Lord Wrenworth pulled her back into the flow of the dance. “Lord Firth, now, there is an outstanding English gentleman, loyal to the Crown and his foxhounds. Did I mention that he also sleeps with his half sister?”
Louisa could not speak. She was not a naive girl who had never come into contact with the facts of life. But to hear something like this brought up in the context of people she actually knew—she was shocked to the core.
Lord Firth, upright, old-fashioned, incestuous Lord Firth? Was Lord Wrenworth telling the truth? But if not, why bother with such outrageous lies?
“But of course I would never have breathed a word of it, were I not concerned for your limited stay in London. I would hate for you to have wasted your time on gentlemen who are not worthy of your time, let alone your attention.”
Her head reeled. “Thank you for your kind concern, sir. But perhaps you should never have said a word even so.”
“You are correct. There are reputations at stake. But how could I remain silent, knowing it would lead to your severe disappointment at the end of the Season, my dear Miss Cantwell, when in your case there is just as much, if not more, at stake?”
The music should have come to a complete halt at that point, but Herr Strauss’s waltz played on, as blithe and cheery as ever. And Louisa had no choice but to continue to turn about the dance floor with Lord Wrenworth.
For no good reason under the sun, her dismay seemed to magnify the physical pleasure of the dance. The warmth of his hand at her waist, the rain-cool scent of his person, the swiftness and surety of their spins—their bodies braced in a perfect equilibrium between tension and cohesion.
When they finally pulled apart at the end of the dance, he offered her his arm to walk her back to Lady Balfour. His manner was impeccable as always, but somehow she knew that he was enjoying himself to an indecent extent.
“Do you delight in my misfortunes, my lord?” she asked, too unhappy to be diplomatic.
“Never,” he declared, a devilish light in his eyes.
“You, sir, are about as believable as a lordling who promises a milkmaid that his heart will never stray,” she said, her tone more vehement than it should have been.
He only smiled.
• • •
When Mr. Pitt arrived later that evening, he came immediately to pay his respects to Louisa. But any relief she felt quickly dissipated as she noticed, for the first time, how frequently Mr. Pitt glanced toward one particular Miss Lovett. Miss Lovett was an heiress whose dowry was said to include large tracts of properties in Bath and Bristol; the way Mr. Pitt looked at Miss Lovett was obviously the expression of someone who knew he was not doing his duty and was fearful of the consequences.
When Lord Firth appeared with his sister, Miss Edwards, she gave Louisa her usual look of loathing. Louisa had always attributed it to sisterly possessiveness, which would diminish or perhaps disappear altogether when Miss Edwards finally had her own heart set on someone. But now plain to view was the way Miss Edwards wantonly pressed her much-exposed bosom into her half brother’s upper arm, and the way she liked to speak, loverlike, lips to skin, directly into his ear.
Not only a jealous sister, but a jealous mistress as well.
And of course—of course—whose eye should she catch at that moment of horrific realization? From across the ballroom, Lord Wrenworth lifted a brow, as if to say, What did I tell you?
She retired early from the festivities that night, beset by not only a persistent headache, but also a sense of inchoate nausea. Lady Balfour, blissfully ignorant of everything that had taken place, thought Louisa had done quite well. “A dance with Wrenworth, why, that’s always reason for cheer.”
If Lord Wrenworth had spoken the truth, Louisa supposed she should be grateful to him. But she could not, for he had not been out to help, but to injure.
She spent a sleepless night. The next morning she rose, determined to regroup. But wife and family were expensive propositions. There were more eligible females than males. And many gentlemen chose to remain bachelors. All of which made good proposals difficult to come by.
She danced; she chatted; she assessed each man who passed her way for his potential. Most men looked for heiresses themselves, or at least a wife who had some dowry. And those few for whom dowries were secondary concerns wanted a more exalted pedigree in their brides, or at least no whiff of scandal attached to the family name.
At night she lay awake, planning for a bleak future. Mrs. Cantwell held on fiercely to her status as a lady. The idea of her daughters working for remuneration was anathema to her: She was a lady only if her daughters, too, were ladies.
But Mrs. Cantwell could afford to make a fuss about being a lady; she was the one with the annuity that would last for as long as she lived. Her daughters had no such luxuries.
If Louisa were to fail in London, she must immediately find work. Mrs. Cantwell could tell everyone that she had gone to live with a distant cousin, if that would help her feel better. But if Louisa were not home, who would keep an eye on the budget? Cecilia and Julia both enjoyed buying things as much as Mrs. Cantwell did. Would the money Louisa would be able to set aside from working make up for the difference?
After Mrs. Cantwell passed away, everyone would need to work, of course, even Julia, who would hate to either instruct small children or fetch tea for old ladies. But Julia could fend for herself. Who would look after Matilda? Matilda needed someone to be with her at all times, to make sure she didn’t fall down staircases or drown in a bathtub.
If Frederica stayed with Matilda, they would still require a place to live and enough money for essentials. Would Louisa, Cecilia, and Julia, working at positions that didn’t pay very much, be able to support them?
And if not, what would happen to Matilda?
They had spoken of this only once, she and Matilda, not long after Matilda realized what would happen upon Mrs. Cantwell’s death. Louisa had told Matilda then that she would never let Matilda be taken to the poorhouse.
I will take care of you, do you understand? Now don’t worry anymore. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.
Would that turn out to be an empty promise, after all?
CHAPTER 4
Felix left London for a week. The day of his return, he went to the Reading Room of the British Museum. After two hours with stacks of books before him, he stepped out from underneath the Reading Room’s famous blue-and-gold dome to find himself a cup of tea.
Sitting in a corner of the nondescript refreshment room, a plate of wafer-thin cucumber sandwiches before her, was none other than Miss Louisa Cantwell, in the same green velvet walking dress from the time they had run into each other at the bookshop.
He blinked, not sure he hadn’t somehow conjured her. He’d gone to Huntington, his country seat, because he had not wanted to waste the night skies of an unusually sunny week in the middle of a very wet summer. But one could argue that he had left to prove to himself that he would be quite fine were he to stay away from her.
He was fine, busying himself with his astronomical observations. He thought of her a great deal, but that was only to be expected, given that he had plots in place concerning her. Besides, those thoughts were quite pleasurable and gave him not a moment of distress or angst.
Ignoring her sandwiches, Miss Cantwell played with her napkin—something she would never do at a proper dining table—rolling it into a tight tube, then shaking it loose and folding it into a smaller and smaller triangle. He found her prettier like this, distracted, unsmiling, and without the air of utter agreeableness that she wore like a layer of theatrical makeup.
The next moment, something in her aspect changed. Her fingers, which had treated the napkin as only a napkin, now lingered over the linen, caressing it, then seizing a handful of the cloth as if in agitation—as if the fabric were that of the sheet upon which she awaited her lover.
&n
bsp; He felt his own breath quickening. A little disconcerting to realize that she could arouse him even when she was not reacting to his presence.
She glanced up. The expression on her face when she saw him—as if he were a swaying cobra and she a hapless would-be victim, desperate to flee but mesmerized against her will. He wished he could distill and bottle the sensation. One drop of such an essence would turn a eunuch as virile as Hercules himself.
He approached her table. “Miss Cantwell, an unexpected . . . pleasure.”
The way he lingered over the syllables of that last word—he might as well seduce virgins from good families twice a week.
He was saved from ridiculousness only by her even more disproportionate response. Her pupils dilated. A pulse throbbed visibly at the base of her throat. And she flushed everywhere—or at least all the way to her earlobes.
She cleared her throat. “Lord Wrenworth, we thought you still at your estate.”
“I cannot long forsake the delights of London during the Season. May I join you?” He sat down before she could answer one way or the other and gave his order to the server who had sprung forward to inquire after his needs. “What brought you here to the Reading Room?”
He hadn’t pegged her as the bookish sort. But this particular refreshment room served only to those holding readers’ tickets—the public refreshment room was by the statue of Mercury, in the Gallery of Antiquities.
“Oh, idle curiosity.”
Too bad books and manuscripts could not be taken out of the Reading Room—that would have made it easier for him to discover what she had come for.
She was no longer looking at him—or rather, no longer looking him in the eye. But he could feel her gaze elsewhere on his person, a heat that lingered for a moment at the top of his collar, then journeyed across the width of one shoulder and down the length of that arm, intensifying every inch farther south.
It would be alarming, the degree to which she stirred and tantalized him, fully dressed and sitting a respectable distance away, if he didn’t feel himself completely in control of the situation.
Still, he brought up a sobering subject—sobering for her, at least. “And how goes your quest for a bridegroom, Miss Cantwell?”
Her resentment returned. And he, budding pervert that he was, found her sullen, suspicious glare terribly stimulating—the seemingly even-keeled lady in fact possessed quite a temper.
“You know very well, my lord, how difficult it is for a young woman of unexceptional birth, unexceptional looks, and no fortune at all to win the hand of a man in prosperous circumstances.”
“Come, Miss Cantwell, London all but overflows with gentlemen this time of the year. Surely the loss of a mere pair of candidates should not detract from your chances of a successful match.”
“You think so because you have no need to fret about your budget, sir, but everywhere else gentlemen are hurting in the family coffer.”
“I am well aware of my good fortune in that regard. But I also know that I am not the only one so blessed.”
“Indeed not, but the Duke of Lexington is still at university, as is the youngest Mr. Marsden.”
She had done her homework. Not many people realized that the great fortune of the youngest Mr. Marsden’s godfather would pass to the godson.
“What about the Marquess of Vere? He is not at university.”
Miss Cantwell raised a brow. His question was designed to test the depth and breadth of her desperation and she well knew it: Lord Vere was known far and wide as an arrant idiot. “Yes, I would gladly marry Lord Vere. He is easy on the eyes and certainly rich enough. But Lord Vere prefers his debutantes both beautiful and propertied, and he has not come near me, except once, to spill some lemonade on my dress.”
“And Mr. de Grey? He pays no court to heiresses, from what I have observed.”
“I’m surprised you have not noticed the way he looks at his sister-in-law. He will not propose to anyone, not until he overcomes that obsession. And that would be far too late for me.”
“Well, there is always Sir Roger Wells. He is desperate for a legitimate heir. And if you would but look kindly his way, he would offer his hand to you.”
She leveled him with a nasty look—he relished her displays of testiness; they made him feel supremely accomplished. “Now you are just toying with me, my lord. But I will tell you this: I do not want to be Sir Roger’s wife, not because of that unspeakable disease of his, but because several reliable sources have assured me that he has squandered his fortune and is now deep in debt.”
“So would you have married him if his fortune had remained intact?”
“No.”
“No?”
“He is a despicable man even without that dread disease. I have come to London to help my family, not to martyr myself.”
“But what if you have no choice at the end of the Season? What if Sir Roger becomes your only viable alternative?”
“My family is not so destitute as that, sir. We are not going to be turned out of our house at the end of the Season. My mother is in good health and can be reasonably expected to live many more years.”
“But not forever. And when she passes on, what will happen to your sister, the one who is epileptic?”
She blinked, as if wondering how he could know so much about her family when she’d never brought up the subject before him. “We will take care of her, of course.”
“How? If you were to find a position as a governess or lady’s companion, you would not be permitted to bring her with you. Someone has to be with her all the time, I understand. Which means you need two people in that position, so that she is never left unwatched. How do you propose to finance that?”
A shadow crossed her face, but her words were relentlessly optimistic. “When God closes a door, He opens a window. I have other marriageable sisters. Not to mention Matilda herself is both lovely and sweet—some lucky gentleman just might win her hand and ensure himself a very felicitous domestic union.”
He leaned in slightly. “Do you believe that?”
She had been looking either to the left or the right of him, but now she met his gaze squarely. “Perhaps not. But while I will marry a man I do not love, I will not take a husband I cannot stand.”
Her eyes were large and wide-set, but, rather unusually, slanted slightly downward toward the outer corners, giving an impression of tremendous transparency, of being unguarded and trusting. He began to understand why most people considered her a darling innocent.
And why Mr. Pitt and Lord Firth both found her so appealing.
But she was, if not a shark, then at least a dolphin: smiling and sweet-faced, yet ferociously intelligent and undeniably a predator.
An interesting woman even when she wasn’t quivering in unfulfilled lust for him.
“So . . . what are you willing to do?” he murmured.
Her lips parted, as if she found it difficult to breathe. And suddenly she and he were once again braced in that erotic tension that was infinitely addictive to him.
But before she could answer, someone called his name. “Wren!”
Startled, Felix looked up into the smiling face of John Baxter. Baxter by himself was more than harmless, but he happened to be the nephew by marriage of one Lady Avery, noted gossip.
He rose, shook hands with Baxter, and introduced him to Miss Cantwell. “It was quite a surprise when I saw Miss Cantwell here—not often do our most popular young ladies frequent the dusty environs of the Reading Room.”
It would not do to give the impression of a prearranged meeting—not when it was the farthest thing from the truth. And certainly not when he had plans that depended on his not being seen as an admirer of hers.
Baxter took his leave quickly to get his sandwich. Felix did so immediately afterward, making sure Baxter witnessed his departure. “I’m afraid I
must also give up the pleasure of your company. The books I have selected do not read themselves.”
“Send Lord Vere my way, will you, sir?” she said by way of good-bye. “I do believe I shall be very happy with him.”
He nodded pleasantly. “I will see what I can do.”
• • •
Felix saw Miss Cantwell at the opera two days later. Lady Balfour’s box was well visited during intermission, including stops by Mr. Pitt and Lord Firth, the latter of whom Felix considered his biggest obstacle. But the tête-à-tête at the Fielding ball had its desired effect: Miss Cantwell was quite cool toward Lord Firth and he did not stay long. Otherwise she listened, talked, and laughed, her manner all vivacity and animation.
He spied her again at the races and spent more time studying her than he did the horses—even his own. She looked quite fetching, which ensured a steady stream of gentlemen paying their respects.
Such was the fate of a pretty but penniless young lady—gentlemen still liked to look at her and even spend time with her. But they lacked the courage to marry her, not when a better-dowered wife could put lobsters on the menu and ensure that they need never descend a rung or two from their accustomed place in the world.
Felix was quite confident that Miss Cantwell would prove the rule and not the exception. Still, every time a likely gentleman was introduced to her, he grew uncharacteristically tense. Two men in particular, a Mr. Peterson and a Mr. Featherington, preoccupied him for days.
Mr. Peterson was a scion of industry, with pockets deep enough for a dozen epileptic sisters-in-law. It took Felix the better part of a week to find out that Mr. Peterson must marry the daughter of at least an earl and preferably a duke, or risk having his allowance cut off.
Mr. Featherington, a country squire with an income of eight thousand pounds, caused Felix to lose actual sleep. Until it became apparent that Mr. Featherington was leveraging Miss Cantwell’s warm reception to gain the hand of a different lady.
The almost dizzying relief Felix experienced, as he read of Mr. Featherington’s engagement in the papers, gave him pause. But he dismissed his responses as perfectly natural for a man no longer accustomed to failure, or even the possibility of it.
The Luckiest Lady in London Page 5