilted her head, studying Lucy with interest. “I don’t know what you’ve done to my brother to get him to finally come and visit me, but whatever it is, you have my undying thanks. I’ve missed him, terribly.”
“Oh, it wasn’t all me. I merely pointed out to him that men could be both stupid and wonderful at the same time.” Lucy laughed. “He did the rest on his own.” She hesitated before adding, “Though it took him bloody long enough.”
Josephine’s smile stretched higher. “I can see we are going to get along brilliantly, Miss Westmore.”
A tug came on his coat. Thomas looked down. A bright face peered up at him, hazel eyes, framed by light auburn hair. “Who are you?” came the tiny voice attached to the small, beautiful creature.
A lump formed in his throat. Christ, but his niece looked just like Josephine had, once upon a time. His mind cartwheeled backward. His sister hadn’t been much older than this when their parents died. “Er . . .” He hesitated, then glanced helplessly back at his sister, unsure of what—if anything—she had told her daughter about him.
God knew, the rest of the world had been kept in the dark.
“He’s your uncle, Ellie.” Josephine put a hand on the child’s head, caressing the curls. “Can’t you see? He’s got the same color eyes you do.”
The girl scrunched her nose. “He’s not very pretty.”
Thomas laughed out loud at that. “No, I don’t suppose I am.”
Despite the child’s pronouncement, her eyes were bright and curious. She looked up at him as though it was the most natural thing to have one’s long-lost uncle show up wearing skirts. Then again, she likely still lived in a world of make-believe. He probably could have shown up on a winged horse and been met with the same acceptance.
His niece cocked her head. “Eddie next door has an uncle who takes him to sail boats on the water at Hyde Park. You’ve never taken me to sail a boat,” she accused.
Josephine laughed softly. “He lives in Cornwall, duck. You haven’t seen him since shortly after you were born, so you don’t remember him.”
The lump in Thomas’s throat grew larger and he had no chance of swallowing it away.
No. The girl didn’t remember him, and he ought to be ashamed of that fact. “But I remember you,” he told her solemnly, lowering himself to one knee so he could look her more firmly in the eye. “I think of you nearly every day.” How could he not? He was responsible for this child, whether she or the rest of the world realized it.
And not only because of the money he sent each month through his solicitor, or the fact that he had purchased this town house, once upon a time. The lump swelled until it felt the approximate size of the London Tower. He wanted to be a part of this child’s life. He wanted to be a part of both of their lives.
And that meant he needed to spend far more time in London.
The child’s eyes grew wide. “You do?”
He nodded. “And I would be happy to take you to the park, if your mother says it is all right.” Provided, of course, he could come up with a less damning disguise. He wasn’t going to attempt navigating Hyde Park in skirts. “But it’s our secret.” He held a finger to his lips. “Promise?”
The child looked up at her mother, hopeful.
Josephine nodded her agreement. “Yes, duck. It’s a secret. Just between us. He is your uncle, but you mustn’t tell anyone.”
“All right.” Ellie smiled. “But only if he promises to take me to sail a boat.”
LUCY SLIPPED AWAY, her smile lingering long after she boarded the omnibus back to Oxford Street. She would have liked to stay at Golden Square. She was fascinated by the beautiful and mysterious Mrs. Smythe, by the young girl who played the pianoforte so terribly, by the stunned smile she’d seen on Thomas’s face. There had been a subtle easing of tension about his eyes, as though the worry of three years was stripped away and replaced with wonder.
She’d wanted to linger, to watch. But it wasn’t really her place. She was an outsider. Thomas and his sister had three years to catch up on. And she didn’t want the promises she had made to her mother and Lydia to interrupt such a pretty reunion.
The shadows were stretching out in front of Cardwell House by the time she made it back, so she snuck in through the scullery door entrance, keeping her head down and cap pulled low over her eyes. She crept down the hallway, feeling relieved to have made it back unnoticed, and already dreading the predictable pinch of corset that awaited her abovestairs. God knew, she’d need to be tight-laced tonight to fit into her gown, which was already pressed and laid out, eager to begin its reign of torture.
Suddenly, without warning, a hand snaked out of the drawing room door and she was jerked unceremoniously inside.
“Lucy Westmore,” Lydia hissed. “Just where do you think you are going dressed like this?” One of Lydia’s hands flapped about like a bird, and the other stayed tucked behind her back. “Are you trying to escape tonight’s ball?”
Lucy stared at her sister, shocked to a stammer. “Er . . . ah . . . no, that is. I was sneaking in, actually. Not out.” She reached out a trembling hand to cup her sister’s shoulder-length strands of hair. “Oh, Lydia,” she groaned, “what have you done?”
Lydia blew a wayward strand from her eyes. “I’ve cut it, you ninny.”
“But . . . why?”
Her sister pulled her hand from behind her back and held out the length of her cut hair, as though presenting a bouquet of flowers to an undeserving child. “Because for tonight’s ball, you need it more than I do. We will pin your hair back and then add a hairpiece. No one will ever need to know the hair isn’t your own.”
Lucy blinked back a hot wash of tears as she stared at the wispy strands of blond hair clutched in her sister’s hand. “You did this . . . for me?”
Lydia heaved a frustrated sigh. “For heaven’s sake Lucy, I would do nearly anything for you. I should hope that would be obvious by now, given how bloody hard I have worked to save your reputation.”
Lucy gaped at her sister. “Did you just say ‘bloody’?”
“I’m not the one who needs to be a lady tonight,” Lydia answered. “You are.” Her eyes flashed, blue mirrors of Lucy’s own. “And if you don’t march upstairs right now and get
into your bath and stand still long enough for us to fix your hair, it will all be lost.”
Chapter 29
The noise swept over her, swirling notes from the musicians, the roar of low conversation, melding in a mad mix of sound. Then came the smells, a thousand beeswax candles, flickering in their sconces. The collective perfumes, rising above the crowd and mixing in a fragrance best characterized as eau de ton.
The Duchess of Pembroke’s ball appeared to be the crush of the Season.
Perhaps that was why her heart felt so muffled and bruised in her chest.
Lucy followed her mother through the open doors, holding her breath as their names were announced. What was one more nervous debutante added to the mix? Hardly anyone of significance. And perhaps, if she kept to the corners, hugged the walls, she might escape this night unscathed, the deception corrected, no harm done.
Breathe, she reminded herself.
Though she probably ought to be reminding herself to bow instead.
Finally, they were standing before the Duchess of Pembroke and her mother was sweeping a graceful curtsy. Lucy followed suit, though her stomach insisted on staying somewhere down around her feet.
“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, your grace,” she said.
Quietly and demurely.
She hoped.
The intensity of the duchess’s stare felt to Lucy a bit like hot coals dropped down the front of her décolletage. She lifted a gloved hand to her chest, clasping the serpentine pendant to steady her nerves. Tonight she’d replaced the black ribbon with a delicate gold chain, and as a result the pendant hung lower than usual, nestled against the far-too-generous swell of her breasts. And bugger it all, that was precisely where the Duchess of Pembroke was staring.
The older woman raised her quizzing glass, and Lucy braced herself. She knew she had looked her best upon leaving her bedroom. She’d sat for what seemed like hours as the maid and Lydia hovered around her, tugging here, pulling there. With the snood hairpiece, a slew of hairpins, and a frightening amount of pomade, she looked as though her hair had been carefully and elaborately styled on top of her head.
But even at her best, she was hardly the most fetching face in the room. And who knew what had drawn the duchess’s attention? Was her hairpiece coming down? Were her nipples popping out of her gown, perchance, a casualty of her perfect curtsy?
“What a lovely necklace,” the duchess exclaimed. The quizzing glass lowered. “Tell me, wherever did you find such a charming and unusual piece?”
Lucy thought fast—though not, she suspected, particularly well. “There is an . . . ah . . . jeweler in town who specializes in serpentine jewelry. The stone comes from Cornwall.” Her mother’s elbow in her back served a sharp warning. “Not that I’ve been to Cornwall, you understand,” she fumbled, “but the jeweler explained it all. It’s a very unusual stone, unique to that part of the country.” She bit her lip, realizing she was rambling on.
Perhaps another reminder to breathe would not be out of order.
“It is beautifully designed,” the duchess said with a gracious smile. “Which jeweler, did you say?”
Lucy realized she was now in danger of breathing too much. Closer to gasping, actually. She’d wanted to wear the necklace for good luck. A reminder of the things she valued, things that were not found in a glittering ballroom. But it seemed that instead of steadying her nerves, its unusual appearance had only caused her more trouble.
“Er . . . Smythe’s,” she stammered, then immediately wanted to kick herself.
What had made her say that? Thomas and his sister were clearly still stuck in her head. Now she needed to invent more explanations, more lies. The web was twisting and turning, becoming ever more complicated.
“Well. I would love to have a similar piece.” The duchess smiled. “Did the jeweler perchance have any others?”
Through Lucy’s racing thoughts and heated cheeks, inspiration somehow struck like a thunderbolt. She nodded numbly. “Several, in fact.”
Oh, bugger it all. Why hadn’t she seen it before? It was so obvious as to almost be laughable. Lizard Bay needed an industry that would save its residents from ruin.
The town had a nearly unlimited supply of lizardite stones.
And if the Duchess of Pembroke was fascinated by a serpentine charm, wouldn’t others in London surely be as well?
THOMAS STEPPED INTO the ballroom, the lurching strains of the music feeling wholly unfamiliar despite the fact he’d once been an active participant in the swirl of London’s grand Season. Then again, when he’d last stepped into a ballroom, he was focused on the location of the nearest source of liquor.
Tonight felt different because it was different. He was not here because of the obligation or expectations of his position. He felt no urge to seek out the refreshment table and determine if the punch had been properly laced with spirits.
He was here because he wanted to be.
And because he wanted her.
When he first realized that Lucy had slipped away from his sister’s house, he’d wanted to chase after her. There were things he needed to say, revelations to share. He realized, now, that he could be in London without fear of betraying his sister or succumbing to the temptation of a bottle. If London was where Lucy’s family was, he would gladly live here for her. But even as he’d begun to offer his apologies to Josephine, promising to come back soon, he realized what Lucy must have intended. She’d left to give him this moment with his sister, to let their time stretch longer, even as she faced her own penance tonight.
He knew what this evening would cost her in terms of dignity. He well remembered how she’d claimed the expectations of her parents were like a shoe that refused to fit. But her obligations to her family apparently ran deep. She had risked a good deal by coming to Golden Square for him. And now he would gladly do the same for her.
He spied her standing near the Duchess of Pembroke, a highly respected member of the ton who had once been friendly with his parents. He strode in their direction, his mission absolute. He barely registered the parting of the crowd, the shocked whispers that rippled through the mob.
“It’s the Marquess of Branston.”
“Has he been gone three years?”
“Did you hear about his poor sister?”
Thomas ignored them all. Let them gawk. Let them talk.
It no longer mattered.
He came to stop and forced his gaze to shift momentarily from Lucy to their hostess. He executed a bow that felt as unfamiliar as the rusty strains of music. “Your grace, my apologies for coming uninvited.”
The Duchess of Pembroke smiled. “Nonsense, Lord Branston, you are welcome here. I would have sent an invitation if I had known you were in London.” She cocked her head. “No one has seen you for several years. Have you come back to town for good, then?”
He hesitated. “Not just yet. But I plan to answer my writ of summons and take my seat in the House of Lords next Season.”
Beside him, Thomas heard a soft gasp.
Now, finally, his attention could shift to where it wanted.
Where it demanded.
And once it landed on Lucy, it never wanted to leave. No longer the wild spirit of his dreams, tonight she was an absolute vision in pale yellow silk, pink rosebuds swirling about the hem of her gown. Her fingers were nervously clutching the serpentine necklace about her neck.
And her hair—holy God, where had that come from?
He wanted to pull her away from the crowd and tumble her out onto a darkened terrace. He wanted to press his mouth against her swell of breast, see if her skin tasted as sweet as he remembered. He wanted to—
“Lord Branston,” the duchess said, severing that train of thought as cleanly as if she’d brought an axe down across his skull. “May I present Lady Cardwell and her daughter, Miss Lucille Westmore? Miss Westmore has just been presented this Season.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” he somehow found the composure to
murmur. His wayward thoughts were momentarily tamed with the reminder he was not supposed to know this woman. His body, however, was humming with the unspoken awareness that came from knowing her very intimately, indeed. He knew the sound she made in the back of her throat when a kiss caught her by surprise, and he knew the way she tasted, in her most secret places. But to give that away would be to take away her choice in the matter, and so he bent over her gloved hand. “Miss Westmore,” he murmured, bowing low. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Would you do me the honor of being my partner for the next dance?”
Lucy’s smile was oddly hesitant. She blinked at the woman standing next to her. “Er . . . Mother, may I dance with the Marquess of Branston?”
Her mother’s eyes widened in surprise. “Did you say . . . ‘marquess’?” Her gaze turned appraising and she nearly shoved Lucy in Thomas’s direction. “By all means, dear.”
Hiding a smile, Thomas led her onto the dance floor. A new set was beginning, the swirling notes solidifying into a particular three-beat rhythm. His hand settled where it had longed to go since the moment he spied her across the room, settling possessively against the sweet curve of her waist. He led them into a sweeping waltz, remembering the moves well enough, but not remembering this sort of acute anticipation.
He must have danced over a hundred waltzes.
But never, it seemed, with a scandalous spinster.
He smiled down at her, remembering how she had looked in the soft morning light of Cornwall, her skin flushed with pleasure. Her cheeks held something of that glow now, but her hand felt like a trapped bird in his. That was when he realized she was trembling.
“Are you nervous?”
“Aren’t you?” she retorted. “Everyone in the bloody room is watching.”
She sounded so much like the Lucy he knew and loved that he was tempted to laugh, there in the middle of the floor, the eyes of the entire ton upon them. “I probably ought to be nervous,” he admitted. “But you see, the only opinion in this room that matters to me is yours.”
The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior Page 33