When they reached the spot he had chosen, she exclaimed with delight at the peaceful scene. He settled the horses and carriage under the trees, and then, whilst Abby laid out the blanket on the grass, and unpacked the picnic, Gervaise walked along the riverside with Miss Weston.
“This is a beautiful place, my Lord.”
“It is. When I was a boy, we frequently stayed at Brookhaven Hall for long stretches of time, and I used to convince the servants to bring me here, often for a picnic. It has changed little since then. It is always peaceful.”
“Thank you for sharing it with me.”
Gervaise looked at her – her bright smile, and her beauty, and found himself comparing that to the very artificial and calculated presentation of most young women of the ton. He liked this far better. The genuineness and innocence of Miss Weston’s reactions to the world was refreshing, and made him feel less jaded too. ‘I could’ he thought, ‘willingly share far more with you’.
The implications of that thought shocked him. he pushed it aside for later consideration.
They spent a pleasant afternoon, eating and drinking, watching the river flow by, and enjoying the sun and the peacefulness of the spot. It was the best day he’d experienced in a very long time. Finally, when the shadows drew long, they regretfully rose to pack things up and return.
As Gervaise attended to the horses, whilst Miss Weston assisted her maid in packing up the picnic materials, he could not help but hear a whisper from the maid to Miss Weston.
“Oh Miss, I know it’s not my place to say, but I think that Lord Woodridge is so much nicer then Lord Langerden. Lord Woodridge is so kind, and he is always polite to me too. You are so lucky that he cares for you!”
“Quiet now Abby! Really, what a thing to say!”
“But it’s true Miss. He is a good man.”
Gervaise pretended that he had not heard, but his mind was racing. So, the Earl of Langerden, was it? Unexpected, and interesting. The thought of Miss Weston with another man seemed, after the delightful afternoon, an immensely terrible thing. He would have to make certain that she chose him.
~~~~~
That same afternoon, Frederick called upon Clarisse while she was sitting picnicking with Lord Woodridge. A footman opened the door.
“I’ve come to see Miss Weston, if she is in.”
“She is out,” the footman said. “May I tell her that you called?”
Frederick nodded, and pulled his calling card from his pocket, offering it.
“Good afternoon, my Lord,” a voice said from his left, and he turned. Mrs Weston stood there, holding a basket upon her arm, as if she had been doing some light gardening.
“Good day, Mrs Weston.”
“My stepdaughter is not here I’m afraid, she is out for a drive with her other suitor. Might I offer you tea, before you depart?”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Mrs Weston laughed.
“No, please, my husband has gone into town for some business discussions and I find myself rather lonely, some conversation would be pleasant.” She turned to the footman, as if Frederick’s answer was a foregone conclusion. “Jones, please have some tea and biscuits sent to the parlour.”
“Yes Mrs Weston.” The footman nodded. Frederick stepped into the house, the footman closed the door and hurried off, leaving him alone with Mrs Weston.
She looked at him with those heated eyes, and he felt her gaze as if it was fingers trailed over his skin. The circumstance was unusual, for normally, a woman alone would not invite a gentleman in. Still, as her stepdaughter’s suitor, surely this could be acceptable?
But, in that moment, her stepdaughter was not what Frederick was thinking of. As he followed her towards the parlour, his eyes traced the shape of her, as hers had traced him, and he found himself desiring far more from this woman than conversation. He reminded himself that he was an honourable gentleman, and that she was a married woman. But, in that instant, neither of those things seemed terribly important.
“I fancy myself a gardener,” she explained, depositing the basket full of snipped flower buds and a pair of shears on a side table. “Our gardener indulges me, and leaves a few flower beds to my care.”
“I see, I would manage to do little more than kill anything I tried to grow.”
Mrs Weston laughed and led the way to the parlour. Moments later, the door opened, and a servant brought in the tea tray, placed it on a table, and left.
“Tea?”
“Thank you,”
Frederick watched as she poured two cups of tea, studying her closely. She was at least ten years his senior, still far younger than Mr Weston. And she was beautiful, with sharp features and high cheekbones, and her shape was pleasant beneath her dark blue dress with white trim.
She took a bonnet from upon her head and her blonde hair spilled out, much of it escaping from the pins and cascading over her neck and shoulders in a tangle of curling tendrils. He found himself a little short of breath. She turned and handed him the tea cup, settling onto the couch beside him.
“It still gets so cold in this room,” Helena said. “I could call for a fire to be made.”
“I can do it,” Frederick said, although in all truth, he felt more heated than not. He set about the task. Once that was done, he returned to sit beside her on the couch. He lifted the delicate tea cup, and sipped, unsure of what to do or say, acutely aware of the woman beside him.
“It has been a long time since a man looked at me the way you did, as I poured the tea.”
Frederick started, feeling suddenly guilty and a little unsure.
“What?”
“I saw you in the reflection in the mirror over the mantle. I saw you looking.”
She set her cup down and reached for his hand. He let her take it.
“I know that you find me attractive, as I do you,” she breathed, and Frederick couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Your husband…”
“Is gone for the afternoon, as he is often gone about the business that provides his wealth. I am lonely, and I find myself increasingly craving the type of attention that he does not often give me, if you understand me.”
“I… I believe that I do. But…”
“Let us explore this, with care, at times and places when we can be private. I would know you better. Far better, my Lord.”
Frederick found himself caught, trapped between the instinct of years, which was to take what a woman offered him, to take the fleeting pleasure when it was available, and his sense of honour as a gentleman. But, whispered the small voice in his mind, she is not a Lady of the nobility – surely then, the possibilities are different?
She leaned close, her tongue traced her full lips, her scent of flowers and something more exotic surrounded him, and the sailor won over the honourable gentleman. He kissed her.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he pulled away. “That was not right.”
“On the contrary, that was exactly right. My Lord, whilst this may not be the ideal time for more, let us agree when and where we might meet, in the very near future, to do what we both desire.”
Frederick swallowed hard, as her fingers traced a path over his cheek.
The idea of resistance faded away, replaced by desire, and he turned his head, placing a kiss into her palm.
“As you wish, Mrs Weston.”
“Don’t call me that! Don’t remind me. With you, I am Helena, just that, nothing more.”
“Then I am Frederick, nothing more.”
“Now, let us plan.”
They spoke for a short while longer, agreeing a day and a place to meet, a place from which Frederick would then take her further, to a small Inn where neither of them would be recognised. Once the agreement was made, he stood to leave. She reached for his arm, and he turned, looking at the hunger in her eyes. It fired a great burst of lust in him, and he bent to take her lips, hard and fast, before dragging himself away.
“Helena. I must l
eave, or I will not be responsible for what happens now. I will see you as planned. But… what of my courtship of Miss Weston.”
“Continue it, if for no other reason than to give us an easy way to communicate, a reason for you to come here. She could make you a good wife, but I doubt she will ever have the… appetite... that I have.” She looked at him, her expression a little sad. “Nor will my husband ever have the appetite that you have.”
He found himself unable to respond. He simply nodded, and took his leave of her.
Chapter Six
A week later, Clarisse had just come into the house, after another lovely afternoon with Lord Woodridge, when there was a knock at the door. The footman opened it, and moments later, announced Lord Langerden.
“Miss Weston, I’m delighted that I’ve caught you at home. I gather that you have only just returned? Was that Lord Woodridge that I saw, driving off as I approached?”
There was an edge to Lord Langerden’s voice as he spoke, which made Clarisse study him closely – was he jealous, she wondered?
“Good day, Lord Langerden. Yes, that was Lord Woodridge.”
Clarisse did not feel the need to give him any further information – it was annoying enough that he now knew who her other suitor was. That would almost certainly affect his behaviour towards her, if he was truly jealous. She was not at all sure that she liked the idea of being competed for, as if she was some prize in a contest.
“I see. Will you walk with me in the gardens, Miss Weston?”
Clarisse put aside the book that she had picked up, intending to read, and rose, just as Abby tapped on the door.
“I will, my Lord. Abby, please attend me. We will be walking in the gardens.”
“Yes Miss.”
The gardens were beautiful in the late afternoon light, the rich gold of the light making the colours of the flowers particularly intense. Lord Langerden was uncharacteristically silent for a while, as if thinking.
“Has your day been pleasant, my Lord?”
“Quite. Well, as pleasant as a day spent dealing with the administration of one’s estate can ever be.”
“I see. So this interlude in the garden comes as a relief from that toil, does it my Lord?”
Clarisse almost laughed at how the Earl sighed, and looked away, nodding. She did not quite understand how a man with estate managers and other staff to assist in his business could be so fatigued by it. It was not as if he needed to spend as much personal time in dealing with it as her father did in his business.
The ways of the nobility were so often a little strange.
“It does, Miss Weston. More so because I have you to converse with. You are always able to distract me.”
“Now you flatter, my Lord.”
“No, Miss Weston – I always find your company charming.”
Clarisse looked at him, and the thought passed through her mind that, whilst he spoke the right words, they somehow did not feel as sincere as similar words spoken by Lord Woodridge. She wondered why. Still, he was always charming – perhaps it was her imagination to perceive him as less sincere. She shook the thought aside.
“Then I shall not be so impolite as to doubt your words.”
They walked for a while, speaking of very little, and Clarisse wondered if she would ever discover much of the man – he seemed disinclined to ever speak of his own life, since that first conversation, when he had mentioned both the war, and the loss of his father.
After a few attempts to turn the conversation that way, which were expertly deflected, she allowed the conversation to return to inanities. When they paused by the pond, she found herself remembering being at that very spot with Lord Woodridge, remembering his lips upon hers. She flushed, feeling suddenly heated at the thought. A thought she should not be thinking – not with another man beside her, who also sought the favour of her affections!
Sometimes, life was so confusing. Lord Langerden did nothing so romantic as gazing into her eyes, or attempting to kiss her. He seemed distracted, and glanced back towards the house often. She wondered why. It was, in a way, rather disappointing that he seemed so perfunctory in his conversation – Clarisse was beginning to enjoy being courted.
Eventually, they returned to the house, and Clarisse felt a rather uncharitable sense of relief at the opportunity to end the conversation.
They stepped back into the parlour, to find her stepmother seated there, some embroidery in hand. Clarisse narrowed her eyes, surprised. Helena almost never sat in the parlour like that.
“Oh, Good afternoon, Lord Langerden. I did not realise that you were here. Abby – do go and bring some tea.”
“Mrs Weston.”
Helena rose and came forward. Lord Langerden bowed over her hand. Clarisse thought that he held it perhaps longer than he should. She shook her head at the idea – today was obviously a day on which her imagination was running riot.
“Delightful to see you again, my Lord.”
Helena’s voice was warm and pleasant, with none of the sharpness which she usually displayed when speaking to Clarisse.
“And you, Mrs Weston. Thank you for sending for tea, but I really must not impose on you for too long.”
“Perhaps just one cup, my Lord? I find the… warmth… good at this time of day, when the air begins to cool. Something to heat the blood.”
“Of course, Mrs Weston. Some added warmth would, indeed, be pleasant.”
Clarisse, suddenly feeling as if she had been forgotten, cleared her throat. Lord Langerden started, and turned back to her, his charming smile on his face.
“Miss Weston, do you not agree? The air outside cools so rapidly as evening approaches – the warmth of a good cup of tea is welcome.”
Clarisse felt as if the whole conversation was somehow about something utterly other than tea, but she could not identify what, or why. Perhaps it was best to simply agree.
“Indeed, my Lord, I am very fond of tea in the later afternoon.”
She settled into her favourite chair, and Helena returned to the couch where she had been sitting. Lord Langerden took a chair which was placed halfway between them. Silence fell. Clarisse watched Helena, unsure of her intent in being there. Was it simply coincidence that she was in the room? Helena held her embroidery, but did nothing to it. Every so often, she looked up, her eyes moving from Clarisse to the Earl and then away.
Almost, Clarisse thought, as if she was nervous. Another silly flight of the imagination. Clarisse had never seen Helena nervous about anything. Her train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of Abby, bearing a large tray with tea and biscuits.
Helena poured, and the silence was filled by the quiet sound of biscuits being eaten, and the clink of cups on saucers. Little was said, until the tea was finished. Then, Lord Langerden rose, and bowed to both Clarisse and Helena.
“Good evening, ladies. I look forward to seeing more of you, soon.”
His voice held a warmth far greater than it had when they had spoken in the gardens, and his eyes seemed, to Clarisse, to hold Helena’s for a moment. Then the moment had passed.
Helena spoke, her voice low.
“As I do you, my Lord. You are always welcome in this house.”
“Thank you, Mrs Weston.” He turned to Clarisse, and smiled. “Miss Weston – are you free for the afternoon, in two days’ time?”
“I believe I am, my Lord.”
“Then I shall call upon you then, Miss Weston.”
He bowed, and left them. The silence in the room was like a solid wall. Helena went back to embroidering, and Clarisse, feeling oddly uncertain, went to the privacy of her room.
~~~~~
Gervaise stood, and gathered up his winnings. It was time to leave, no matter how tempting it might be to risk the funds on another hand. He waved away the other men’s protestations, and stepped away from the table. As he stepped out into the cool evening air, an urchin came up to him, offering a printed sheet.
“What’s this then?”
> “There’s to be races my Lord, at Green Hill next week.”
Gervaise took the sheet, which stated the time and date of the race meeting, and listed the races to be run. The old anticipation swirled up within him. He should hand the sheet back to the grubby urchin, and walk on. But he could not. He clutched it tightly, and nodded at the boy, before walking on to where his carriage waited.
He should not even consider going anywhere near the track. But he knew that he would go, knew that he would be unable to stop himself. Sadness filled him, at his own weakness. One day, he would be strong enough to resist. But that day had not yet arrived.
~~~~~
Frederick had spent the few days, since his last visit to the Weston residence, thinking – of Miss Weston, of the discovery that Lord Woodridge was her other suitor, and of Mrs Weston. His mind was in a turmoil about it all. He knew that he would do as he had agreed to, and meet Mrs Weston to indulge in a dishonourable affair. The mere thought of her heated his blood and filled him with desire.
But he also found that he resented Woodridge’s courting of Miss Weston. He might find the girl insipid, now that he knew her better, but he needed her money. There was nothing for it – he would need to find a way to cause her to turn away from Woodridge.
His carriage drew up before the Weston residence, just as he had reached that conclusion. He descended, feeling more certain of his way forward than he had for days.
The door opened to his knock, and he followed the footman down the hall, and up the stairs to the parlour. As he reached the top of the stairs, Mrs Weston came along the upper hall. Their eyes met, and a wave of heat ran through him. He forced his expression to simple politeness – today, he needed to focus on the girl, not the stepmother.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Weston.”
“Lord Langerden. I hope that your day has been pleasant?”
“Indeed, it has. I have come to call upon Miss Weston, perhaps to walk in the gardens again.”
Betting on a Lady's Heart: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 14) Page 5