Dark Angel / Lord Carew's Bride (8 page)

He would take things slowly, Lord Thornhill decided anew this morning as he had decided last evening when the idea had first come to him. The woman was reserved and neither silly nor empty-headed. Indeed, he had been amused by her wit as she had described the queen’s drawing room. He guessed that she was older than most of the young girls currently making their come-out. She seemed older. She would not be easily led astray. Especially from Kersey. Even sensible ladies would not find it difficult to fall in love with Kersey, he guessed. Catherine had done so and she had always appeared to him to be a woman of sense.

But lead her astray he would, the long-legged, voluptuous redhead. The fact that it would not be easy made it a more exhilarating challenge. She was betrothed even though no public announcement had yet been made. Probably it would be made soon. According to Kneller, the wedding was to take place before the end of the Season. It would be better if the announcement had been made. A public scandal, a broken engagement in the middle of the Season—it would be a nasty humiliation
for Kersey. It would not be exactly an eye for an eye. But it would be satisfying enough.

Revenge—even a small amount of revenge—would be very sweet. And the desire for it at the moment was so consuming him that it was even drowning out conscience.

V
ISCOUNT
K
ERSEY HAD COME
to call at Berkeley Square, along with an amazingly large number of other gentlemen—and some ladies. It was very gratifying, especially for Samantha, who still had not learned that her beauty and vitality would draw gentlemen like bees to flowers. Jennifer was pleased for her, and both pleased and frustrated for herself. Pleased because several of the visitors made a point of sitting close to her and conversing with her, frustrating because Lionel stood back and let others monopolize her attention.

But he had asked soon after his arrival if she would drive with him in his curricle to the park later. And so during the hour or so when her father’s drawing room was crowded with visitors she could console herself with the sight of him, as splendid in elegant day clothes as he had been in silk and lace the evening before. And with the knowledge that at last—oh, at last—they would be alone together afterward for an hour or more, driving out in the fresh air and the beauty that was Hyde Park.

It was a naive hope. She realized it quite early in the outing. Hyde Park at five o’clock in the afternoon was
not the place one went to in order to be alone with someone or to enjoy some private conversation. Rotten Row proved to be an even greater squeeze than her father’s ballroom had been last evening. All the fashionable world was there, strolling or riding or driving in a variety of fashionable conveyances.

But it was wonderful, nevertheless, to be riding up beside Lionel, almost shoulder to shoulder with him, to be seen there, to know that most people were well aware of the connection between them.

“This is amazing,” she said. “Samantha and I walked here a couple of weeks ago but earlier in the afternoon. There was no one here.” Except for two gentlemen on horseback, one dark and bold-eyed.

“There is a fashionable time for taking the air,” Viscount Kersey said. “There is no point in being here at any other time of day.”

“Except really to take the air and exercise,” she said with a smile and a twirl of her parasol.

He looked at her uncomprehendingly and she felt foolish. One always felt foolish when one made a joke that the other person did not understand. But it had admittedly been a feeble joke.

“Do you ever find at the end of the Season that you long to return to the country in order to see and enjoy nature without all the distractions?” she asked.

“I prefer civilized living,” he said.

It was almost the extent of their conversation. One came to Hyde Park, Jennifer soon realized, not in order to drive or ride or walk, but in order to bow and wave
and smile and converse and gossip. It was amazing, considering the fact that she had been officially out for less than twenty-four hours, how many people she now knew and how many of them stopped to exchange pleasantries with her and Lord Kersey.

He was a great favorite with the ladies, of course. It became quickly apparent to Jennifer that those who stopped did so more to gaze at and talk with him than to converse with her. But the realization amused rather than annoyed her. She felt a wonderful possessive warmth, knowing that he was hers, knowing that all these women must be green with envy because he had chosen her as his bride.

And if the ladies stopped for his benefit, several gentlemen stopped for hers. It was flattering to know that she had attracted notice even though it must be common knowledge that she was betrothed. Unlike Samantha, she had not wondered incessantly for the last several months and even years if she would be attractive to gentlemen. She had been concerned only with being attractive for Lord Kersey. She had assumed that no other man would afford her a second glance knowing that she was not part of the great marriage mart.

The Earl of Thornhill was riding in the park, looking less satanic than he had last evening in a blue riding coat and buff pantaloons and Hessians. But he had a powerful presence. Even amid the crush of fashionable persons she saw him when he was quite a distance away. And hoped that he would not come close so that she would not have to treat him with the chill courtesy Aunt
Agatha had directed. She wished she knew what had given him an unsavory reputation. Though it was unladylike to want to know any such thing.

Her attention was distracted by Lord Graham, Samantha’s first partner of the evening before, and another gentleman, who stopped to pay their respects. When they rode on, Jennifer found that the earl was close by and looking directly at her—as he seemed always to be doing. She inclined her head to him, hoping that he would ride on past.

He stopped and touched his hat. “Miss Winwood, Kersey,” he said. “Fine day.”

“Thornhill,” the viscount said stiffly and made to move on with his curricle. But the earl had laid a careless arm along the frame below the seat on which Jennifer sat.

“I trust you are rested after your success last evening,” he said, looking directly into her eyes, ignoring the viscount.

“Yes, I thank you.” How did one maintain the proper chill when such dark eyes gazed into one’s own and when they were the type of eyes it was almost impossible to look away from? “Thank you for the nosegay,” she said, without having intended to mention it. “It must have been difficult to find roses at this time of year. They are lovely.”

“Are they?” He did something with his eyes so that they smiled though the rest of his face did not. It was quite disconcerting, Jennifer found.

“Yes,” she said lamely, and wondered if she was blushing. She hoped not, but her cheeks felt hot.

He withdrew his arm from the curricle and sat upright in the saddle again. Jennifer wondered idly if it was just that his horse was larger than anyone else’s or if it was his superior height that made it seem that he towered over everyone else in the park.

“But not more lovely than their recipient,” he said, his voice making it sound as if they were quite alone together, and he touched his hat again and inclined his head, without looking at all at Lord Kersey.

It had all happened in a few seconds. Several other people had spent longer beside their curricle. And yet she felt ruffled, disturbed, conspicuous. She felt that everyone must be looking at her and wondering why the Earl of Thornhill should be showing a particular interest in her when she was betrothed to Viscount Kersey. She was being foolish, she knew. She twirled her parasol and looked about her. Samantha, riding up beside Mr. Maxwell in his phaeton, was laughing gaily at something a trio of young riders were saying. Mr. Maxwell was laughing too.

“I do not believe it is wise,” the viscount said beside her, his voice stiff with something that sounded almost like fury, “to allow the Earl of Thornhill to make free with you, Miss Winwood.”

“What?” She turned her head sharply to look at him. “Make free, my lord?” She bristled.

“I was surprised and not altogether pleased that your father saw fit to invite him to your come-out ball last
evening,” he said. “I was even less pleased that your aunt allowed you to dance a set with him and accompany him in to supper.”

“Aunt Agatha did not allow it,” she said. “She was otherwise engaged when he asked me. I did not know there was any reason to say no. He was an invited guest in Papa’s house, after all.”

“You must have known,” he said, “that I would come to claim your hand for the supper dance.”

“How was I to know?” she asked. “You had not mentioned it. And you were not in the ballroom when the set was about to begin. It was what I had hoped for, but you were not there. It would have been unmannerly not to have accepted Lord Thornhill or anyone else who asked at that particular moment.”

“Now you know that he is not respectable,” he said, “you will be able to avoid him in future. It is my opinion that he should not be admitted anywhere with respectable people. I especially do not like him to be in company with my betrothed.”

Jealousy. The irritation Jennifer had been feeling melted instantly. He was jealous. And possessive of her. He did not want her exposed to an influence that he felt to be less than proper. Or to the attentions of a gentleman who was undoubtedly handsome. She gazed at him and wished that he would turn to her and take her hand in his or show some definite sign of his affection for her.

And then he did both. And smiled. “You are such an innocent,” he said.

She winced inwardly. She was twenty years old and
did not like being treated as if she were still a child. But she did like to be the object of his solicitation. Her eyes strayed downward to his mouth. They had driven away from the crush on Rotten Row and were almost private together—a rare moment. Would he have found the opportunity to kiss her last night? she wondered. He really had intended to dance the supper dance with her. There would have been the opportunity—if they had lagged behind everyone else on the way to the dining room or if they had left it ahead of everyone else.

“What has he done that has put him so far beyond the pale?” she asked. She was not so naive that she did not know it was fairly common practice for young unmarried gentlemen—and some married ones too—to consort with women of a certain type. Perhaps even Lionel—but no, she could not think that of him. She would not. He was too proper a gentleman. But she could not believe it was just that with the Earl of Thornhill. It must be something more unusual, something worse—if there was anything worse.

He looked at her and frowned. “It would not be seemly for you to know,” he said. “Suffice it to say that he is guilty of one of the most heinous sins man is capable of. He should have been forced to stay on the Continent where he was instead of contaminating England’s shores by returning.”

Exile? It had been exile, then, that had driven the Earl of Thornhill to his almost two years abroad? And what was one of the most heinous sins?
Sin
was the word Lord
Kersey had used, not crime. What had he done? It was not seemly that she know. But curiosity gnawed at her.

The viscount lifted her down when they returned to the house on Berkeley Square, his hands at her waist. For a moment his hands lingered there and when Jennifer looked up into his face she thought that he was going to kiss her. In full view of the houses across the street and of the footman who had just opened the doors into the house. But he released her and raised her hand to his lips instead.

“Until tomorrow evening,” he said. “You will reserve the opening set for me at the Chisleys’ ball?”

“Yes, of course,” she said.

“And the supper dance?” His smile had never failed to make her insides somersault.

She smiled back. “Yes,” she said. “And the supper dance, my lord.”

She was still smiling as she entered the house alone and ran lightly upstairs to her room. Tomorrow night. Tomorrow night he would kiss her. Everything in his look and his smile had said so. She felt a surging of renewed happiness. She could scarcely wait for tomorrow evening.

I
T WAS QUITE BY
accident that the Earl of Thornhill saw Jennifer entering the library with her cousin and a maid late the following morning. He was with two acquaintances but excused himself and followed the ladies inside. It was too good an opportunity to be missed.

A few people were reading the papers. Some of them looked up to see who the new arrival was. A few more people were browsing over the shelves of books. Miss Winwood was among them, at a different shelf from her cousin. The maid stood quietly inside the door, waiting for her charges to choose books.

The earl waited until Jennifer turned a corner and paused to look at a case of books that conveniently hid her from the front of the library.

“Ah,” he said softly, stepping up behind her, “a fellow reader.”

He had startled her. She whirled about to face him so that her back was to the bookcase. He was glad that he had stood so close. Even amidst the semidarkness of the shelves and the dust of books she looked startlingly lovely. He still had not satisfied himself as to the exact color of her eyes. But they were wide and beautiful eyes.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said. “I am borrowing a book.”

He smiled and waited until she realized the absurdity of her own words and smiled unwillingly back—he guessed that it was unwillingly. He guessed too that she had been warned against him. She had looked guilty and almost terrified when she first turned. He wondered what they had told her of him. In particular, he wondered what Kersey had told her.

“So I see.” He took the book that was tucked under her arm and raised his eyebrows. “Pope? You like his poetry?”

“I do not know,” she said. “But I mean to find out.”

“You like poetry?” he asked. “You have tried Wordsworth or Coleridge?”

“Both,” she said. “And I love both. Mr. Pope is quite different, I have heard. Perhaps I will love him just as well. I do not believe that liking one type of literature means that one will not like another type. Do you? It would give one a very narrow scope of interest.”