Brook stared at the cerulean ball gown the maid had pressed and laid out on her bed. It was so beautiful. She despised everything it represented. The notion of feigning an illness to avoid the Haslakes’ ball was immensely appealing.
“Brook!”
Hearing the excitement in her mother’s voice, Brook groaned and covered her face with her hands. She listened as Mrs. Ludlow’s rushed footfalls approached her door. There was no hope of evading this ball. Her mother had placed her high ambitions on the event reestablishing Brook’s place in polite society.
“Mama, you have not finished dressing,” she observed upon her mother’s entrance.
“Do not worry about that.” She held out a jeweler’s leather case. “This is for you.”
Brook accepted the wide, flat case, moved by her mother’s generosity. “Mama, this was unnecessary. Although I relinquished my claim on the A’Court family jewels immediately after Lyon’s death, I do have what you and Papa have given me through the years. There are also several fine pieces that I have inherited from my sire.”
She did not add that Elthia, Lady A’Court, had sent her solicitor to Brook a day after Lyon’s death and demanded that her daughter-in-law hand over all of the A’Court family
jewelry. Still suffering from the heartache of losing her baby and being betrayed by her husband, Brook had surrendered even the jewelry Lyon had purchased for her. She had wanted nothing to remind her of the lie she had endured.
“Oh no, dear, this is not from Mr. Ludlow and me. This was just delivered by messenger for you.”
Since a mysterious jeweler’s case was just too tempting for her mother’s inherent curiosity, Brook said wryly, “And I suppose you could not resist a tiny peek.” She placed the leather case on her dressing table and fumbled with the clasp.
“Only the briefest glimpses, I swear. Hurry and open it!”
She opened the lid and uttered a soft sound of approval.
Mrs. Ludlow peered over Brook’s shoulder and beamed. “Who would believe he of all people would send you a matched set? And an elegantly appropriate
en suite
at that.”
Nestled on a luxuriant bed of velvet rested a double-strand pearl choker. Picking up the necklace, Brook admired the luster of the pearls, which had been carefully matched for their size and color.
“Take a look at the earrings,” her mother urged.
The size and unique shape of the pearls made them a prize any woman would treasure. A pearl, about the size of a fox’s eye, was designed to lie on the earlobe. Attached by tiny gold rings from behind, a two-inch pear-shaped pearl dangled.
“Here, allow me to assist you.”
She stood patiently while her mother secured the clasp of the choker. Her fingers stroked the bracelet, a delicate miniature of the necklace. “This is too costly. Ham should not have bothered.” She had to remind herself that he was still waiting for her consent to his marriage proposal. Perhaps the pearls were a bribe to hasten her decision.
Mrs. Ludlow gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Did I not give you the card? The jewelry is not from Lord A’Court.” She searched the pocket of her dressing gown. “Where did I put it?” she muttered, distracted by her search.
“Who sent it?”
“Ah, here it is.”
Brook accepted the note and quickly read the lazy scrawl of cursive writing:
Trust can be likened to a pearl, Countess. To wholly realize its value, it must be nurtured slowly. Is it not fortuitous that I am a patient man?
Yrs,
M.C.
Mallory had sent her the pearl jewelry. She had not seen him since he had warned her to stay away from Lord De Lanoy and then walked off with another woman. The man completely bewildered her. “Well, this only reaffirms my opinion. Mr. Claeg should not be sending me costly gifts.”
“It appears the gentleman is courting you. How wonderful!”
“Mama! Mr. Claeg is not courting me,” Brook protested. He had never proposed a respectable arrangement, just a convenient one. Unless, she amended privately to herself, she was miraculously carrying his child. “I cannot keep this jewelry. Accepting his gifts will only encourage him.”
This argument did not dissuade Mrs. Ludlow. Reaching for an earring, she beckoned for her daughter to present her ear. “Though I believe Ham would make a better husband for you, since you share similar temperaments, one must not dismiss Mr. Claeg. He is the Keyworth heir. With his father’s health failing he may be viscount sooner than expected.”
There was no malice in Mrs. Ludlow’s heart when she spoke so casually of Lord Keyworth’s demise. She simply viewed herself as practical. Admiring the earring she had attached to Brook’s earlobe, she said, “Pearls suit you, my dear.”
Brook attached the second earring herself. Straightening,
she studied her reflection in the mirror. She concurred with her mother’s opinion. The pearls seem to glow against her complexion. Mallory had discerning taste for choosing the appropriate gewgaws.
He must have had a great amount of experience,
an insidious voice in her head whispered tauntingly. She thought of the endless number of past mistresses who had preceded her and the women who were likely to follow her. Some of the admiration in her face faded at the thought.
“It would not be honorable to accept his gift. I have no intention of marrying.”
Ever.
“Naturally you will marry again. Your income is too modest for you to be content with the rural seclusion it will force you to maintain. Marriage would provide you with a gentleman’s protection and children. Brook, dearest, you cannot tell me that you do not desire to have children?”
She picked up the bracelet and rubbed the pearls against her lips. “You are wrong, Mama. Marrying Lyon denied me both.”
Mallory paced at the bottom of Keyworth’s staircase awaiting his mother. She had sent him a note three hours earlier stating her desire for him to escort her to the Haslake ball. An ill husband would never prevent the viscountess from attending one of the season’s larger balls.
He looked up at the murmur of voices coming from the above landing. With her maid following behind her, Lady Keyworth made her entrance, which was worthy of a queen.
“Mother, I will be the envy of all the gentlemen.” He dutifully took her hand and kissed it.
Used to his debonair spirit and not believing there was a dram of sincerity in her wicked son, Lady Keyworth accepted his compliment with a nod. “I am pleased you have chosen appropriate attire.”
He quirked a brow. “Did you expect to find smudges of paint on my shirtsleeve?”
“Or on your hands.”
“Sweet Mother, why do you think I wear gloves?” he teased, earning a reproachful stare.
“You are letting your hair grow too long,” she fretted minutes later when he removed his hat in the family coach.
He shifted in the seat so he could stretch his long legs out. “I manage to keep from dipping the ends in my paint pots.”
“The fashionable styles lean toward the classical.” At his wordless reply she tried appealing to his vanity. “A shorter length would strengthen your jaw.”
His long hair was an old argument. Mallory yawned. “Not a wise choice. I might poke someone in the eye with it.”
She huffed. “You have no intention of heeding my advice.”
“None,” he replied pleasantly.
“Can you think only of yourself? The other day Lady Buttrey made the observation that your hair reminded her of a savage. I was exceedingly embarrassed. Your eccentricities invite comment.”
Mallory tugged on the neat queue that was so irritating to the viscountess. He did not like the notion of Lady Buttrey with her fantasies of showing him her private art collection having intimate conversations with his mother. “It was rude of the lady to comment on me at all. Since you are the duchess of propriety, I pray you put the chit in her place.”
“How could I?” she wailed, unhappy that he was finding fault in her actions. “It is you who continue to place me in these awkward predicaments. The next time I receive her card I may very well send Buckle out to tell her the family is not at home.”
It was a decision that had Mallory’s enthusiastic approval. He settled back into his comfortable slouch. “Do not place
high value on Lady Buttrey’s opinion. Her predilections are too Philistine for a Claeg.”
She slipped into a bewildered silence while she debated whether his remark was praise or an insult to the family. Mallory had made similar accusations toward his mother and father.
“Besides,” he drawled lazily, “some discriminating ladies of the
ton
find your wayward son appealing.” He was thinking fond thoughts of the countess. She liked how his long hair tickled her face.
Lady Keyworth’s eyes narrowed into mere slits. It was clear he had not inherited his appreciation of absurdity from his mother. “Mrs. Le Maye is not someone I would consider discriminating. In fact, some have said that in regards to gentlemen she has little preference at all.”
He tried not to flinch under her icy stare. “She is very particular about money.” And she highly prized the skills of her lover. It seemed prudent not to mention the latter.
Her face reddened. “I do not care about the woman’s preferences. I care about your connection to the courtesan.”
“I suppose with Father’s illness and all, it has been almost impossible to keep up with all of the current gossip.”
“Do not mock me, Mallory.”
“I dare not. You might lock me in my bedchamber and deny me supper.” It was his mother’s favorite punishment for wayward children. No doubt, Amara had endured an empty stomach on countless occasions. He stilled her scathing retort with a gesture. “Mother, your concern about Mrs. Le Maye is belated. Seasons have passed since our parting.”
The revelation mollified her slightly. Still she could not resist pushing her observations on him. “I know I have no say in who you choose for companionship.”
“On this we agree.”
“Your father tells me to close my eyes to your scandalous mistresses. Nevertheless, I must speak my piece.”
“The drive to the Haslakes’ town house might seem quicker if you do not.”
“The women you choose to consort with are beneath you.”
“Not always,” he denied. “The same position becomes tedious when overdone.”
“Mallory Claeg!” she thundered. “I do not want to hear the details of your lewd wantonness. By God, must you turn everything into a jest?”
“I must.”
He laughed at her shriek.
Telling her how holding on to his laughter had saved his sanity after Mirabella’s death would be pointless. His marriage had been the ultimate effrontery. Her death had probably been a relief to his mortified parents.
The coach slowed to a halt. Now began the endless caravan of coaches inching their wheels toward the Haslakes’ town house. Mallory felt obliged to hand her an olive branch. No man withstood the stony silence of his mother for any great length.
“I promised Lord Keyworth that I would look after you. It will be an impossible feat if you rebuff me all evening.”
She stared out the window. “Do not exert yourself. I can look after myself.”
The coach lurched forward and then abruptly stopped. Mallory’s teeth snapped together in frustration. He was bound by his word. Otherwise, he would have just opened the door and horrified his mother further by walking to the Haslakes’ front door.
He slumped back into his seat and pretended to sleep.