When she had experienced the first blush of love, she’d been too young and unaffected to hide it. James had known. Everyone had known. And tonight, with her jealousy and cruel words, she had only served to reinforce her feelings and her rank immaturity.
So instead of a grand denial, she shook her head, slowly this time, and said in a thick voice, “I fear this will never pass.” Tears stung the corners of her eyes. She valiantly checked their flow.
“You could have your pick of any gentleman. You could have the heir of a duke if you wanted. I’ll never understand why you chose to give your heart to Rutherford of all men,” he teased, gently pulling her into his arms.
Didn’t he know it hadn’t been a choice, she despaired as she burrowed into the crook of his shoulder and availed herself to his brotherly compassion as she had done so many times in the past. Thomas, who was closer to her than her father had been when he was alive, and the most influential male in her life, offered her the understanding few could. He was a man and he knew James better than most, creating a bond between them she could not put into words.
His large hands gently grasped her forearms, holding her away to stare down at her forlorn face.
“He is my dearest friend, and I care for him like a brother, but he is not right for you. You deserve so much more. Rutherford and I, we are the same in that regard, perhaps that’s why we get on so well. You deserve someone who will cherish you and love you. Rutherford has never been in love. I don’t even think he’s capable of that kind of emotion.” His regard was both serious and kind. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”
Missy listened and she heard what her brother said but could not merge the James she had glimpsed, his passions blazing, with a man who lacked the ability to experience an emotion as powerful as love.
No, Thomas was wrong but she wouldn’t contradict him. As he said, he didn’t want to see her hurt.
Missy nodded solemnly. “I suppose Mama is terribly upset with me.”
“Mother is not angry—” He broke off at her disbelieving stare. “She is concerned, Missy, just as I am. She does not want to see you hurt and your behavior at supper today…”
There was no need for him to finish the statement. Everyone had been witness to her deplorable behavior. Not only did she owe an abject apology to Mrs. Laurel but to James as well. But the prospect of facing him there, in front of everyone had sent her scampering from the room like a coward. She would apologize after she’d given him an opportunity to cool down.
Thomas nudged her chin up with the tip of his forefinger. “My only concern now is that you will end up wasting your life waiting for a man who will never love you. A man who is completely undeserving of your love. Do you think you might afford the gentlemen of the ton a chance to win your affections? Perhaps give Granville a real chance? Come, you know you must move on with your life.”
Forget James? What she wouldn’t give if that were possible. Missy could only offer a tremulous smile in response.
Victoria had long past conceded that her mother was overbearing. Not only was she overbearing but also tended to be extremely ingratiating with her betters (a relatively small group), and snooty to those of an inferior class. Her mother wanted for her the same thing most mothers wanted for their daughters; to marry well. And so in Victoria’s fifth Season in the marriage mart, the marchioness had vowed that it would be her last. Victoria would find a husband this Season or the marchioness would die trying, of course metaphorically speaking, although Victoria did sometimes wonder.
“—and I do not understand what happened to Lord Rutherford. It has been three weeks since his last call.” Her mother made no effort to hide her pique, her plump face set in a severe frown.
It had been his first and only call, Victoria mused.
Lady Cornwall jostled in her seat and the jar of her fleshy elbow caught Victoria at her waist.
“Ouch!” Victoria squeaked. Cognizant of the other theatergoers, she shot a quick glance around, afraid her utterance had drawn their attention. To her relief the other occupants were engrossed in their own conversations as they chatted and gossiped throughout the intermission.
The marchioness sent her a look as if to say, what on earth is the matter? Victoria said nothing and turned her attention back to the darkened stage. Better that than begin an exchange with her mother.
“I have told you before, Victoria, and I will tell you again, I simply will not permit you to refuse another suitor. This really is your father’s fault. He spoils you so. But what will he do when you are on the shelf and haven’t the beauty to attract a decent husband? Why, I would die of shame.” The marchioness spoke in hushed tones, leaning to her side so that her mouth was only inches from Victoria’s ear.
Victoria did not even flinch. Long used to her mother’s barbs and criticism, she continued to stare ahead, wishing she was anywhere else than where she was. Wishing she was with anyone other than who she was with. Wishing desperately she were with him tonight.
A growing buzz on the aisle proved a welcome distraction. Lady Cornwall strained her neck to peer around Victoria in an attempt to see who was causing such a stir. Victoria inclined her head, sharing the same curiosity.
Several rows back, ladies whispered and giggled like schoolgirls. Only a man could elicit such a reaction. And a much sought after man at that, or a very distinguished one.
It came as no surprise when she saw the tall, golden form of Lord Armstrong appear amid the throng of theatergoers making their way back to their seats. He looked altogether too handsome in his black ensemble, which brought out the burnished gold of his hair. She instantly recognized his escort but could not recall her full name. Camille something or the other.
“My word, is that Camille Foxworth on Lord Armstrong’s arm?” Her mother said it as though the world had just come to an end. “Why that girl is on the plain side of plain. How on earth did she manage to snag such a man?”
Ah yes, Officer Foxworth’s older sister. “I don’t believe they are betrothed or that he is courting her, Mama,” Victoria whispered as they watched the pair make their way to their seats.
Lady Cornwall drew in a shocked breath, her brown eyes widening. “You cannot mean…?”
Victoria’s eyes flashed in annoyance, but her mother was too busy jumping to untold conclusions to note it.
“I believe that Miss Foxworth is the elder sister of a friend enlisted in the Royal Navy. He is currently stationed abroad so I believe Lord Armstrong makes it a point to take her out and about as not to allow her to dwell at home alone. Apparently, she is quite close to her brother and is finding his absence difficult to bear.” All this she’d learned from James the prior year.
“Humph,” the marchioness snorted indelicately. “There isn’t a lady alive who would not try to make more of the situation.”
Sorely tempted to tell her mother that not everyone was of her mind, Victoria said nothing.
“Lord Frederick has offered for your hand.”
Shocked and horrified, Victoria’s head jerked around to stare at the marchioness. This is where she was to learn something of this significance, at the intermission of a play? But she knew her mother, how devious she could be. Victoria could hardly make a scene in such a public place.
“I have turned down his suit for the last two Seasons. I shan’t marry him. Mother, the man is old enough to be my father.”
“Victoria, please lower your voice. We will speak on this later. But I will remind you it will no longer be your decision, nor will I permit your father to interfere this time.” Her brown eyes glinted a subtle warning before she turned away.
Victoria faced the stage, her mouth set in a mutinous line. She would sooner marry Lord Crawley, reprobate and fortune hunter that he was, than marry Lord Frederick. The man was much too old for her no matter who in Society deemed it acceptable for men to wed women young enough to be their daughters. And worse than his age was his appearance, with his slight thin figure and pale skin; the tho
ught of having to bed him repulsed her worse than pickled chicken feet.
No, no matter what her mother said, she wouldn’t marry him and, thankfully, she didn’t have to. If her station dictated she marry a gentleman of rank and money, then she would. She’d taken great pains to ensure it. She now only needed a suitable time and place to tell her soon-to-be intended.
Chapter Ten
A mixture of floral scents permeated the drawing room as bouquets of roses and assortments of lilacs, tulips and lilies grew in abundance fresh on the heel of a soiree, a dinner party, or a ball.
At two o’clock, one week after the dreadful incident with James and Mrs. Laurel, Missy, wearing one of her most fashionable dresses—a caraco bodice, the pleated skirt edged in a sheer lace with decorative embroidered flowers—made her way to the second floor to attend her latest caller, Lord Granville.
Her mother, lovely in a ruby dress with a heart-shaped neckline and gauzy, expansive sleeves, sat on the sofa chatting with Lord Granville in the drawing room when Missy arrived.
“Here is Millicent now,” the viscountess said rising, her movement a whisper of feminine grace.
“Good afternoon, Lord Granville.”
He swiftly rose to his feet. “Ah, Miss Armstrong, as lovely as always.” He had a pitch-perfect voice, low and melodious. Very masculine.
As he bowed over her proffered hand, her mother shot her a look as if to say, Charming as well as handsome.
Indeed, the earl could claim all of that in abundance. Clad in an olive green jacket tailor-made to fit his broad shoulders the same way trousers the color of malted barley skimmed the long length of his legs, he did cut quite a dashing figure.
However, a kiss on the hand from him didn’t evoke even a tenth of the thrill she experienced when James but looked at her. He did not make her pulse race or the breath hitch in her throat. He did not carry the scent of sandalwood and male essence so sensual, the recollection alone made her tingle in places she herself had touched only once under the cover of darkness. That night she first kissed James.
He was not James.
Lord Granville relinquished her hand and came up to his full height.
The viscountess, ever the diplomat, chose that moment to bid them farewell and quit the room, the lingering scent of vanilla trailing in her wake.
“I’m surprised your mother has never remarried,” he commented idly, after the viscountess was out of earshot.
Missy quelled a laugh. Lord Granville also had an eye for beautiful women.
“Is that to say you are offering, my lord?” she asked with a little sauce to her tone.
Chuckling, he didn’t respond immediately as he stepped aside to allow her passage to the sofa closest to him. After she’d seated herself, he settled back into his chair.
“If I were to offer, I rather doubt your mother would accept. I’m sure I’m too young and unrefined for her tastes.” His tone was all light and teasing, clearly taking none of it seriously.
Lord Granville was a young man—twenty-four only last month—but Missy had yet to meet another gentleman so young who was so completely refined. One day, she was certain he’d make some woman a wonderful husband.
“You, on the other hand, I sense, would more appreciate a man who requires a bit of polishing.” His mouth quirked at the corners and his brows rose suggestively.
Unable to determine whether he was teasing or not, Missy opted for a benign reply. “I, my lord, appreciate a good cup of tea. May I pour you a cup?” She turned to the silver tea set on the trolley beside the sofa.
Lord Granville laughed, his shoulders shaking in amusement. “Ah, I see you’re going to be a worthy opponent and not make this easy for me. Very well, I shall do it just as they do in those fairy tale novels.”
Before Missy fully realized what he was about to do, he dropped smoothly onto one knee and had her left hand clasped firmly in his. “Miss Armstrong, would you do me the honor of agreeing to be my wife?”
She instinctively tried to pull her hand away only to feel his hold tighten. It took a moment for her to understand the implications of his refusal.
“Lord Granville, truly this is—”
“Before you give me your answer, think of how much it would please your brother.”
“My lord, I cannot—what?” She shook her head. Had she heard him correctly?
“You know it is his dearest wish,” Lord Granville said as if that alone were reason enough for something as life altering as marriage.
Missy slid her hand loose from his grasp and quickly came to her feet. Sidestepping the tea service, she moved to stand by the chiffonier by the entrance. Dear Lord, was he really serious?
“Lord Granville, am I to assume from your proposal you wish to marry me to please my brother?”
On his feet again, he started toward her. “It wouldn’t be the only reason.”
“And what, pray, are the other reasons you would wish to marry me?”
No doubt he charmed most women wearing the same crooked half smile on his face when he halted in front of her.
“Because it would be a good match.” He spoke with a simple directness.
“But not a love match, my lord.” She replied with simple honesty.
He stared into her eyes, and as if he saw her sincerity and resolve, splayed his hand in true dramatic fashion over his heart. “Am I to take your response as a refusal?” His mouth twitched, endeavoring to retain a smile.
“Somehow, I think you will recover by evening.” Missy didn’t even think his ego had been bruised, much less his heart broken.
The sound of male voices halted Lord Granville’s reply. He immediately angled his head toward the door.
Thomas. And James. Missy’s heart began an erratic dance. Their voices grew closer until they stood outside the drawing room.
The men had a look of surprise as they surveyed the room’s occupants. James watched her, his countenance unfathomable, his pale eyes unblinking.
Thomas was the first to speak. “Missy, I didn’t expect to find you home. Yesterday Mother mentioned you were to go to the Vauxhall Gardens today.” He entered the room, an easy smile on his face.
“Yes, well, that had to be postponed,” she replied. But what did it matter if she was home or not? Did his surprised reaction mean he had intended to avoid her? A quick glance at James’s stone-faced expression gave her the answer she needed. It had grown apparent over the last week that James was taking pains to avoid her presence—even more so than usual.
“Afternoon, Granville. Good to see you.” Her brother could not have looked more pleased.
James hung back, his blue eyes chilled. “Granville.” His tone was just short of curt.
“Good to see you too, Armstrong,” Lord Granville said with an affable nod. Shifting his gaze to James, he said, “Something wrong, Rutherford? I’ve had warmer receptions from my cousin, who’d like nothing better than to see me join the rank of the dearly departed.”
Thomas chuckled and Lord Granville grinned. James’s strained smile resembled more of a baring of the teeth.
As if attempting to cover the awkwardness of the moment, Thomas quickly changed the subject. “I’m in need of the blacks today. Where is Mother?”
“I believe in the library or the morning room,” Missy replied, making every effort not to allow herself to soak in the sight of James as if it might be her last, although it had been one whole week.
“Good.” Thomas gave an affirmative nod. Turning to her caller, he said, “Good day, Granville. Good of you to call.”
Lord Granville gave a dry smile. “How nice it would be if everyone felt the same.” He turned and stared pointedly at James’s impassive expression. “Good day, Rutherford.”
James issued him another curt nod, uttering not a single word. Missy stared at the empty doorway long after the two men had departed, a bittersweet ache in her heart.
“Miss Armstrong.”
Missy nearly started at the sound of her na
me. James had that effect. Within seconds, he had sent her senses rioting, burying every last reason she needed to forget him.
“Believe it or not, but there was a time when Rutherford was a much more amiable chap.”
“James is—”
“Rutherford would do well to take a page from my book,” Lord Granville said with a cryptic smile. While she puzzled over his comment, he dropped in a formal bow. “I believe it is time I took my leave. As always, calling on you has been a pleasure. I hope your refusal will not prevent us from remaining friends?”
“But of course not.” Had any refusal of a proposal gone so well? She imagined not.
“Wonderful. Good afternoon, Miss Armstrong.” With a smile and a wink, he turned and strode from the room. Whistling.
James’s mood underwent a complete transformation by the time he exited Six St. James Square. If he had known Missy would be there, he would not have offered Armstrong conveyance to his mother’s residence. His friend had all but assured him no one would be home.
His thoughts were muddled, his emotions in shambles by the time he pulled up in front of his townhouse. His plans for this evening involving a comely widow now held little appeal. He had been deep in his cups, well out of the reach of innocents and fair maidens, when he’d thrown out the slurred invitation. She had been eager in her response. He really must stop drinking so much.
He gave his necktie a sharp tug the second he entered the foyer. Smith materialized, ever the efficient butler.
“Milord.” He dipped his bald head.
“Smith.” He made toward the stairs.
“Will you be dining in this evening?”
“I’m not certain. Have the cook prepare something that can be easily warmed.” He paused long enough to toss the curt command over his shoulder, before taking the stairs two at a time.
In his chamber, he tossed the necktie on the bed and shrugged out of his jacket and waistcoat. After a brief knock on the door, it opened to his valet’s sober face. The man was nothing if not competent. Like a bloodhound, he could sense James’s presence from anywhere in the house, and within a minute, he appeared ever anxious to serve.
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