A Companion in Joy

by Dorothy Mack

  Although he wouldn’t have cared to wager any great sum on his ability to calculate odds at the moment, Nicholas felt himself to be sufficiently clear headed to assess his future. He had already made the momentous discovery that his was not the true gamester’s nature and, though still somewhat fuzzy minded, he was arriving at a rather unpalatable picture of himself as an inveterate idler and hedonist. Small wonder his father wished to see him safely buckled before his way of life became too firmly ingrained to change. Not that an arranged marriage looked any less undesirable one week after the ultimatum, but, he asked himself, what would he do with his life if he were free to choose? The main thing, of course, was that he would choose to remain unwed until a woman succeeded in giving him a leveller. But at nine-and-twenty, as near as made no difference, no female had had even a semi-permanent effect on his sensibilities. He had enjoyed numerous flirtations with high-born beauties and fewer but more intense relationships with women of another stamp, but though he had been open handed with his various mistresses, none had inspired him with more than a fleeting devotion.

  For the first time in almost a week, his mind dwelt on his current mistress, Lady Montaigne, Cécile of the glorious red hair and insatiable appetites. He had begun to grow disenchanted with the sameness of the female of the species when Cécile had crossed his path. She had succeeded in reviving his flagging interest. Each of his mistresses had been beautiful, but Cécile was possessed of wit and vivacity and great eagerness to taste all of life’s pleasures in addition to her more obvious charms. He had been first intrigued and then captivated by her and, six months later, was still in a state of fascination, though familiarity had not rendered him blind to her less appealing characteristics, among which must be included a childish greed and a decidedly jealous and possessive nature.

  Nicholas had been furious at his father’s knowledge of the affaire and his disparagement of Lady Montaigne, but not because the earl refused to countenance her admission into the family. At no time had he ever confused his feelings for Cécile with those for the one woman a man wished to make his wife. More than he knew was he his father’s son and fully cognizant of what was due to his name.

  But he was twenty-nine years old and had never experienced anything approaching a grand amour as depicted by the poets. There had never been a female whose face he could bear to contemplate meeting over the coffee cups for the rest of his life. He had often felt desire but was a stranger to love, and at his age might be safely considered to be immune from this laudatory but dangerous ailment. Except for the fact that it always went against the grain with him to fall in with his father’s wishes, there was really not all that strong an argument against entering the bonds of matrimony. He would not feel himself bound emotionally in an arranged marriage, not constrained to faithfulness toward the partner he had had no part in choosing.

  With amused cynicism, he knew that his father was blatantly eager to secure the succession in part because he disapproved of his younger son even more than he did of his heir. At six-and-twenty, the Honourable Robin Dunston was the complete care-for-naught with an abundance of charm and good looks but with more hair than wit. Although frequently disgusted with his heir’s lifestyle and disinclination to become more settled, the earl grudgingly accorded him some slight respect for his academic achievements at Oxford and often consulted him about changes that became necessary from time to time in the management of his estates. Though this was usually by way of educating the heir for the position he would someday occupy, there had actually been the rare occasion when the earl had deigned to accept his son’s advice in some minor matter.

  Whether because the drink had made him maudlin or his feverish gambling of the past week had left him with an unaccustomed sense of the futility of his customary activities, his mood was much more promising for a change along the lines long advocated by the earl. At this point, he was even willing to admit to his father that his frequent criticisms were justified. On the subject of an arranged marriage, however, his sentiments had undergone no slightest change. He still found the idea exceedingly distasteful. If there existed some vague notion in the back of his mind that a sincere expression of his willingness to alter his habits might induce the earl to rescind his demands concerning marriage, or at least extend the time period to allow his son to choose a bride for himself, the second confrontation in the book room soon put an end to such wishful thinking.

  On the subject of marriage, the earl was adamant. Though gratified beyond description (a phrase that caused Nicholas to flinch) to hear of his son’s resolution to reform, he insisted on receiving his pound of flesh (a phrase of his son’s that should have caused him severe pangs of conscience, but, unhappily, did not seem to prick him in the least). A marriage had been arranged, by God, and a marriage should take place. He remained unmoved by his son’s furious declaration that he would ask the first girl to cross his path to marry him rather than submit tamely to a match made by his father. When Nicholas ceased his ranting to assess the effect of this threat, he was reminded gently of the notes still outstanding, an obligation that would now have to be assumed by the earl. This argument being unanswerable, the interview came to an abrupt conclusion with the earl carrying off all the honours.

  Nicholas did not slam out of the house as on the previous occasion, but his aspect was equally forbidding as, while descending the steps, he glanced up at a hail from across the street.

  “Nick!”

  He made no answer but waited on the flagway for the hailer to cross the street and join him.

  “Judging from your expression, which is ugly as bull beef, you must be coming from a cosy chat with our esteemed parent,” said the newcomer with a broad grin. He took the viscount’s arm, indicating that they should proceed in the direction Nicholas had started to take.

  His hand was shaken off as the latter refused to budge. “Were you not about to enter the house, Robin? I’ll see you later.”

  “Don’t go, Nick, or at least let me walk along with you for a short way; I want to talk with you. I was only going to try to hit up the pater for a pony, but perhaps you can spare me the ordeal. I heard you won at Newmarket. Care to lend me a hundred?”

  “Very well,” was the indifferent reply.

  The Honourable Robin stopped short in surprise, cheerfully cursing himself for a fool not to have asked for a monkey while he was about it.

  “Which I’d have done, had I guessed you’d be so accommodating,” he confessed ingenuously.

  His brother permitted himself a faint twist of his well-cut lips and resumed walking. Robin hastened to fall into step.

  “You’d not have gotten it, however. Barring the fact you’re a bad risk, my entire fortune would liquidate at about five hundred pounds.”

  “That’s five hundred more than mine,” observed Robin with unimpaired affability. “Thanks, Nick. Glad to be able to avoid the governor anyway.” He shuddered theatrically. “A bit like walking into a tiger’s cage before lunch — the tiger’s lunch, that is. What were you doing in the ancestral hall?”

  “Acquiring a bride,” answered Nicholas shortly. He did not slacken his step as his brother stopped dead once again, and Robin was obliged to stretch his legs to catch him up.

  “Assuming I heard you correctly,” said the latter, carefully feeling his way, “do I offer felicitations or condolences? Somehow, you don’t have the look of a happy groom.”

  For a long moment, Nicholas returned no answer. Robin waited patiently while the sounds of the city street provided a muted background. At length he seemed to make up his mind and bent a dead serious stare on his brother’s interested face.

  “The story’s not for public consumption, so keep your tongue between your teeth.” He frowned and continued slowly, “Father told me six months ago when he settled my debts that he wanted me married before my next birthday. He also said that it was the last time he’d bring the dibs in tune for me. Knowing Father, anyone with an ounce of sense would have realized that
his continued happy existence in the single state depended on keeping out of the river Tick, but I blithely ran up more debts and, the long and short of it is, I had the choice of wedlock or a debtor’s cell. I chose wedlock,” he added unnecessarily.

  “Good lord, how glad I am that our paths should have crossed today!” declared Robin with heartfelt gratitude. “I might have walked right smack in there as merry as a grig. He’d have made mincemeat of me. Think I’ll keep away from Brook Street for a spell in the event he has plans for my future. Who’s the bride? I can’t recall hearing talk of you dangling after anyone in particular.” He paused, thunderstruck. “Not the red — urrhumm,” trying unsuccessfully to convert an exclamation into a cough.

  “Certainly not Lady Montaigne,” agreed his brother coldly. “I haven’t met the girl yet. In the circumstances, my father has graciously agreed to waive the marriage deadline. I merely have to become engaged by my birthday.”

  Robin’s eyes were nearly starting out of his head at this intelligence.

  “You’ve not even met her?” he gasped in awe.

  “No, I told you I had not.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Her name is Katherine Harmon. She is Langston’s eldest sister. Are you acquainted with him?”

  “We are on nodding terms only. He is three or four years younger than I. Father quit several years ago and left the family all to pieces. I am slightly acquainted with Miss Harmon and Miss Deborah Harmon as well.”

  For the first time, the hard glint in the viscount’s eyes gave way to some show of interest. “What is she like?”

  “Kate? She’s a nice enough girl, I suppose. Nothing out of the common style, but well enough looking in her way.”

  “How very descriptive,” remarked his brother dryly. “And what is her way?”

  Robin seemed slightly at a loss. “Well,” he began, drawing the word out to two syllables, “she is average sized, I guess you’d say. Has sort of mouse-coloured hair.”

  “Her eyes?” prompted Nicholas when his brother fell silent.

  Robin seemed to be making an effort to conjure up a picture of his brother’s intended wife, but the results were obviously less than complete. “Can’t say as I’ve noticed. Brown maybe, or grey perhaps — don’t believe they’re blue.”

  “Knowing my father, the lineage must be impeccable, but I’m sadly disappointed he did not buy me a beauty as well.”

  “If you must have a beauty, you’d best take the younger one; she’s a real diamond.”

  “How old is Miss Harmon?” asked the viscount, startled. “Has she been on the marriage mart for several years without my having met her?”

  “No, if I remember correctly, they sent Kate down to take care of her grandfather after her father died. Lived with him until he died, I believe, so she’s just come out this season. She’s a quiet sort of girl, not one you’d be likely to notice in a crowd.” Then, fearing this statement might be construed as derogatory, he added with a desire to please, “I’ve danced with her once or twice at Almack’s. She’s almost the best dancer among the season’s buds. Yes,” more decisively, “I distinctly remember thinking her an elegant dancer.”

  “One does more than dance with a wife, however,” Nicholas returned with a slight edge to his tones.

  “She’s got a dashed good figure,” offered Robin, ever helpful. “There’s nothing wrong with the girl, you understand; she’s just not the sort who warrants a second look. She’ll probably make you a nice, comfortable wife.”

  Much later Nicholas was to recall this optimistic prediction.

  CHAPTER THREE

  By eleven o’clock, the ballroom had become absolutely stifling. The girl heading for the shelter of some potted palms in an adjacent saloon was thinking that Lady Westerwood must be deeply gratified to know her affair would earn the highest accolade the ton could bestow upon a social event — that it was a sad crush! It would indeed be ungenerous of a guest to begrudge her hostess this sublime satisfaction simply because overcrowded rooms and the exertion of dancing reduced one to a state of limp discomfort. And it would be excessively carping of this particular guest because for her there had been no lack of fine partners from whom to choose. In fact, she was enjoying herself immensely, but it was absolutely essential that she stop to catch her breath and smooth the wrinkle in the silk stocking that had fitted perfectly three hours before but had since, in the unaccountable way of inanimate objects, contrived to work itself into a hard ridge under the ball of her foot. Limping slightly, she slipped behind a screen of palms and spotted a small footstool the servants must have overlooked when decorating the room.

  Thankfully, she subsided onto it and took a moment to relax every muscle in her body. Wonderful luxury! Welcome though the respite was, she must not linger because the next dance was promised. Sighing softly, she bent double to untie the strings of her sandal after a swift glance had reassured her that her position was well screened.

  It was just as she removed the torturing object from her foot that she became aware to her intense dismay that she was no longer completely alone. Someone had elected to sit on the settee in front of the palms. Of all the mortifying circumstances! Obviously, she must make her presence known or find herself trapped in this corner and compelled to play gooseberry at a private tête-à-tête. Accordingly, she fumbled with suddenly clumsy fingers to smooth out the foot of the stocking.

  Too late! A feminine voice floated clearly back through the greenery.

  “Darling, I had to snatch a moment alone with you to find out what is causing you to resemble a bear with a sore head tonight. I’ve had to repeat every remark I’ve addressed to you at least once in order to capture your attention. What is wrong?”

  “This is scarcely the place for a private discussion, chérie. I’ll see you home later and we’ll talk then.”

  A delicious laugh drifted back. “Nonsense, we never do talk then. Can’t I coax you into telling me now, my sweet?”

  The lady’s voice was attractively husky and contained an intriguing seductive note. For a breath-taking moment the gentleman remained silent, but that caressing voice exerted a powerful effect on their unknown listener. Her eyes widened and a tinge of pink crept up from her bare throat. What perfectly hideous luck to have landed herself behind two lovers! Her situation had gone from embarrassing to utterly impossible. There was now no remotest possibility of discovering herself to the couple on the settee and making good her escape. She bit her lip and scarcely dared breathe while awaiting the man’s answer. Perhaps he would insist on going back to the ballroom. “Please tell me, Nick.”

  “Very well.” The man’s voice was totally without expression. “The news will be abroad before long. I will be announcing my betrothal within the next fortnight.”

  The girl behind the greenery could almost sense the wave of shock that washed over the woman on the settee. She experienced some pale echo of it herself.

  “You cannot be serious, Nick! You would not do that to me!”

  “I was not aware that I had done anything to you, my dear. My marriage need not make any difference to our relationship.”

  “Not make any difference!” The husky tones were taking on a trace of shrillness, and the man cautioned her sharply lest they be overheard.

  Behind them, the eavesdropper instinctively crouched even lower over her shoe.

  “Who is the girl?” the woman asked, her voice once again under control.

  There was a moment of hesitation before the man answered with obvious reluctance, “I am not going to tell you her name yet, my sweet. In any case, you are unlikely to be acquainted with any of this year’s crop of hopefuls, so it would mean nothing to you, and I have not yet offered for her hand. After all,” he finished carelessly, “I might be refused.”

  A bitter note sounded in the feminine laugh that greeted this remark. “Refuse you, plus your father’s title and fortune? No girl would be such a fool! Nicholas, why are you doing this?”

  �
��Not from choice, I assure you. My expensive habits have landed me on point non plus. My father refuses to pay my debts unless I marry. I would not be much good to you in the Fleet, you will agree. It is the only way.”

  “But, if you must marry, you could marry me, Nick. I know how to please you better than some whey-faced chit of a girl. We suit exactly.”

  The short silence that followed this soft but impassioned plea was fraught with embarrassment, at least for the girl behind the palms. She pressed shaking hands over burning cheeks.

  “Marriage was never an issue between us, my dear. Even if you were acceptable to my father, which you are not, I have no fancy to be a cuckold.”

  “Nick! How can you insult me so?”

  The listener found herself so much in agreement with this tragic utterance that she sat up indignantly, completely forgetting for the moment the need for concealment. Infamous man! Snake! Cad! By the time she had run out of epithets to apply to the man on the settee, she had come to a belated realization of her own predicament, and hastily she bent over again, almost missing the man’s level reply.

  “Is it an insult to express the very natural fear that a woman who had been unfaithful to her first husband would be a rather poor matrimonial risk?”

  “How can you be so cruel? The baron was old enough to be my grandfather! What was I to do, sit around and wait for him to die? I was young; I wanted to live my life! Our marriage would be vastly different. I am in love with you!”

  “Until you cast those beautiful eyes at someone more exciting than a mere husband? I hesitate to call it to your mind lest I be considered unchivalrous, but I must remind you it was not I who made a cuckold of the baron. Come, my dear, enough! Let us return to the ballroom. Talking will change nothing. There is no need to let this upset you. I assure you my marriage need not affect our relationship in the least.”