by Deb Marlowe
* * *
Glory stared up at Keswick, his big, wide-shouldered form framed by the bright sky and sparkling water, and she felt a little thrill. Several little thrills, actually.
The foremost one, oddly, was of gratitude. Of all the men to stir up a whirlwind of chaos inside of her—she was glad it was this one. He shifted, fidgeting and frowning. He was clearly agitated. Distracted. Likely annoyed with her, still. But he did not become ill-mannered, short or dismissive. He did seem uncommonly focused on her, though.
And that led straight to all of those other thrills. All the little tremors currently knocking about her interior, waking up heretofore sleeping bits of her and setting them all aflame.
“You should,” he said.
She blinked. She’d let herself become distracted by the sheer, sharp-edged bulk of him. “Should what?”
“You should send me marching out of here. In fact, I volunteer. I’ll quick step back to the house to fetch you” . . . he circled his hand around his chest . . . “one of those filmy, lacy things.”
She watched his hand, frowning. “Filmy . . . a fichu, do you mean? Why?” She looked down. “Have I spoiled my gown?”
“You’ve forgotten a section of it, rather.”
She scowled up at him. “Are you criticizing my gown?”
“No. I’m only informing you that there is not enough of it.” This time he pointed to her chest and made that circling motion. “Right about there.”
Her heart pounded. How could he be so irritating and . . . stimulating, at the same time? “The neckline of this gown is perfectly in line with fashion—and with those worn by other ladies here.”
“Are you sure?” He sounded dubious.
“Perfectly.” She decided to be encouraged by his interest. Perhaps it bided well for her plan. “In fact, this décolletage is more modest than some others right here in this gathering.”
“Is this bucket taken?” Lady Tresham appeared and sank down upon Sterne’s abandoned, makeshift seat.
“And so my point is made,” Glory said with a wave. The baroness’s neckline was noticeably lower than her own—and her bosom swelled above her bodice—which was the point, after all.
“It’s not the same,” Keswick answered.
“It is entirely the same!”
“How wise you were to bring a seat along,” Lady Tresham told Glory. “Now, what are you two bickering about? You sound like school children.”
“We were just discussing necklines and local traditions,” Glory answered.
“Necklines?” The baroness waved a hand before her own. “You should lower yours, my dear, and then perhaps you would not be sitting here alone.”
“She is not alone,” Keswick said curtly.
“Not now,” the woman agreed.
“And I’ve had enough talk of fashion,” he grumped.
“Traditions it is!” Glory agreed. “Do you have any personal favorites, Lady Tresham?”
“I do enjoy a nice brandy before dinner.” She cast a sultry glance at Keswick. “And I am a great proponent of exercise before sleep.”
It took a valiant effort, but Glory did not roll her eyes. “We were speaking more of family and holiday traditions.”
The baroness wrinkled her nose. “It’s not my sort of interest.”
“Not interested? In Maypoles or harvest fairs or Christmas puddings?”
“No. I daresay Lord Keswick is not, either.”
“I don’t know,” he hedged. “I have enjoyed the sight of young ladies dancing around the Maypole, in my younger days.”
“And no one can object to birthdays,” Glory declared. “Surely birthday celebrations are counted as family traditions.”
“I do enjoy presents.” Lady Tresham glanced up, making sure Keswick was listening. “But I do not care to restrict them to a single day of the year.”
“Everyone likes presents.” Glory raised a brow. “What has been your favorite birthday present thus far, my lady?”
Her hand caressed her throat. “A necklace of diamonds and rubies. My late husband gave it to me, on my first birthday after we were married.”
“It sounds lovely.” Glory looked at the viscount. “Poppy was a birthday present, did you know? Hope gifted her to me.”
“She could not have chosen better,” he said gruffly.
“No, and I doubt she’ll ever surpass the perfection of that particular gift.” She sighed. “But come, we’ve shared. What has been your favorite birthday present, sir?”
“I can scarcely recall.”
“An Indian rubber ball, perhaps?” she asked with a twist of a grin.
He grunted in acknowledgement of her hit. “Very likely. And as it was one of the last I received, I’ll call it my favorite, as well.”
Her heart pinched. “Do I mistake you? That was your last birthday gift? How old were you?”
“Seven.”
“And not a birthday present since?”
“My mother died before I turned eight. My father does not remark upon such things.”
“Remark upon? Are you saying you’ve had no birthday celebration since you were seven?”
He shrugged.
“Not a dinner, a cake, a drink? Not even a heartfelt birthday wish?”
“No. And I’ve scarcely felt the lack,” he said with a lift of a shoulder.
She looked at him for a long moment. “What did you get for your seventh birthday?”
He closed his eyes. “A pony. He was a dashing, high-spirited prince of a fellow. He was grey, with a dappled flank and a white blaze and the heart of a Trojan.”
He opened his eyes again and they shared a flash of understanding.
“Unfortunately, perhaps, I had a growth spurt during that year. By my eighth birthday I was really too big for him.”
“And you were hoping for another mount that year?”
He lifted a shoulder.
Lady Tresham leaned toward her, which just happened to push her bosom even higher. “Lady Glory, you should take care not to show too much enthusiasm about such things. I’m sure you’ve no wish to appear childish.”
“Of course not.” Glory looked away from Keswick to regard her evenly. Was this how this was going to play out? She was heartily tired of being belittled. “But I do not believe enthusiasm should ever be frowned upon, so long as the object is harmless. What is life without enthusiasm? No, we should not allow such narrow judgments to stand. What if others decided to follow the logic of it in the opposite direction? They might decide that your antipathy towards birthdays comes from having seen too many. And we wouldn’t want that.”
Keswick abruptly sat down again. A little silence reigned in their shady spot. Lady Tresham watched Glory with hostility—mixed with a new tinge of respect. “No,” she said. “We would not.” She looked around. “It is pretty here, is it not? But I confess, I do begin to miss Town life. What of you, Lord Keswick? Are you pining for London’s excitements?”
“I do miss the company of my friends,” he admitted.
“The large variety of company is one of the highlights of the city, and the Season,” the baroness agreed. She turned an eye on Glory. “Oh, but you have not yet made your debut. Have you been to London?”
“No.”
“Don’t worry. You will adjust. And some day you might have a larger acquaintance in Town.”
“Were the two of you acquainted in Town? Did you meet often?” Glory asked.
“No, we were introduced here, by your sister,” Keswick answered.
“Do allow me to advise you a little, my dear,” Lady Tresham broke in. “Convince your sister to take you to her modiste in London—and make them dress you in the pastels that are allowed for the young debutantes.” She ran an evaluating eye over her. “White so often washes a fair complexion out.”
Glory cleared her throat. She knew people discussed her behind her back. Her limp made her a topic of gossip, and there was nothing to be done about it. Lady Tresham knew better than to bring up her
lameness to her face, but Glory would be damned if she let the baroness use her youth, her coloring, or anything else, against her. What sort of woman tried to knock another one down to lift herself up? “Thank you, Lady Gresham. I’ll let Hope handle all of that. She always knows what is pleasing . . . and what is inappropriate.”
Before another silence could stretch out, she held up her garland. “I must get this finished before people tire of the hunt.” She smiled at both of the others. “At least we know one thing this house party has accomplished. Now we are all friends and as you say, I will possess some acquaintances if I ever make it to London. Perhaps next spring we will all be together in London and looking back on this day with fondness.”
Lady Tresham gave an indulgent laugh. “Don’t count upon it, dear. However lax the rules are in the country, they are very stringent in Town. You will scarcely be allowed near Lord Keswick.”
“Why ever not?”
“He is a young buck of the Town. He occupies a different plane altogether. London is a very different place for debutantes.”
“Lord Keswick has already assured me that there are many activities worth pursuing.”
“There are—but you will not be granted access to many of them. The young girls on the marriage mart are coddled and corralled. They might be trotted out at Almack’s and at tepid balls, but they are not allowed at the places a man like Keswick frequents.”
Glory’s hackles began to rise. “A man like Lord Keswick?” she asked dangerously.
Lady Tresham, warming to her subject, did not recognize the danger. She cast an amused glance at Keswick. “Dear, the viscount is a man of diverse tastes and experiences. He spends his time in the clubs, the haunts, hells and back streets of a London you will scarcely see.”
She frowned. “You paint an unfairly dark picture, I am sure.”
“No, dear. Lord Keswick spends his time with other gentlemen of sophistication, in pursuits that are whispered about in polite society. He searches out the dark and twisted places that echo the hidden parts of his soul.”
Keswick’s expression tightened, but otherwise, he made no objection to being described in such a manner. Glory, however, braced herself and carefully stood upright. She could feel the color rising in her face. It curled up from the fire of anger and indignation suddenly alight in her gut. “Lady Tresham, I think you forget yourself, speaking so about one of my sister’s guests—and in his very presence! You feel free to say such things about a man who you have only just met? I believe you have paid heed to too much gossip and allowed it to fuel your overheated imagination.”
Keswick had scrambled to his feet when she stood. Glory gestured toward him. “Lord Keswick is a gentleman.”
He started to interject, but she cut him off. “He is a fine gentleman who has demonstrated nothing but friendship, kindness and honor to both me and my family.”
Keswick stared at her as if she was a specimen he’d never seen before.
The baroness whipped her head between them. “Silly child! I meant no insult. Lord Keswick doubtless understands and knows just what I mean.”
“I am neither silly nor a child. Nor do I believe anyone should have to withstand being labeled dark and twisted with equanimity.” She reached out a peremptory hand toward the viscount. “Sir, you promised Mr. Sterne that you would be my aide. I find I need a few more vines to finish my project. Will you please help me gather them?” She nodded toward the faint path that led to the trees beyond the boulders. “There should be plenty just there.” She gave the woman a frosty nod. “Good day, Lady Tresham.”
And she pulled Keswick along with her to the cover of the trees.
Chapter 9
Lady Glory was angry. Though they’d gone a little ways into the trees, her lips were pressed together and she held her chin high. Her step was brisk, her limp more pronounced and she allowed herself to lean on his arm for support—a sure sign of her agitation.
As for him, his head was a churning study in contradiction—a state that he was beginning to become used to, in her company.
“There’s no need for this fuss,” he said at last. “Nothing she said is untrue.”
Lady Glory gave a scoffing sniff.
“I do frequent low places and worse company. I drink and gamble and carouse with my friends.” His lifestyle served its purpose. It thwarted his father and caused most women in Society to give him a wide berth. Occasionally, a thrill-seeker like Lady Tresham came around, but they were easily evaded. Or, sometimes, he let them stay.
Why did this girl turn everything upside down?
He usually appreciated it when his reputation cleared the path before him, but he’d been furious when she had expected the worse from him and hidden her affliction.
Now she defended him and his honor. It was not well done of Lady Tresham to speak about such things in front of an innocent. The usual sort of girl would have been flustered and dismayed. But not Lady Glory. She didn’t withdraw or back down. She didn’t let the idea of his reckless behavior push her away. Instead she’d chided the baroness and spoken of him in glowing terms.
Of him.
It left him feeling hot and bothered. Uncomfortable. And frighteningly intrigued.
No. No, he was a fool, that’s all. And she was only more stubborn than most.
“Lady Tresham is a widow,” he announced belligerently. “She knows how these games are played. I am free to dally with her as I wish.”
She pulled her arm from his and took a few steps away. With one hand braced on a birch tree, she waved the other. “Then by all means, go back.”
He glared at her. But he didn’t leave. “I’ve entertained widows before. I’ve had affaires with them.”
She repeated the gesture. “Dally away.”
He held his ground.
“Do you want to take up with Lady Tresham?” she asked.
He winced. “No.”
“Of course you don’t. She is vain, shallow and self-serving.”
“She’s also right. About me. I like the back ways and alleys. I do spend a good deal of time there. Everyone wants to put a hand in your pocket or a knife in your heart, but at least it is all up front. You scorned me for my association with Betsy at the Crown and Cock, you would cringe at some of these places.”
Her eyes blazed. “I didn’t scorn you. You scorned me because I knew about it. Because I learned about it through the servant’s grapevine.”
Damn. She was right. He gave a nasty laugh. “Betsy is a queen compared to the sort of women whose company I usually keep.”
She sucked in a breath and threw back her head. “Yes, yes. You like women without strings or attachments. I understand!” Pushing away from the tree, she took a step, then made a fist and thumped it against her thigh. “My leg is lame. My eyes and ears are fine. My head and my heart function just as they should. I see. I hear. I understand.” She paced a bit further and stopped. Bracing herself again against a thick elm, she speared him with a sharp look. “Do you abuse these low women and widows whose company you keep?”
“What? No.”
“Do you cheat them? Beat them? Verbally berate them? Break their hearts?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Sterne is your friend, as is Tensford. I know you all have others, too, a group you are close to.” She put a hand on her hip. “Your friends gamble with you, drink with you, spend time in the same places, do they not?”
He nodded.
“Would you stand by and allow Tensford to be called dark and twisted? Or Sterne?”
“Of course not.”
“Why?”
“It’s not true.”
“It’s not true of you, either.”
He looked away.
Silence held sway for a moment. Only the breeze rustling in the leaves and the distant sound of the river could be heard. One of the searchers called out, but it sounded so far away.
“I know about the stable boy, Keswick.”
His heart r
ate spiked, but he didn’t allow it to show. He let nothing show.
“I know you met the young man playing cards and that you learned he was courting a kitchen maid. He wished to marry her, but he didn’t have enough of a living to support a wife.”
“The path of love never did run smoothly,” he said flippantly.
“No. Not until you leased the old Roudley farm and sent the stable boy out there to begin raising fence and repairing the cottage.”
“Yes, well, the pastures there are perfect for raising good bloodstock. And the boy has the touch—the horses are putty in his hands. All I have to do is set him up. He’ll do the hard work and I’ll make a fortune selling carriage horses to all of my friends.”
“And he’ll have a fine position and the wherewithal to marry.”
“Don’t tell your sister,” he cautioned. “I don’t want her to blame me for the loss of her kitchen maid.”
“You don’t want anyone to know you’ve done something good and kind. Why?”
He shook his head. “Just please, don’t mention it.”
An expression of vexed determination settled over her. “You are a good man, Keswick, and I do not know why you don’t wish people to know it, but the fact that you can let talk like Lady Tresham’s stand, even if it is useful to you, convinces me that my plan is sound.”
He stood, suddenly unmoving. “Plan?”
“Yes.” Her chin lifted. “I’ve decided we should renegotiate our pact.”
Alarm crawled up his spin. “No. That is a very bad idea.”
“It is a necessary idea. Only the smallest kiss strained the old one, in your eyes. And now, I feel confident offering up something worthwhile, something you need, as my part of the bargain.”
“I don’t need anything,” he said flatly. “I’ve told you so, already.”
“Well, you are wrong. And don’t look so frightened. It’s only me I’m offering up.”
“That is exactly what I am afraid of.”
She heaved a sigh. “Clearly you don’t listen, even though I’ve proved that I do. I’m not asking for anything you are not prepared to give. No entanglements.”
He did not believe a word of it.