Eyes wide, she nodded. “You . . . knew?” She thought a moment. “But of course, I suppose you would.” She frowned. “I hope your mother remains ignorant of it.”
“She does,” he answered harshly. “Or I should say, she does now. She might once have known, but if she did, she recalls it no longer.”
She was standing too, now, he noted. She reached out to clutch the tree. He could see it in her eyes, the same curiosity that he’d witnessed so many times before. She wanted to ask. They all did. Everyone was eaten with curiosity. What had the Viscount done, to make his son hate him so? What was his sin?
Only one person had never asked. Hestia. He knew why. She’d lived some version of his hell herself, and didn’t need details.
But Miss Stockton—Addy—wouldn’t know. She was a child conceived in love and raised with care. Even her imagination couldn’t conjure such a monster as his father.
He tried to summon his anger, his disdain, the blunt, rude words he used to push away everyone who gave in to vulgar, idle curiosity. They wouldn’t come. He couldn’t hurl his usual retorts at her.
He waited.
She licked her lips. He flinched before she ever made a sound, waiting for the arrow to arrive.
“I’m sorry.”
He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes. They opened now so that he could stare at her.
Dangerous.
Not because she was the beautiful, curved, perfect representation of an angel mixed with an imp. But because she returned the favor that had meant so much to her. She looked past his facade and saw the hurt, the vulnerability.
And she didn’t ask.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
He abruptly stepped near. He grabbed her shoulders and kissed her hard. Fierce. Possessive. Grateful. He tried to convey it all.
“So am I,” he told her.
He spun on his heel and walked away.
Addy wanted to dance with Vickers. Damn him for asking so consistently—he’d turned the idea into forbidden fruit. Surely that was why she endlessly fantasized about it, about his hand on her waist, her skirts twisting about his legs and the two of them breathing the same air.
Her problem was no longer that she didn’t know what she wanted, but that she increasingly wanted what she couldn’t have. A dance, a touch, a kiss, a story. The story—of everything that had left him so prickly and alluring and maddening and irresistible.
She wanted Vickers.
The futility of it soured her mood. She told Rosamond that she was wrapped up in a project and needed a reprieve from the social whirl. Surprisingly, her cousin didn’t object. It seemed she was undergoing her own difficulties.
She wandered in, one afternoon, to peer over Addy’s shoulder.
“So many? You have been busy.”
“Yes.” Addy regarded her work with satisfaction. “I included all of Muriel’s favorites and a few new ones.”
Rosamond nodded, but didn’t move. For quite a while.
Addy turned. “Did you need something?”
“Oh? Yes. I wanted to speak with you.”
“Will you sit down?” Addy turned her chair away from her desk and smiled at her distracted cousin. “What is it?”
Rosamond fiddled with her sash. “There’s been talk. People have noticed that you’ve struck up an acquaintance with James Vickers.”
Addy stilled. “What is it that’s been said?”
“Only that he watches you. He speaks to you at every function.”
Addy shrugged, hiding her vast relief. “We never speak long. We haven’t even shared a dance.”
“Yes, I suspect that’s what keeps the gossips merely curious and not bloodthirsty. It’s just . . . I remembered that argument we had over him at the beginning of the Season. I wanted to warn you to be careful.” Her face fell. “I don’t wish for you to make the same mistakes I have.”
Addy spoke gently. “What’s wrong, Rosamond?”
Tears welled in her cousin’s eyes. “I’ve been a fool. I never thought I’d be welcomed back into Society so warmly, nor that I’d enjoy it so.”
“Or that you’d meet someone like Sir Harold?” Addy nudged.
Rosamond gave a tearful laugh. “Who would have thought it? I know he’s no Adonis, but he’s quite funny and so nice to me! I’m not used to it.”
“I imagine it would be easy to get used to.”
“Yes, if I’d not acted such an idiot. Don’t you see? After Mitford died I may have acted a little fast, but it wasn’t until I mixed myself up with Viscount Vickers that I made a serious mistake. I’m afraid, Addy! Afraid to enjoy this new life when a word from him could snatch it away.” She pounded the arm of her chair in frustration. “And for what? So he could hear the gossip from Princess Charlotte’s household? And what could a contact amongst the Queen’s ladies do for a man like him? It all seems so pointless—yet it could ruin me!”
Addy was aghast. “Pointless, but dangerous, Rosamond! You know how touchy the Regent is about such matters. You must never tell anyone that you took part in such scheming!”
“No, of course not. I’m sorry to frighten you.” Rosamond sighed. “I’m just so frustrated.”
“Of course you are.”
Her cousin stood. “I think I’ll take a walk to clear my head.” She gripped Addy’s shoulder. “Just be careful, dear. It’s so easy to make a mistake.”
“I will. Thank you, Rosamond.”
She began to pace once she was alone. She must tell Vickers. Rosamond’s misery had her hesitating, though. Yet this could be important for him to know—and he had promised to keep Rosamond’s name clear.
Resolute, she went to the front parlor, but didn’t see anyone within sight of the house. A sudden thought sent her to the back. Yes. There, perched on the top of the garden fence, sat the girl, Francis, petting a disreputable-looking cat. She hopped down when she spied Addy and ran up to hand her a note.
The Swan. Confectioners on Jermyn Street.
“Ask for Madame’s special,” Francis advised. “It’s delicious.”
“I will.” Addy grinned at the girl. “And I’ll bring you one, too, shall I?”
The chit swept her a creditable curtsy. “Thank you, ever so much.”
She smiled as she returned inside to fetch her bonnet and call for the carriage.
The Swan was a charming shop, its glass case filled with delightful-looking temptations and its few small tables empty at this hour. Once more Addy was escorted to a private room, this one with a good-sized desk at the center. Vickers sat there, waiting, along with a teacart laden with colorful creations.
Addy rolled her eyes. “After this, I’m going to be shocked every time I enter a small room and do not find you there.”
He grinned. “How many small rooms do you normally frequent?”
“I don’t know . . . cloak rooms, dressing rooms, antechambers.”
“And you’ll be expecting me in all those places?”
“Regrettably.”
“I like the idea.” He gestured for her take a seat. “In any case, I did say I knew all the good spots.”
“So you did.” She sat, unsure in a way she’d never yet felt with him.
“Hestia sent this.” He slid another packet across the desk.
She took it, but didn’t open it. The idea of living alone had begun to lose its appeal.
“Would you care for a pastry?”
She summoned a smile. “Francis says I must try Madame’s special.”
“The girl has good taste.” He served her, selecting a beautiful, cream filled baked masterpiece shaped like a swan.
She toyed with it. “Would you mind . . . would you tell Hestia that I’d like to meet with her?”
He paled. “Of course. If I’ve offended you—”
“No!” She stopped him. “It’s just that she has a unique perspective.” She pulled out the package she’d brought. “Also, would you deliver this? It’s just a book of children’s stori
es. I put it together for Muriel and made a copy, as I thought there might sometimes be children at Half Moon House.”
“Indeed there are.” He took it up. “How wonderful.”
“The illustrations are simple. It’s not my strength.”
“They’re perfect.” He laughed. “No surprise there.”
“I’m to visit Muriel tomorrow, so you might wish to let your lookouts free for a day. I’ll leave early, spend midday in Crawley and return tomorrow night.”
“I hope you find your sister well.”
“Thank you.” She shifted in her seat. Curse him for his elegant good looks and constant masculine pull. Tension hung between them, as always, stealing her focus and her breath, but she felt a certain responsibility to resist it. He’d walked away, setting unspoken boundaries. She would respect them.
“I’ve news.” She paused. “Though perhaps it will again turn out to be something you already know.”
“What is it?”
She explained Rosamond’s predicament and her outburst about the Princess and the Queen’s ladies. It didn’t sound so urgent now. Frowning, she chased bits of pastry swan about her plate.
“Miss Sto—” He stopped. “Addy.”
Struck by some resounding note in his voice, she looked up.
His expression remained grim, but his gaze lit with purpose and resolution. “This might be it—what I need.”
“Truly?”
“Yes. Think. It should be easy enough to find which of the Queen’s women joined the court during the time of Lady Mitford’s association with my father. If he was so eager to help someone gain the position, then you can be sure he wanted something in return. If I find her, I can question her.”
Grim promise radiated from him.
Addy straightened. “I’m so glad I could really help.”
Suddenly he reached across the desk and took her hand. “Thank you. For today—but also for everything else.”
Excitement rippled through her. The hairs on her neck stood straight, then sent the signal everywhere else. She shivered. The desk lamp cast a glowing light on his dark hair, making it shine. His eyes narrowed, the better to see into her vulnerable soul.
“From the first you’ve run me ragged. I’d forgotten what it felt like.” He stood, keeping his grip on her hand and coming around to her seat. Gently, he tugged her to her feet. “You made me laugh and shake my head—but you also made me feel better.”
With heat and words and touch he crafted a slippery slope, easy to fall into and undoubtedly enjoyable to experience. Still, she fought valiantly to stay upright. “About what?”
“About everything. The world.” A shadow moved behind his eyes. “Even about myself.”
She should fight. Resist. Do the smart thing and head home.
But then he fought dirty.
He touched her brow and smiled. “Not perfect, but wonderful.” Slowly, he leaned in to kiss her.
Her feet slid right out from under her. She went whooshing into something that felt frighteningly like love.
She kissed him back, setting loose all of her hopes and fears and longings. She arched against him and reveled in his moan of pleasure.
His hand slid downward, paused in the small of her back, then dipped down to press her bottom against him. She burrowed into the circle he made, muscle and linen and superfine. “Yes,” she said as he pulled away and nuzzled the nape of her neck.
“God,” he said into her shoulder. “God damn it.”
She stilled.
His chest heaved. He stepped back.
“You are pulling me in too many directions,” she panted, desperate to have him back.
“We have to stop.”
“Do we?” she whispered.
“We do,” he groaned. “There’s no damned future in it.”
Rage blossomed, fueled by hordes of disappointed desires. She spun on her heel and headed for the door.
“Wait!”
“For what? More temptation? More heartbreak?” She stumbled over the words.
“It’s my fault, I know.”
“Then do something.”
“I can’t! My course is set. I can’t let up. He must always know I’m there, opposing his every move.”
“For how long?” she despaired.
“Forever.” he said flatly. “I’m sorry.”
Tears started, which merely made her angrier. She fled before she turned into a furious, sobbing mess.
He caught her at the shop’s doorway.
His hand lay soft on her shoulder before it tracked down to lift hers to his mouth. His eyes were as bleak as she’d ever seen them. “Come back.”
“It’s no use,” she protested.
“I’m going to explain.” His mouth barely moved, saying the words. “I’ve never told a soul, but you deserve to know.”
It wasn’t enough. She wanted to throw it back at him, but she was afraid he would shatter, so brittle did he look. Silently, she followed him back.
He sat her at the desk and turned away. When he spoke, his words were directed at a supply cabinet in the corner.
“My father was a harsh and demanding taskmaster. He expected much of me, growing up. I was to be a good scholar and better sportsman, to study art and horsemanship and the business of running the estates. I would handle it all in exemplary fashion, as my ancestors had. I was a gentleman, a man of honor. My duty was to my family name.”
He looked over his shoulder. “I worked hard to meet his expectations, his exacting example. I believed in my destiny, was proud to be his son and heir.”
“What happened?”
“I turned eighteen. Mother was feeling poorly that week. She’d been in a carriage accident and was slow to recover. Father teased her that she was ready to be put to pasture.” He shifted. “He didn’t show the same dark humor to the coachman, however. He sacked the man for shoddy driving, although the poor old soul swore up and down that he’d checked the suspension, that there’d been an unexplainable problem with the brace and spring. Mother was tired and sore and all the servants were in a mood, but she managed to arrange a small birthday dinner. Father insisted we go out afterwards, though. Together.” He sighed. “He took me to the house on Compton.”
She stifled her urge to go to him.
“They were there, his friends and . . . others. A party. But it was sickening, not a celebration. No honor, only greed and fear and violence. I was sent off with a woman.” He shook his head as if to block the memory. “I’d never seen such rote, mechanical movement, such dead eyes. She expected abuse, had resigned herself to it, readied herself for it.” He swallowed. “I left. Found a billiards room and a bottle of brandy. Everything I knew about my father was a lie. I sat in the corner and drank while a group of men played. Eventually I realized what they were discussing.
“‘Foxglove does it quick, one said. “Rat poison if you want it slow, a little every day.’
“Another spoke up. ‘But to be safest, go for the carriage. A wiggle at the junction with the spring and the brace—’
“His friend stopped him, nodding toward me. They went back to their game.”
“Oh, no,” Addy said.
“Yes. I knew, then. He’d done it. Tried to kill my mother. Why? Her money, perhaps. A mistress who wanted to be a viscountess? I don’t even recall what happened next, I only remember pulling him away from a terrified woman—and hitting him. Again and again, until they pulled me off him.”
She waiting, knowing it wasn’t the end.
“For two days I didn’t go home. Until I heard the news. My friends tracked me down, told me my mother was injured. Unconscious. There had been a row, the servants said, and she’d fallen down the stairs.”
Addy gasped.
“She slept for three days and I never left her side. He stayed away until she woke up. She was confused. She still is, really. She’s never been the same. She doesn’t remember him standing over her, threatening her life unless I stopped overreacting
and did as I was told. She doesn’t remember my threats, either. She was to be kept out of it, kept safe and protected or I would expose him for the liar—and murderer—that I now knew him to be.” He sighed. “We’ve been at war ever since.”
Addy stood. She touched him gently, but he flinched—and somehow that summed up their entire quandary.
“And the worst part is,” she whispered, “that neither of you will ever win.”
“DeeDee! Look!”
“I see, darling.” Addy pressed a swift kiss to her sister’s head. “It’s a lovely pinecone.”
Content at the praise, Muriel wandered over to show her treasure to Mary, her cousin.
“MeeMee! Look!”
“A big one!” the eight year old said. “Now, put it with the others.”
Muriel laughed. She was methodically moving a pile of rocks, pinecones and acorn caps from one blanket to another.
Addy smiled, blinking back tears again. She’d been crying on and off since she’d left Vickers yesterday, but these were happy tears. Muriel remembered her. Her baby face had lit like the sun when she’d caught sight of her. Addy had snatched her up and hugged her close and had a good cry, not caring who saw her.
Which turned out to be nearly the whole household, in fact. They’d lined the steps in a formal welcome. Even her mother’s sister had been noticeably warmer. “I’m sorry I was so curt when last we met,” she said, shamefaced. “I just think your father is making a terrible mistake, running away from you girls. But Muriel is a delight and we are glad to have her. And I hear you are one of the belles of the beau monde.”
Addy had demurred, then gratefully agreed to a tour of the large, comfortable nursery. She’d been presented to all the toys and invited to a picnic in the gardens.
Muriel was happy. Healthy. She clearly loved the other children. Mary, at just the right age, acted as a little mother to her. Even her aunt was clearly not as removed as she’d thought.
Addy was relieved, but also a little gut-wrenched. She’d thought moving the two of them to their own household would be a better situation, but now she was not so sure.
An Encounter at Hyde Park Page 15