The Golden Season

by Brockway, Connie

  “Another cold day,” he finally said.

  “Yes,” she said, eyes lighting with amusement. “Very cold.”

  “You have been well since Lady Pickler’s party?”

  “Yes. Thank you. And you?”

  “Good. Good,” he muttered. “Kind of you to ask.”

  The amusement faded from her expression and her gaze dipped to her hands, folded serenely in her lap. “Nothing compared to the kindness you showed my friend, Mrs. Cod. I cannot tell you how grateful I am, Captain Lockton. I am indebted to you—”

  “Not at all,” he broke in, embarrassed. He did not want her gratitude. He had done only what decency demanded. “Best to forget the incident.”

  “I am afraid I cannot do that.”

  He was surprised. Most people would eagerly accept an offer to void a debt they felt themselves to be under.

  “Mrs. Cod means far too much to me to take for granted any act of kindness made on her behalf.”

  He tilted his head. He’d forgotten his awkwardness now. She was not saying this because it was the appropriate sentiment, he realized. She sincerely loved her thieving companion.

  “Mrs. Cod is fortunate in her friend,” he said.

  Rather than blush and demure, Lydia laughed. “Not so fortunate as I am in her. What other chaperone would so conveniently nap when she knows I wish to hold a private conversation with someone?” Her nod directed him to glance at Mrs. Cod and be damned if the smallest of smiles, so quick he wondered if he’d imagined it, twitched across the plum dame’s face. By God, she was feigning the sleep.

  And once again Lady Lydia had displayed that bracing, unconventional honesty—

  Then the import of Lady Lydia’s other words struck him. She’d just told him she wanted to converse privately with him. His gaze swung to her just as a tap on the door preceded the footman’s entrance. At a small gesture from Lady Lydia, he brought her a card on his silver tray. She glanced at it and nodded. “Show them in, please, James.”

  As soon as he left she asked, “Captain, do you know Mrs. Jonas Pendergast and her daughters, Mrs. Samuel Ballard and Mrs. Fitzhugh Hill?”

  “No. I have not had that pleasure.”

  “Then I shall have the happy duty of rectifying that,” she said and rose as the footman opened the door and a trio of ladies sailed in, their skirts swishing noisily, their faces alight with animation, and their hands outstretched in the manner of friends greeting one another.

  He stood. They saw him.

  Their hands dropped and their eyes widened. Their glances darted to Lady Lydia, and he was amazed to see pink stain her cheeks. Had his call embarrassed her? Were the unintelligible sidelong glances signaling some sort of disapproval? Or was there a far more detailed conversation going on, one to which he, as a man, was not privy? If he’d been aware of his relative unfamiliarity with ladies before, he was doubly so now. His quick easiness with Lyd—with Lady Lydia—vanished in front of these newcomers. Oh, he’d no doubt his manners would stand the test of any Society, but the naturalness of their earlier conversation had disappeared, and he regretted that.

  The ladies were taking their seats, a flurry of fans and reticules being discarded, dresses rustling, sidelong glances as keen and assessing as a crow’s nest watch’s surreptitiously taking his measure. Now, Horatio Nelson himself had taken Ned’s measure and during those uncomfortable moments when he’d been called upon to account for his actions, he’d stood without a whit of self-doubt. But beneath these three pretty women’s gazes he felt himself quaking.

  As soon as the introductions had been made and the requisite five minutes of niceties observed, he pardoned himself and retired from their company, though he suspected he did not so much retire as flee, much like a scow in front of an armada.

  But he went back to Lady Lydia’s town house the next day and the one after that and the day after that and four times the following week. Each time his visits were bookended by that of other callers and curtailed. Still, it pleased him to be with her, to watch her interactions with others, to learn the vocabulary of her expressions, how easily her smiles came, how spontaneous her pleasure and sympathy.

  The beau monde seemed to Ned both artificial and small, engorged on extravagance and excess. He would have thought her eye would grow weak if constantly bedazzled, her palate be dulled by a constant diet of the rich and fantastical, and that she would have lost the ability to be impressed, constantly surrounded as she was by the exotic and rare. But none of those things could be said of her. She immersed herself wholeheartedly in the moment, the conversation, and the experience.

  It was fascinating. It was seductive.

  The following week he presented himself at her door knowing full well that he was arriving before visitors would normally be received. The footman accepted his card and bade him wait. He stood at the door so long he’d begun to feel he would be turned away when it suddenly swung open not on the footman, but on a breathless, glowing Lady Lydia, a pert bonnet perched atop her chocolate-colored curls and a dun-colored pelisse over her shoulders.

  “Ah, Captain Lockton!” she said. “I was just on my way out. There is a bit of shopping I neglected to finish this morning and . . . well, I believe that’s an actual peep of sun overhead, is it not?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, inclining his head and stepping out of her path. “Forgive me for calling so early.”

  “Think nothing of it,” she said, moving down the steps toward the street.

  Ned glanced about. Generally a person’s carriage would be waiting outside when they left their house, but Lady Lydia’s distinct yellow-wheeled barouche was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it was being repaired. Still, in that case he would suppose her footman should have arranged for a hired carriage to be waiting.

  “May I find you a conveyance, Lady Lydia?” he asked.

  “Ah . . .” She looked around, obviously a little rattled. “Oh. Yes. Yes. Thank you.”

  He understood then. She’d decided to go shopping only after receiving his card. He had been too forward, his attention too marked, and she did not want to encourage him any further. He stiffened, surprised by the sharp pain the realization brought. He mustn’t allow her to know he understood this, as the knowledge would only embarrass and distress her.

  He stepped into the street, raising his arm. Just past the gate leading into the residential circle, a hackney-man waiting for a fare lifted his whip in recognition and started toward them. Ned turned to Lady Lydia, smiling politely.

  He would hand her into the carriage and he would not return to her house. He would see her at various functions and that would be enough.

  It would be enough.

  The carriage rocked to a stop beside them. He pulled open the door before the carriage driver could alight and pulled out the steps. Numbly, Ned extended his arm and she put her hand on his forearm. Even through his jacket and shirtsleeve he could feel the press of each slender finger like a brand. Her clasp tightened and he looked into her upturned face.

  She was regarding him quizzically, a little furrow marking the space between her dark brows. He did not know what to say, how to explain himself. He stood disoriented by a sense of loss alien to him, but no less acute for that.

  “Captain?” she said, her tone hesitant.

  “Yes, ma’am?” he managed.

  “I . . . Mrs. Cod is napping and . . . well, I am having friends to dine this evening and I should hate to rob my staff of another pair of hands in James, my footman. . . .” She swallowed, her violet eyes searching his. “Since you were visiting me anyway . . . I mean . . . if you have nothing else . . . no pressing appointment . . .” She trailed off and bit her lower lip, looking mortified.

  Understanding unrolled through him like cool water in a parched riverbed; she wanted him to accompany her.

  She wasn’t trying to discourage his interest. She had raced to dress in her bonnet and pelisse in order that they spend some time together without interruption from visitors.
That is why she had been breathless. That is why there had been no coachman waiting. That is why she blushed so deeply.

  She swallowed and looked away. “Of course, you have other things to do.”

  He’d stood silent too long. Her face filled with bright color and her eyes shimmered with mortified tears as she fairly flung herself into the carriage, calling, “James! Please attend me!” and reached out to snatch the door shut.

  He caught it before she could, then turned around to say to the advancing footman, “That won’t be necessary, James. I shall accompany Lady Lydia. If she allows me, that is?”

  The footman looked askance at his mistress. Lady Lydia once more colored up, though this time not so brilliantly, and nodded.

  “Thank you,” Ned told her softly and only then shut the carriage door before going round to the other side and climbing in.

  Chapter Twelve

  Halfway to St. James Street, Lady Lydia abruptly asked whether Ned had been to see some fellow named Gunter.

  “No. I am unfamiliar with the gentleman,” he said.

  Her eyes lit with mischief. “No? We mustn’t let that stand,” she proclaimed. “I cannot in all conscience allow you, as a relative newcomer to London, to continue without a visit. Say you will allow me to introduce you?”

  “Of course,” he said. He would have agreed to go St. Helena to visit Napoleon to see her look so pleased.

  She slid open a small window in the carriage wall behind them and called up to the driver, “Gunter’s, please.”

  She turned back to him, smiling mischievously, and her glance fell on his cuff, from which a pretty bit of handkerchief sprouted. Heat rose up his neck.

  Ever since Lady Pickler’s luncheon he had been inundated with handkerchiefs. Some came from matrons with marriageable daughters, some from hostesses, and others anonymously. It was all a trifle disconcerting and he wasn’t sure what to do with the things.

  “A new handkerchief, Captain?” she asked with wide-eyed innocence.

  “Hm.” On occasion, to lend verisimilitude to the claim he’d made at Lady Pickler’s luncheon, he felt obliged to wear one in public, but he felt like a fool doing so. He would feel like an even greater fool trying to explain this to Lady Lydia, who would find it monstrously amusing. Except that as he watched, the impishness left her expression and her face softened with understanding. She caught his eye and gave him a smile of breathtaking loveliness.

  “You are very kind, Captain Lockton. And most chivalrous.”

  He swallowed, unable to look away and incapable of finding a reply to such an overblown compliment. If he discounted it, he discounted her and yet he could not accept such fulsome praise.

  She was watching him closely and as if she could read his thoughts, her face lit with merriment. “Poor Captain Lockton,” she said. “I know what you’re thinking. You don’t deserve my commendation.”

  He glanced at her a little helplessly.

  “Because,” she went on with feigned gravitas, “you actually do like fancy handkerchiefs. And you aren’t sporting this one just to give credibility to your claim at Lady Pickler’s. In fact, you ought to thank the lady for providing you just the excuse you’ve been looking for to indulge your taste for fine linen. Indeed, you have been entirely self-serving in this.”

  She was teasing him, he realized, delighted.

  No one, not even in his own family, maybe most especially in his own family, had ever shown such immediate and easy insight into him. It was a little disconcerting.

  “Exactly, ma’am. Most perceptive of you,” he said with false gravitas.

  A short while later the carriage pulled to a stop hard against the rail surrounding the green space in the center of Berkeley Square and parked beneath the tall maples. He noted other carriages loitering nearby, open curricles and barouches, dogcarts and phaetons.

  He looked at Lady Lydia askance. She pointed at a stocky, balding fellow in an apron and stained waistcoat dodging through the traffic toward them.

  “Ah, Lady Lydia!” the man puffed on making the side of the carriage. “A pleasure to see you, milady. It’s been too long. A whole week, if I have me dates right.”

  “Thank you, Sam,” she replied comfortably. “I’ve brought you a new votary.”

  The man craned his neck, peering in. “Ah. Good day, sir. Welcome to Gunter’s Tea Shop.”

  “Tea Shop?” Ned echoed. They were parked in the road.

  Lady Lydia laughed. “It’s over there.” She pointed to a shopfront from which a steady stream of men in aprons entered and left, some with trays and others without.

  “It’s the custom at Gunter’s for the waiters to bring the service out to the carriages. I suggest the ices,” she confided. “They are sublime.”

  “And so they are,” Sam confirmed proudly. “What might be your pleasure this day, milady?”

  She leaned over the side of the carriage, her expression growing serious. “What do you suggest, Sam?”

  Clearly this was a well-established routine. The servant donned an equally serious mien, puffing out his lower lip thoughtfully while Lady Lydia waited, looking intensely interested. They might have been discussing vintages from a superior vineyard rather than ices.

  “Well, we have a Parmesan crème that is most unique. But in my opinion it’s a mite early in the day for something so savory. The ratafia is very nice. And we have the neige de pistachio, always popular. And an ambergris fromages glacé.”

  She did not look much impressed and the waiter obviously felt the burden of her disappointment.

  “But no,” he said dramatically. “Something a little richer, sweet but with sophistication, simple but unexpected. For you, milady, I suggest the burnt cream.”

  At once, Lady Lydia’s face cleared. “That sounds just the thing, Sam.”

  “And you, sir”—he turned his physic’s eye on Ned—“you must try the bayberry ice.”

  “Then I must,” he agreed.

  “Five minutes!” the servant vowed and scurried back across the congested street, barely missing being run over by a curricle.

  As soon as he’d gone, Lydia laughed. “I fear I have maneuvered you here under a false impression, Captain. But truth be told, I never can pass within a quarter mile of Berkeley Square without stopping for one of Gunter’s creations.” She settled back. “It is lucky I leave London at the end of the Season or I’d be fat as a pullet. I do love a sweet.”

  “Perhaps your chef can prepare some ices?” he asked.

  “Oh, I don’t keep a chef. Only a cook. A single lady does not have the opportunity to entertain much. I am afraid I am dependent on my friends for my gourmand experiences.”

  He did not point out that she was having friends to dine that very evening because he doubted there was any such plan. She’d forgotten the ruse. That she had designed one and that he had occasioned it, humbled and flattered him.

  “Besides,” she went on, “nothing seasons food better than good company.”

  Though she made this comment lightly, Ned’s interest sharpened. Lady Lydia was renowned for her independence and yet she clearly felt herself vulnerable in some ways. Of course, he could be reading too much into a simple phrase. But he did not think so.

  “Pardon my ignorance on such matters, but as a captain of a ship, did you not often dine alone?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “My officers always joined me.”

  “That must have proved convivial.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “During sea crossings and in good weather. But many times we were too tired to converse and we simply fed the body to maintain the soul.”

  “During battle?” she asked quietly.

  “Yes,” he said. “But often the lulls between engagements were the most exhausting.”

  She tipped her head. “I can see how that would be so, how the lulls would be as testing as the actual confrontations. Imagination can be one’s most formidable foe.”

  “Very true, Lady Lydia,” he said,
once more intrigued by her perceptiveness.

  He would have been honored by her interest in him, but he intuited that it was not exceptional. It was her nature to try to comprehend, to seek the heart of a thing—or a man—and know it. They had met but a few weeks ago and already she understood more about him than men who had shared his ship for years.

  “Sorry it took some time.” The waiter appeared at the side of the carriage. He had a small tray on which balanced two frosted pewter bowls brimming with iced concoctions. “Took a bit to find your spoon, Lady Lydia.”

  Ned turned to her. “The establishment holds for you your own spoon?”

  She blushed and cleared her throat, but before she could answer, Sam did. “Ach, yes. And her own bowl, too. A proper sweet tooth has Lady Lydia,” he said proudly.

  Ned took his cue from the other gentlemen in the park and quit the carriage, taking the ice Sam handed him, tipping him generously, and going round to the other side of the vehicle. There he leaned against the rail, one knee bent so that his boot heel notched on the curb. Now they could converse more freely and he would not have to turn to gaze at her.

  He looked up at Lady Lydia just as she took a spoonful of ice into her mouth. Her eyelids slid closed in luxurious gratification. “Oh, my,” she purred in ecstasy.

  And just that easily his appreciation pitched from cerebral to acutely physical. His throat went dry as his body clenched with abrupt, intense desire. Watching Lydia Eastlake eat iced crème was as carnal an act as he’d engaged in for months. He could not tear his gaze away from her lips, riveted by the way they surrounded each spoonful of the creamy concoction with languorous deliberation before she put the spoon fully in her mouth and then slowly, excruciatingly slowly, withdrew it.

  He was no saint, but he had never been at the mercy of physical desire. He thought he knew himself well. But she tested that supposed self-knowledge. His self-possession was formidable, his ability to sublimate heated passion to reason the thing that made him a superior captain. In battle, only reason must be allowed to guide a man, not passion, no matter what the provocation. But this was provocation of a different sort. What he felt at the instant was not respect or admiration; it was pure lust.