Dangerous Weakness

by Warfield, Caroline

  His mother held court behind him, dripping with the Sudbury sapphires. She appeared content to let her protégé bask in the light while she entertained the girl’s ducal parents.

  The dismal mood that had troubled him for weeks descended again, threatening to crush him. He must marry; he owed it to his name and lineage. Lady Sarah met every criterion he sought in a future duchess: breeding, manners, looks, money . . . She came close to perfection. He simply couldn’t bring himself to like the match. Irrelevant, he tried to tell himself, duty doesn’t require pleasure.

  Still he couldn’t warm to the idea, and nothing in the mediocre performance distracted him. Once he caught Castlereagh casting an assessing glance at the lady. While Richard didn’t require the foreign secretary’s approval to marry, that approval would smooth his career. From the man’s face, it appeared there would be no objection.

  The performers droned on, and Lady Sarah made every pretense of watching the play. Unless someone watched as carefully as Richard did, they missed her covert glances at other boxes. With the slightest tightening of lip or elevation of brow, her face reflected approval here, clear disapproval there, and the occasional outright condemnation somewhere else. Drama would never hold this woman’s attention; society with its castes and intrigues always would.

  What, he wondered, will we ever find to discuss over breakfast? Not the theatre.

  He saw with sudden clarity that it didn’t matter. They would rarely share breakfast. She would break her fast in her boudoir and be above stairs until time for afternoon calls. He would rise at seven as always, take a vigorous walk or ride, dress, and be at his desk before the clerks.

  Marriage to Lady Sarah would not disrupt my ordered life. That ought to be enough. He suppressed the niggling thought that it might not be.

  Applause cut in to his morose musings. He rose, grateful for an excuse to get away.

  “Shall we stroll along the promenade?”

  She glanced once around to make sure eyes followed her every move and once back to his mother, who nodded her approval with regal dignity. “I would be delighted to, my lord,” she said.

  The upper hall behind the box seats quickly filled with people equally eager to stretch their legs and just as avid to be seen. Richard’s companion strolled with grace and dignity, occasionally nodding a greeting.

  She’s damned careful whom she acknowledges and whom she does not!

  Poor Martha Rutledge, whose older brother teetered on the brink of Newgate for debts, got the cut direct. Richard nodded gravely at the woman behind his companion’s back.

  He noted the greetings Lady Sarah reserved for the sons and daughters of the higher peers. Lesser nobility got cold nods.

  Baroness Widener merited barely a nod. What will she make of my friend Jamie, a mere Baron Ross. It feels, he thought, rather like walking with my mother, an activity I rarely like. He had experience ignoring his mother. Can I ignore a wife as well?

  They were almost back to the box when the unexpected sight of his sister Georgiana and her husband gave him a spurt of joy that made his face wrinkle into a smile, the first unforced one of the evening.

  “Richard! We noticed you making use of the familial box,” she exclaimed.

  “My lady.” Her husband bowed correctly to Lady Sarah. Richard felt her go stiff at his side. She did not return the greeting.

  “At least one of you remembers manners,” Richard told his sister with a nod at her husband.

  “What do you think of Miss Boothe’s Cymbeline?” Georgiana asked. She, at least, actually watched the play. Her enthusiasm amused him.

  Andrew laughed. “Don’t answer her, Richard. The Bard has had enough insult for one night.” Richard noticed his friend’s surreptitious glance at Lady Sarah standing stiff and silent.

  “She is rather awful, isn’t she?” Richard agreed. “I expected you two to be at dinner with Chadbourn and his countess.”

  “Professor Brauner gave us his seats,” Georgiana told him.

  “No fool, he,” Andrew said. “Must have known it would be bad.”

  His wife poked his ribs. “Tickets are a rare treat for us,” Georgiana went on. “Catherine urged us to attend Cymbeline and come late.”

  “We’re going there now. We’ve had all the theatrical histrionics we can take,” her husband added.

  “Don’t let me keep you from it,” Richard told them. His companion remained mute; her hand bit into his arm.

  “My lady,” Andrew bowed his exit and offered his arm to his wife. The look they shared when they walked away gave Richard a pang.

  When did lovers’ looks begin to strike you as anything but maudlin. Haydens despise middle class notions of romance, remember? Get a grip, man.

  “Your mother does not receive them.” His companion hissed beside him.

  “I, however, do,” Richard retorted, turning to face her. “I’m fond of my sister and her husband.”

  Lady Sarah pursed her lips and forced a smile. “But he is a schoolmaster’s son, you must see that,” she explained. Having made her point, she nodded with satisfaction. “We really must get back to their graces. Lord Castlereagh will wonder what has become of us.”

  She speaks as if she thinks I am a particularly dim schoolboy. I won’t tolerate it when we marry. He offered his arm without attempting to argue. If we marry, he added silently.

  He led her back, wishing to ignore the conversation. Lady Sarah had other ideas. She leaned close in a pretense of intimacy and whispered, “Richard, surely you must see. She is” she stumbled over the word—“enceinte. A decent woman would be in the country if she found herself in an interesting condition.” She blushed scarlet.

  Richard had to admit his sister looked rather obviously with child, and he wished Georgiana showed a bit more discretion in that regard, but he viewed it with resigned good humor.

  In the brief privacy afforded by the entrance to their box, his companion had one last salvo before he could speak. “Your mother will not like that you allowed a person in that condition to address me. I certainly don’t. Kindly consider this for the future. I cannot like it.”

  If you are my wife, you will entertain my sister and her husband, and you will like it.

  Lady Sarah stepped into the box, saving him the need to respond. Thank God.

  In the vast expanse of the Royal Theater, Richard felt the walls closing in, snapping shut like a trap door. He thought again of the look the Mallets had given each other. They left to join Chadbourn and his countess, two other besotted fools. He longed to go with them.

  He thought again of Lily. She won’t have you, you fool.

  No other candidate for Marchioness of Glenaire stuck him as any better than Lady Sarah. Do I have a choice?

  No one ignored a summons from a duke, not even the Marquess of Glenaire. Richard certainly didn’t ignore a summons from an influential member of the foreign affairs committee.

  He cooled his heels at White’s though he’d rather have been working. He thought of the work piled up on his desk, and the wait sat badly with him. The polished wood, the well-worn leather, the smell of cigar closed in on him where he stood in the foyer like a boy awaiting the headmaster.

  The old despot only makes me wait to put me in my place. The only other man in England who would dare treat Richard that way, his father, sat in aristocratic splendor at Sudbury House. They both pretend to rule the universe while abler men keep Europe stable and at peace.

  Unfortunately, the Duke of Lisle was also Lady Sarah Wharton’s father. I strongly suspect he doesn’t plan to address affairs of state.

  The faintest rustle of activity among the club servants announced the arrival of an elevated member as clearly as if they had shouted it. Richard rose before the old man even walked across the room.

  “Your Gr
ace,” he bowed correctly. “You wished to see me?”

  The duke waved a hand with two fingers extended in casual salute toward a hovering servant and sank awkwardly into a broad leather chair; one Richard suspected no other member dared use. The servant hurried off. He needed no more information to fetch the duke’s preferred brandy and sweet nibbles.

  The old man pulled his gouty foot to a footstool and settled his girth comfortably before gesturing Richard to sit.

  Heat burned in Richard’s chest and died in his iron control. Don’t let the man flummox you.

  Brandies arrived. Servants left. The duke sipped slowly in silence. Richard controlled his racing mind by calculating the number of reports on his desk, mentally dividing them into different numbered stacks and assigning a level of importance to each. He could wait as well as the duke and longer.

  “You probably wondered why I asked you to meet me,” the duke said, words rumbling out like gravel down a rough chute.

  Asked? I know a summons when I read one.

  “I assumed you wish to know more about instability in Naples,” Richard answered smoothly.

  “Naples? Unstable? Nonsense. We defeated the damned Corsican.”

  You would know better if you bothered to read the briefings we send to the House of Lords. Richard clamped his lips tight rather than respond to what he knew to be ignorance.

  Lisle pointed an impatient finger at Richard. “I asked you here about my daughter.”

  “Lady Sarah is well, I trust. Last night—”

  “Last night I expected you in my study. The girl and her mother did, too,” the old man sputtered, spittle dropping to his cravat. “Hell,” he went on, “half of London did.”

  “I was unaware we had an appointment of some kind.”

  “Damned well should have. You’ve been paying court the entire Season. Parliament closes for the summer soon. City is emptying. The girl is in fits and has started wondering when you’re going to declare yourself.”

  “If I’ve given her reason to expect—” Richard began. Given her reason to expect? You let your mother crown her duchess-in-waiting; you let her dragoon you into escorting the chit everywhere; you fell into that piece of theater in the box last night.

  “Do you mean to say you paraded her in front of the ton—in front of Castlereagh—on your arm last night and you didn’t think it gave her expectations?”

  “I have an interest, certainly.” Richard chose his words carefully. “I considered asking to speak to you, but the hour was late.” And I wanted to get to Chadbourn’s before his dinner guests departed.

  “So you are going to ask for the chit or not?”

  Words stuck in his throat. He thought of the extraordinarily expensive betrothal ring sitting in a vault at his bank. He thought of the smug look—no question she looked smug—on Lady Sarah’s face when they promenaded past other debutants. He thought of his parent’s expectations about their due. He thought of duty. He thought of England.

  Richard opened his mouth to ask Lady Sarah Wharton’s father for her perfect, well-bred, wealthy hand in marriage. The words would not come out.

  “Speak up, man! You’ve all but driven away her other suitors.”

  “Lady Sarah is exquisite. Any man in London would be honored to have her.”

  “We don’t want any man. We want a duke’s heir. There was an earl on the hook, but m’wife tells me he is much too old. Viscount Osborn has made tentative overtures. He’s well-to-pass and heir to an earldom. He might do. Would come up to scratch right enough.”

  He makes her sound like a statue at auction. It struck him she seemed cold enough, and chided himself for it. Not fair, Richard. She possesses both beauty and manners. She would not only ornament your table but also serve adequately as an ambitious diplomat’s wife. You saw that at Chadbourn Park; you planned to pursue the connection then.

  Thoughts of Chadbourn Park brought the feel of Lily Thornton’s body pressed against his, unbidden, to his mind; the feel of her mouth burned his memory.

  Lily Thornton is no statue.

  The duke waved for another brandy. It appeared by his elbow in moments. Richard looked down at his own drink, almost untouched. He downed it in a single gulp.

  That damned Thornton woman would never make an appropriate marchioness, much less a future duchess. Do your duty, man, and get it over with.

  She had been gone by the time he got to Chadbourn’s. It had been foolish to seek her out, and he admitted to himself he had gone there hoping to do just that.

  She made it clear she doesn’t want you. What are you waiting for?

  “May I call on you next week?” he asked at last.

  “Another damned week? You aren’t exactly impassioned.”

  “I thought you sought a well-titled connection, not a damned besotted lover,” Richard spat.

  The old man chuckled. “Just so,” he said. “Just so. You can have a week, Glenaire. No longer or Osborn will have stolen the match on you.”

  I doubt it. Your Sarah won’t settle for an earl’s heir if she can have a duke’s. He made his leave, determined to sort his disordered thoughts.

  One week. Perhaps if I lay out the advantages and disadvantages on paper, my decision will become clearer. His steps slowed as he passed through Saint James Park on his way to Horse Guards. Perhaps in a week I will have dealt with Lily Thornton once and for all.

  He approached the end of the park and stopped, so lost in thought he dropped onto one of the benches lining the walk.

  Lily. I owe her protection. I promised it. I promised her father home safe. The image in his mind shifted from Lily, frightened yet determined, with Volkov, to Lily, soft and warm from loving, in the dim shade of a sheep barn. Sheep barn. He smiled at that. What I owe her is marriage. Why won’t the damned woman see that?

  Chapter 17

  Subterfuge can exhaust a woman. Aunt Marianne didn’t raise an eyebrow when Lily told her that the trunk she had packed the morning after her meeting with Sahin Pasha would be shipped to the country for storage. Their ancient butler looked merely puzzled when she handed the same trunk to a coal merchant at the tradesmen’s entrance. He most likely attributed the man’s dark skin to his business. Her maid, however, questioned the need to keep a carpetbag filled with necessities for overnight.

  “Mrs. Mallet’s time is uncertain. I want to be prepared to accompany her should it begin,” Lily told the girl. She wished that were the truth. The girl didn’t question; she didn’t look convinced either.

  If Richard’s men question the servants, this one will give him an earful. With luck I’ll be gone by then and out of reach.

  “When does Mr. Stewart arrive, ma’am?” the girl asked. “Shall I do up your hair?”

  Walter Stewart. Damn. That one is a tad sharper than Heaton. She had forgotten the schedule. Nothing for it but to endure the afternoon call, plead headache, and slip out with Sahin’s pseudo-tradesman at dusk.

  “No, I think not. A simple knot will do.” The maid frowned over Lily’s choice of unbecoming gray, but she let the girl dress her before she dismissed her. Time enough tomorrow to learn to do for myself.

  Lily sat at her vanity and pulled her hair back, whipping it into a casual knot. She loosened it for effect. Best look the part. A little powder enhanced her pallor. She made a pained look into the mirror. Loss of weight, underlying pallor, and the powder made her look genuinely ill. It will do.

  Deep clouds blanketed London that afternoon when Lily stood at the window looking out at Gilbert Street. All nature conspires to match my mood, she thought. And Stewart is late.

  She looked around for something to occupy her wait, picked up Aunt Marianne’s needlework, and tossed it aside. The dear, sweet woman had taken to her bed with “the vapors,” to Lily’s relief. Deceiving my aunt de
presses me most, I think. She deserves better, but what she does not know, she cannot tell.

  The papers, ironed and correctly presented, lay on a table by Lily’s favorite chair. Most households for women did not receive newspapers. Lily insisted on it. She sat and began to read, quickly scanning the little international news that made it into London’s rags. An item in the gossip columns caught her eye.

  Lady SW attended the performance of Cymbeline last night on the arm of Lord RH the M of G. Their box included LC and two dukes. Can the long anticipated announcement be forthcoming this morning?

  Has Richard offered at last? The Marble Marquess and the Ice Queen. Perfect. She tossed the paper aside and leaned her head back. Will this day never end?

  Footsteps in the foyer broke into her thoughts. Stewart at last; let’s get this over with. She sat a little straighter, thought better of it, and relaxed her posture. She pondered how best to put a wan expression on her face when a voice broke it.

  “You look ill.” Not Walter Stewart. Blue eyes bore into her. Richard. Damn.

  “I am not ‘at home’ today.” Servants, she saw, had left the door open.

  “Yet here you are. I left orders my men were to be admitted at all times.”

  “I left orders to admit only Walter Stewart today.”

  “Yet here I am.” He stood in front of her, hands behind his back, glowering down.