A shadow crossed Angus’s face, but he merely shrugged. “I went to MacInnis’s earlier, and no, I didn’t meet anyone ‘interesting.’”
MacDermott frowned. “Good. I dinna wish you to meet someone of interest in a gaming hell.”
“I felt more comfortable there than I do at the events Mother wishes me to attend.” Angus leveled his gaze at his uncle. “I fear you’ll have very little to report to her.”
“Report? Look here, I ne’er said I was going to report anything to your mither!”
“Oh? So you are curious as to whether I met someone ‘interesting?’”
MacDermott shifted in his chair. “Weel, no. ‘Tis no’ in me to be nosy, and you know it. I was just wonderin’ the way all uncles do aboot their nephews, if you’re happy, and wha’ no’.”
Angus raised his brows, amusement in his gray eyes.
MacDermott sighed. “You dinna believe a word of tha’.”
“Not one.”
“All right, then! I’ll admit it, I might ha’ promised your mither I’d keep an eye on you. But no more than tha’.”
“This morning at breakfast, Mother told me she had set you to watch me.”
“Wha-? Dammit, tha’ is—Wha’ a fool thing to do, to just blurt it out! And after she told me to keep it to myself, too!”
“Mother’s not known for her tact.”
“Tha’ is God’s own truth, lad.” MacDermott sighed. “I dinna wished to keep an eye on you or anyone else, but wha’ can I do? She worries, she does. She wishes you married to a good woman, one who will make you happy. Surely there’s nothin’ wrong wi’ tha’.”
“None, except that I’ve no wish to be wed.”
“’Tis no’ such a horrid fate. I was happily married once; I still miss my Fiona each and every day.” MacDermott cast his eyes heavenward. “She was like sunshine to me, she was.”
Angus’s expression softened. “You and Aunt Fiona always seemed to be very happy. But that’s unusual, Uncle. You know it is. I’ve seen how things work. My mother’s been married three times now, and I’ve seen it all. Once I wed, I would have to give up gaming, hunting, drinking—” He waved his cheroot. “Even these. And don’t tell me that’s not true, for when Fiona was alive, you never flicked open a snuffbox, at least not in front of her.”
“’Tis true marriage requires some negotiations, but you get when you give, laddie.”
“I’ve no wish to spend my life justifying my pleasures to anyone. I’ve earned them, and I’ll keep them.”
“Ah, you say tha’ now, but when you meet the right woman, things will change.”
“I met the right woman once, before I left for India.” Angus eyed his cheroot, his expression suddenly closed. “But that was a long time ago.”
“Did you now? And wha’ was the fair maiden’s name?”
“Charlotte.” An odd smile curved Angus’s mouth. “We met in Hyde Park, under a tree. A wind blew her parasol to my feet.”
MacDermott’s brows rose. “You remember tha’, do you?”
“At one time, I thought we’d marry. Alas, she was the daughter of an earl, one who did not like a poor, ill-favored, presumptuous nineteen-year-old as a suitor for his well-bred, overly protected, beautiful and lively twenty-two year old daughter, so . . .” He shrugged. “I can’t blame him; I had very few prospects at that time.”
“Och, my own nephew a star-crossed lover, and I had no idea.”
“Mother knew, but she didn’t favor the match, either. Not that it matters; my beloved sent me away and that was that.”
“Your mither ne’er said a word to me aboot it. Still, I suspected there might ha’ been a woman. Why else would a mon jump aboard a ship and sail away to a foreign land? It was either a love gone wrong, or you wished to be away from your mither. I wasna sure which until now.”
“It was both. I’m well over the woman and have been for years, but now Mother has decided to plague me. She’s wrong in thinking I’ll marry. I enjoy my vices far too much to just give them away, and for what? Someone to talk to over the breakfast table? I dislike conversation in the morning and I’ll be damned if I rush to be tied down before I’m good and ready.”
“Easy, lad. I’m no wishin’ you to marry. But as she’s ill, your mither feels pressed for time and wants you settled.” MacDermott threw up his hand when Angus started to protest. “’Tis a fool way to go aboot it, but there it is. Look, lad. Wha’ would it cost you to attend a few society events and at least pretend – pretend, mind you – tha’ you’re willin’ to look for a viscountess? It’ll soothe your mither’s heart and give her some peace.”
Angus grimaced. “You think it would really make her feel better?”
“I do, lad. It’ll make me feel better, too, for if I canno’ get you to attend a few social events, your mither will ha’ my head served upon the family shield. And dinna think your Aunt Beatrice would come to my rescue, for she’d help your mither carry the demmed thing, and probably sing some sort of pagan hymn and dance a jig whilst doing it, too.”
Angus laughed, his eyes crinkling. “She would, wouldn’t she? Beatrice is a force of nature.”
“They both are, God love them.” MacDermott grinned back at his nephew. For a bookish man who eschewed polite society, there was something singularly sweet about Angus’s deep, rich laugh. It made everyone – men and women – instantly return the smile that came with it.
It was a pity to have to keep bringing up a subject sure to depress such a laugh. MacDermott firmed his jaw. “Come now, lad. ‘Tis time you stopped fightin’ wha’ must be and agree to the inevitable. ‘Twill bring your mither joy, so stop being a fripper-wadded fool, hold your nose, dive in, and do wha’ must be done.”
Angus’s lips twitched. “Fripper-wadded? What in the hell does that mean?”
“It means a mon who is more worried aboot his own feelings than tha’ of his blessed mither, tha’s wha’ it means.” MacDermott caught the suddenly stiff look on his nephew’s face and raised his hand. “Dinna burn me wit’ your looks, but it wouldna’ hurt you to go to a soiree, listen to some fine music, sip a scotch, and mayhap dance with a beautiful woman.”
Angus grimaced. “The music is only passable, the scotch imaginary as only sherry and some other swill is served, and the women – while beautiful - are unable to do more than smile in a tepid manner for fear the world might think them either forward or foolish.”
MacDermott started to protest, but had to sigh. “Damn it to hell, but tha’ is the best description of London society as I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you for finally being honest.” Angus flicked his cheroot into the fire and then sat back in his chair, suddenly looking tired. “I need some sustenance for my spirits. Fortunately, not only did my books arrive today, but so did a few cases of port. You must try some.” He reached across the desk and picked up a sparkling decanter from a tray. He poured generous measures of port into two waiting glasses, and handed one to MacDermott, before settling back to sip the other himself.
MacDermott took it gratefully, though he said in as stern as a voice as he could, “This willna solve your problems.”
“No, but it will help me accept the inevitable.” Angus held up the ruby liquid as if hoping to find answers within. “You are right; I will have to at least pretend to capitulate.”
“There you go, laddie.” You’re welcome, Sally! MacDermott took a long sip, smacking his lip in appreciation. “Mighty fine.”
“I got it from a total brigand. I’ve an idea it was stolen from a French ship. Shall I leave a crate for your cellars?”
“Aye, please do.” MacDermott set down his glass and rubbed his hands together, shooting his nephew a sly glance from under his bushy brows. “We should decide which events you’re to attend. Perhaps the Roxburghe Spring Ball to begin with. ‘Tis no’ as grand as their Winter Ball, which they hold in Scotland, but ‘tis well enou’ for wha’ we need. And then there is the —”
“Hold! I won’t at
tend ‘balls,’ but ‘a ball.’ One, Uncle. And no more. That will satisfy Mother for now. Just make certain it is one with lots of people who will gossip enough to make it seem as if I’ve been to a dozen such affairs.”
MacDermott nodded. It was still more than he’d hoped for. “Fine, one ball ‘tis. Fortunately, you’ve been such a hermit, tha’ everyone is on tenterhooks wondering if the mysterious nabob-from-India Viscount MacThune is even alive. You can bet your bottom penny your mither will hear aboot it, and wit’ priceless little effort fra’ us.”
“And that will do it.”
“I should think so, aye.“ MacDermott shrugged. “Your mither will be appeased, at least for a while and that’s good enou’ for me.” Satisfied and determined to leave such an uncomfortable topic behind, MacDermott reclaimed his glass and asked his nephew about the grays he’d just bought. The older man then retreated into his port as his nephew expounded upon the new team, a rare ray of good humor shining in the lad’s gray eyes.
Yet MacDermott sensed a shadow - a certain darkness, for lack of a better word. Whatever it was, it wasn’t simple dissatisfaction. It hinted at something more. Loneliness, perhaps.
Surely not. The lad could have more friends than there were trees in Hyde Park if he’d just apply himself, for he’s a fascinating and cultured fellow. But perhaps . . . MacDermott regarded his nephew narrowly. Is there more to Angus’s society-eschewing ways? Is he perhaps avoiding this Charlotte from long ago?
MacDermott had to tamp down a frown. More than likely, the beauteous Charlotte (for MacDermott could imagine her as no other) had long since wedded and bedded, and was now clucking over a nest full of chicks. There was nothing he could do to help his nephew in that arena, and the realization sat heavy on his heart. The lad needed a partner, someone to soften the blow when poor Sally left the world.
MacDermott finished off his port. It would take a far more gifted matchmaker than he to pull off such a complex enterprise. He suddenly realized Angus was no longer talking, but had sunk into a reverie, staring at his glass.
“Wha’ is wrong, lad?”
Angus sighed. “I wasn’t going to mention this until it was necessary, but as soon as the doctors think it safe, I’m moving Mother back to Blackmour Hall. Nothing more can be done for her here – either she will respond to the treatment, or she will not. We know within the next few days. But whatever happens, Aunt Beatrice thinks Mother would be more comfortable in the countryside where there’s less noise.”
MacDermott nodded. “I’ll go with you, lad.”
Angus shot him a surprised look. “There’s no need.”
MacDermott set down his empty glass with a definite thump. “’Tis family, isna’ it?”
A crease appeared between Angus’s eyes, but he nodded.
“Then stop bein’ a gullywag and make sure you dinna slip oot of town when I’m no’ lookin’.”
“You are more than welcome to come, I just didn’t think you’d wish to.”
“As you get older, it will dawn on you tha’ there is little else as important as family. I’m going and tha’ is tha’. Now, tell me more aboot this team of yours. If I’m to wager my own coin upon their heads, I need to know everything aboot them.”
Moonlight beamed upon the large fountain, glittering on the water arches and sprinkling diamonds hither and yon upon the statue of Venus that rested at the center. From where he sat in the shadows near the fountain, Angus flicked his cheroot ashes into the shrubs and cast an impatient glance at the terrace that rose past a thicket of roses and lilacs.
Though the warm golden-lit panes framed by heavy silk curtains, dancers swirled by, a cacophony of women hued in all colors of the rainbow, their bright gowns bold against their escorts who were dressed in formal ballroom attire. Though the terrace doors were closed – a testament to the unusually cool weather now favoring most of England – the orchestra music could be heard, faint and monotonous.
Angus stifled a bored sigh and leaned back, the hard marble seat cool upon his back as he drew in the warmth of the fragrant cheroot. Uncle MacDermott had done his duty and brought them to the most monstrous of all balls, the annual Roxburghe Spring Ball. From what Angus could tell, it was the event of the season for every available debutante was in attendance, bold and brash, at least two hundred of them furiously blinking their lashes at him, which made them look as if they all had dust in their eyes.
The first moment had been the worst. When the pompous butler had announced Angus, a hush had fallen over the room as every eye pinned him to where he stood on the stairs. He could almost see empty hopes rising over the wishful heads of every unwed woman, like balloons rising to meet an empty dawn.
It had been a painful moment. Angus had done what MacDermott had suggested – he’d cast a disdainful stare about the room, nodding to everyone, but refused to talk, and then quickly made his way to the refreshment table where he’d been cautious not to make eye contact with anyone. But there his and his uncle’s plan had gone awry. His aloof behavior had only inflamed the seeking mamas more. Without an invitation, they’d closed in, dragging their daughters after them, pressing closer and closer until they were pushing and shoving, calling in furious voices demanding an introduction – it had been pure hell.
He grimaced around his cheroot. The cream of England’s society had behaved like fishmongers trying to sell their wares. Fortunately for Angus, he’d spotted an escape route behind a large potted fern and had been able to squeeze behind it and slip away from the madness. Now, thirty minutes later and hidden in the gardens off the terrace, protected from the world by the still-chilly May weather that would keep the rest of the guests inside, he was more than ready to leave. Mother had better appreciate this effort. All he wanted was to return to the peacefulness of his uncle’s townhouse. Unfortunately, in order to do so, he’d have to pass by one of the many windows of the Roxburghe ballroom and risk being seen, which wouldn’t do.
His mother must believe he’d stayed for the entire ball, had danced with dozens of women, and had enjoyed himself immensely. So he was stuck, at least for a while. When the ball came to a close, he’d re-enter the ballroom, dance with the least annoying woman he found, make his bow to his hostess, and then leave.
Meanwhile, he was quite content here in the garden, surrounded by quiet and the damp of a chilly night that made cheroot smoking all the more pleasurable. He leaned against a stone pillar and made smoke rings, watching as one expanded to catch the moon.
A door opened, the music growing suddenly loud before the panel clicked shut. Blast it! Was I seen? Angus quickly moved between two shrubs, well out of sight. The approaching rustle of silk told him the guest was indeed a woman.
An unfriendly breeze stirred the trees overhead and he heard a murmured complaint followed by a ‘brrrrr!’ as the woman moved closer. To his relief, she hurried past his hiding place, moving as if she were on a mission, her attention elsewhere.
It was much too dark to move in such a hasty fashion as the flagstones were damp and slick. Irritated, Angus flicked his cheroot to the ground and stomped it out, and then stepped forward. “Careful. The st—”
“AH!” Obviously startled by his sudden appearance, the lady lurched to one side of the pathway, her slippered foot tangling in her voluminous skirts, which sent her headfirst toward the fountain, hands outstretched.
Angus leapt forward and caught the lady about the waist just as the palms of her outstretched hands touched the fountain’s surface.
For the longest moment, they stood thus, frozen like the stone statuary that shadowed them, the water’s rush hiding their belabored breathing, the faint mist of the fountain settling upon their clothing like tiny diamonds.
As the moment sank into time, Angus became aware of two things. First, over the scents from the garden of damp ground and English roses, her perfume tickled his nose, a faint mix of jasmine and spicy orange, as delicious as it was teasing. Second, the lady’s rump, pleasingly plump and warm, pressed sn
uggly against his groin, the sensation instantly arousing.
The woman must have felt it at the same time, for she gasped. “Your—that’s—Oh my!” She pushed at his arms with damp hands.
“Cease, my lady! If I release you now, we will both fall into the water.” Her struggles halted and Angus, tightening his hold on her just long enough to pull her away from the fountain, set her firmly on her feet. Once there, he released her, the cold air rushing in and chilling him head to toe through his now-damp clothes.
“My gown is ruined!” She brushed at her silk skirts, her head bent, the moon haloing her hair and glinting off the rim of her spectacles. “That was–and then you were—and your hands were on my—Oh dear!”
Her breathless voice condemned him in some way. Oddly bereft in the cold after holding such a warm, soft form against his own, he said in a harsh voice, “If you hadn’t been running in the dark in such a thoughtless fashion, there would have been no need for either of us to be in this position.”
“If you hadn’t leapt from the shrubs and startled me, I wouldn’t have fallen at all!” She flamed up at him, and he was rewarded with his first view of her face even as her chin firmed in a mulish line.
His chest contracted, his breath caught in his throat. He knew her, knew the curve of her cheek, knew the slant of her smile, knew the dimple on her left cheek that peeped out when she laughed. “Charlotte?”
She blinked up at him, her eyes wide behind her spectacles and he found himself holding his breath. Slowly, recognition settled onto her face. “Angus?”
“Yes.”
She took a step back, then another. “N-No. It can’t be.” She looked about the garden like a panic-stricken deer. “This isn’t India!”
That startled a laugh out of him. “No, it’s not. I returned to England some months ago.” His smile slipped. “My mother’s been ill.” Why did I tell her that? I’ve only just re-met her.
An Encounter at Hyde Park Page 28