Authors: Blair Bancroft
Tags: #regency romance, #historical 1800s, #british nobility, #regency london
A Season for Love (13 page)
“
Because it likens me to Caro Lamb,”
Lady Caroline huffed. “A perfectly dreadful creature.”
“
Do not tell me those tales reached all
the way to the Lake District?” the viscount countered in mock
horror.
“
I am quite certain they penetrated all
the way to the Americas,” Caroline declared with a
sniff.
Viscount Frayne stifled a smile. She was so
very young, so much in need of town bronze. And yet so enchanting
in her earnest naiveté. Time to sidestep the sensitive topic of
Lady Caroline Lamb, who had shamelessly pursued Lord Byron until
her name had become a byword for unacceptable behavior. “You wished
to tell me something, Lady Caroline?” Tony said.
“
Will you walk with me in the park, my
lord? I have a matter to discuss that does not lend itself well to
the drawing room.”
Such a request from any other woman would
have had Tony Norville feeling like Lord Byron caught in the heat
of Caro Lamb’s pursuit. From Caroline Carlington, however, the
invitation produced only curiosity. Throughout their excursions
around London she had remained curiously detached, seldom, if ever,
displaying the spontaneous eagerness with which she had described
sailing her blue and white boat on the Serpentine. Her glowing
looks and winsome smiles had been devoted almost entirely to young
Laurence or to Susan.
And now she wished to be private with him. In
Grosvenor Square, a small park overlooked by the front windows of
some of the finest residences in London. With an eye at every
window.
“
Very well,” Tony agreed, handing the
reins back to his groom and stepping down from the curricle. “But
only for a moment or two, or Miss Tompkins will hand me my head in
a basket.”
Caroline actually giggled, a sound he had
heard so seldom it warmed his heart. She had had a difficult time,
this budding young woman. Lady Caroline needed not only her
father’s support, but Jen’s steadying influence, so she might
understand that responsibility for Laurence no longer rested solely
on her shoulders. That she was free to enjoy life as a young lady
of eighteen should.
As they crossed the street and entered the
park, Caroline asked, “Do you think they’re all watching us . . .
eyes peeking from behind every drapery and curtain?”
“
Indubitably.”
“
Are we being naughty?”
“
Only a little.”
“
Good,” she declared, to the viscount’s
surprise. “There’s a bench. Do let us sit down.” In her eagerness
Caroline came close to dragging him toward the black wrought iron
bench with a seat of polished wood.
“
Caroline . . . I’m not at all sure
this is a good idea,” Tony began. “Walking is unexceptional, but I
fear sitting—”
“
Nonsense! We are in full view of every
house in Grosvenor Square.”
“
Exactly.”
Lady Caroline sat down, tweaked her skirt
into place, folded her hands in her lap. “That, you see,” she
murmured, “is why I wish to talk with you.”
“
Yes?” Tony inquired politely, even
while wondering if he should march her back to Longville House on
the instant.
“
Did you truly mean it when you
suggested a picnic in Richmond Park?”
“
Caroline,” Tony chided, “I would not
have made the offer if I did not mean it. Though now that the duke
and duchess have returned, I believe we should invite them as well,
do you not?”
“
Of course.” The words were little more
than a whisper. “Tony? I fear I was merely making conversation.
Putting off what I really wish to say.”
Viscount Frayne, curiosity rampant, gave his
companion a sharp look. So Richmond Park was a false cast, designed
to get her lips moving. Intrigued, and indulgently amused, he
waited.
“
Tony . . . when do they hold the
Cyprian’s Ball?”
“
What?
” the
viscount gabbled. It had to be Caroline’s innocence. She could not
possibly know what she was saying.
“
You
do
attend, do you not?” Caroline persisted.
Somehow the viscount found he could not offer
his lovely companion an outright lie. He studied the bland earthen
path beneath his Hessians with remarkable intensity. “I’ve been
known to take a look in,” he finally admitted.
“
I was wondering . . . well, I was
wondering if you might take me,” Lady Caroline ventured.
His polished London manners flown on
the four winds, Viscount Frayne seized both Lady Caroline’s arms in
his, and, forgetting they were in full view of the
ton
’s best and brightest, gave his
companion a hard shake. “Are you mad?” he cried. “The daughter of
England’s premier duke amidst the muslin company? It’s unthinkable!
Nor can I imagine why you should wish to do such a
thing.”
Caroline glared. Tony’s hands dropped to his
sides. “I am well aware I cannot go to a brothel,” she told him
primly, “so I thought the Cyprian’s Ball would be a good place to
view these ladies who seem to be so much more attractive to men
than their wives.”
Though nearly speechless, Tony managed
one word. “
Why?
” he croaked.
But he knew, of course. Caroline might be naive about some things,
but she had never had an opportunity for the total innocence with
which most young ladies were raised. Amy, the late Duchess of
Longville, must have filled her daughter’s ears with tales highly
unsuitable for a young lady of tender years.
Ignoring his question, Caroline hastened on.
“I also wish to see the Dark Walk at Vauxhall and a gaming
establishment. Take a drive through St. John’s Woods. And . . . I
don’t suppose you could smuggle me into a gentlemen’s club?” she
added, raising amber eyes filled with glimmering hope.
“
I don’t suppose I could,” Tony
responded roundly. “And here I thought you were such a proper young
lady—”
“
I am! I merely wish to see the other
side of the coin.” Caroline looked away, ostensibly examining the
trees, the bright beds of flowers, or perhaps the squirrels
scampering over the grass. “I am eighteen years old,” she said at
last. “I am expected to parade myself before the
ton
, find a husband, be content with
my lot. How can I do this with such a sorry example as my mother
and father hanging before me?” Obviously agitated, Lady Caroline
swept a golden windblown strand of hair away from her face. “I want
to see these women, Tony, understand why men find them so
fascinating.”
The viscount did not bother to stifle a
groan. “This is a matter you must discuss with Jen,” he told her.
“She’s a good sort, my sister—”
“
No!”
“
Caroline, as much as I would like to
assist you, I cannot. It is even shockingly improper for us to be
having this conversation.”
“
I thought you were my friend.” Great
amber eyes, swimming in tears, lifted toward his face.
Hell and damnation, what a
coil!
“You’ve seen these women in Hyde Park,” he
babbled in desperation.
“
Insufficient.”
“
I’ll take you down the Dark
Walk.”
“
Truly?” Light shimmered through Lady
Caroline’s tears. “And to a gaming establishment?”
“
Do not try my patience . . .
Caro
,” the viscount declared sternly.
Then, taking pity on her—recalling it was less than ten years since
he himself had been so young and nearly as naive—he added, “Believe
me, you would find a gentlemen’s club exceedingly dull.”
Caroline sniffed, stuck up her chin. He could
almost see her quick mind expanding his one small concession into a
series of forbidden adventures.
Parson’s mousetrap. He could hear the snap of
the deadly spring. Yet the bait was so enticing . . .
He was the heir . . . he had to marry
sometime.
But not quite yet. Another ten years. Well .
. . possibly, five.
The sun peeked out from behind a cloud,
sparking golden lights in Caroline’s halo of blond curls. Her amber
eyes were glowing with what looked all too much like satisfaction.
Clearly, it was not going to be another dull Season among London’s
finest.
~ * ~
While Caroline and Tony enjoyed their bit of
badinage in the midst of Grosvenor Park, Jen’s purposeful steps
entered her bedchamber, a room with which she was already familiar
as she had contributed her opinions to the room’s redecoration. Yet
she skidded to a halt as she threw open the door, for she was
unprepared for the magnificence that had resulted from her few
suggestions on color and design. Suggestions she now gave serious
second thought. The furnishings, selected by the duke’s mother in
the days before the French Revolution, were primarily Louis XVI,
with an occasional English piece from the early days of the reign
of poor mad George III. The tester above her bed was light and
airy, painted in cream, gold, and pale green, as were two matching
bedside cupboards and washstand. The tall cheval glass was also
English, but the towering walnut and satinwood armoire was French,
as were the fruitwood dressing table and the elegant roll-front
desk with cabriole legs. The elaborate wood carving of the
overmantel above the fireplace was in the style of Grinling
Gibbons. An exquisite piece of workmanship. In truth, Jen thought,
awed, it was entirely possible Gibbons had done the work himself,
for Longville House was not newly built.
And to these furnishings, which were
far too beautiful to discard, Jen had added a color scheme of pale
green and peach, with occasional dashes of forest green and gold.
The scenic wallpaper was in the delicate Chinese style. The
coverlet, tester hangings, draperies, day bed, and side chairs were
all done up in stripes or brocades of blending shades of green and
peach. She
liked
those colors.
And had thought replacing the cream and pale blue favored by the
former duchess would be sufficient to make the room her own. It was
not.
Jen grimaced. She had erred. It was still a
blatantly feminine room. Not the room of a woman who had ridden at
the tail of an army, been thankful for the shelter of an
earthen-floored hut, the smoky warmth of a fire lit in the center
of a room with no chimney.
Soft green and
peach
. Her wits must have gone begging. Had she
thought such trappings would make the duke think her petite and
fragile, as femininely graceful and lovely as the first Duchess of
Longville? Sadly, Jen now knew how the poor bull felt when loose in
the china shop. Nonetheless, she had quite literally made her bed,
having chosen all these soft flowing silks, richly cut velvets and
shimmering satins. She would, therefore, lie in that bed and live
with what she had chosen. Jen heaved a sigh. Not only did the room
not suit a great gawk, she could not picture the duke amidst all
this femininity either, though surely this was where . .
.
Jen’s thoughts shied from the begetting of
her step-children. She experienced a sudden wave of nostalgia for
that simple, single bedroom at Totten Court. A room into which she
was quite certain the previous duchess had never set a dainty foot.
Here in London, where the duke had his own bedchamber, she could
not even be certain he would come to her—
Surely she was not expected to go to him? Jen
cringed. Impossible, quite impossible.
What if he did not come at all? She had
thought herself past the foolish fears of her wedding night. Yet
she had seen his dismay over the unexpected activity in his
pristine entry hall. The duke had lived too long alone; perhaps it
suited him. Would he return to his old ways, to his mistresses and
his clubs, leaving her to cope with his children as well as her
own?
Was that not why he married her?
But, surely, not the only reason he had
married her.
Certain memories from those nine days at
Totten Court pulled Jen’s lips into a gentle smile. No, she no
longer thought Marcus had married her solely for her ability to
manage his children and his household. There was, perhaps, some
small reason to hope for more from their marriage of
convenience.
“
Ah, there you are,” came the duke’s
deep voice from the dressing room doorway. “Is Susan well
settled?”
“
Indeed . . . better than I had
expected.”
“
Then can you explain what Frayne was
doing here? Those other scoundrels as well?”
“
Scoundrels?” Jen laughed. “Surely
not.”
“
That Willoughby’s no better than he
should be,” the duke grumbled.
“
But Mr. Trimby-Ashford is quite
unexceptional. And surely you are not calling Tony a scoundrel. Did
he not just stand up with you at our wedding?”
The duke smoothed a wrinkle from the forest
green jacket he had just donned over a complete change of linen.
“Nonetheless, I would wish to know what they were doing here.”
Jenny found herself smiling, she could not
help it. Marcus was scowling, fretful . . . and knew quite well
what that bevy of young men had been doing here. She sauntered
across her elegant bedroom, feeling a bit like an ox tramping
through a field of butterflies. Stopping a scant foot short of his
chest, she was once again aware of how delightful it was to find a
man some three or four inches taller than herself.
“
Marcus,” Jen said softly, “one of your
children is now a young lady. A very beautiful young lady about to
make her come-out.”
“
She’s not out yet,” he
barked.
“
Tony is family,” she reminded him
gently. Obviously, this was not the moment to mention her own
suspicions.
“
The others aren’t. And, besides,
Frayne’s too . . . well . . . blast it, he’s got more town bronze
on a single hair than Caroline will have if she lives to be ninety.
He’s too old for her. Too . . . everything.” The duke stumbled to a
disgruntled halt.
“
He is simply being gracious,” Jen
reassured her husband. “You cannot have wished Lady Caroline to sit
at home for all the days we have been gone?”
“
Of course I could! She was supposed to
be refurbishing her wardrobe, polishing her manners with Miss
Tompkins. Preparing for her come-out. She should not have been
traipsing about town! Particularly with the likes of Tony
Norville.”
Oh dear
. “I’m
told the children enjoyed their excursions immensely,” Jen
ventured.
The Duke of Longville harrumphed, eyed his
wife with considerable disapprobation. “You wish to see Caroline
involved with her uncle?” he inquired in incredulous tones. “Is
that not illegal?”
“
Well, if it is, you have nothing to
worry about, do you?” his wife responded, quite daringly reaching
up to pat him on the cheek.
Jen had hoped for a softening in her
husband’s attitude, perhaps even a hug. Instead, with another
harrumph, he stalked back through the dressing room to his own
bedroom.
Jen sighed. They had not been home an hour,
and it seemed as if the world had already crushed the fragile bud
of what she had begun to hope was a kindling romance.
“
Come here, boy. Pray do not stand
about like a lump.” With a scowl designed to curl the liver of the
hardiest soul, the Dowager Duchess of Longville crooked a long
claw-like finger at her grandson.
The Marquess of Huntley, though true-bred off
the noble and arrogant Carlington block, hesitated. Above his head,
his sister and his step-mother exchanged anxious glances, the first
moment of rapport the two ladies had experienced since their first
unfortunate meeting.
Lady Caroline eyed her grandmother, on whom
the duke, his duchess, his heir, and his daughter were paying a
call. Although the dowager’s hair was white, her features belied
her sixty-some years. Rather than an elderly lady, declining with
the grace of a dove into gray gowns and soft words, the Dowager
Duchess Georgiana was more like a hawk, her sweep of white hair
topped by a royal purple turban that matched her gown, which was
trimmed in black lace. Her nose was a prominent beak punctuated by
deep-set gray eyes, alight with all the sharp eagerness of a
predator. Her chin came close to V-ing into a point, above a slash
of a mouth that looked as if it never smiled. No wonder, Caroline
thought, that poor Laurence, brave as he was, did not wish to leave
his position with his back hard against his father’s thigh.
“
Sit, sit,” the dowager commanded,
waving her guests toward the startling burgundy and gold satin
stripes that adorned the two settees and several armchairs arranged
before her drawing room’s fireplace. “Not you,” she barked at
Laurence as he began to back away toward a small side chair nearly
hidden by one of the settees. “You will come here where I can get a
proper look at you.”
When her little brother’s lips thinned into a
straight line, Caroline gasped. At that moment—there, around his
mouth—he looked more like his intransigent grandmother than his
father.
Laurence took a deep breath—which his father,
sister, and step-mother feared sounded remarkably like a sigh—then
strode forward, making a precise bow before his grandmother, who
was seated on a throne-like chair in front of a fire that was far
too warm for a sunny day in May. “Your Grace,” the child said,
exactly as he had been instructed.
“
Humph! Pity you got your mother’s
eyes,” the dowager declared, examining her grandson from head to
foot. “But I fear there’s no denying you’re the image of Longville
at that age. I suppose you’ve heard about the Gainsborough?” she
demanded.
“
Yes, my lady. Your Grace,” Laurence
hastily corrected as the dowager’s gray eyes shot fire.
“
Really, Longville,” the elder duchess
drawled, “I had not thought to have a country bumpkin for a
grandchild.”
Laurence’s governess is among the finest,
mama,” the duke replied evenly. “But until a few short weeks ago he
thought himself the son of a mere Mr. Tennet. You must give him
time to adjust.”
“
Indeed, I trust he is
not
the son of a mere Mr. Tennet,”
the dowager returned.
Three sets of shocked protest greeted the
duchess’s remark.
“
That is what is being said,” the
dowager asserted, “and I cannot wonder at it. The circumstances are
highly irregular, you must admit.”
Lady Caroline jumped up from the settee and
wrapped her arms around her brother. “I cannot believe you would
discuss this here and now,” she told her grandmother with
considerable heat, even as she felt a quiver sweep through her
little brother’s body.
“
Indeed, I believe we will take tea
another time,” the duke declared, standing and offering his hand to
his bride. “Good-day,Your Grace.” His bow to his mother was the
minimum required for filial respect. The others murmured equally
stilted farewells.
“
Nonsense!” The Dowager Duchess of
Longville pounded her cane on the floor. “Can you wonder I have
forgotten how to talk to children?” she cried, a betraying catch in
her customary stentorian tones. “Caroline was snatched from me at a
tender age, and now I am presented with this
fait accompli
—a seven-year-old image of the child
I once bore.” She turned to Caroline, her face dissolving from
autocratic
grande dame
to an
old lady pleading for mercy.. “My friends pour poison into my ears.
I know it is nonsense, but they have been with me all the years
when you were not.”
The dowager clutched her cane, glared at her
descendants and at her newly wed successor. “You will stay for
tea,” she declared. “I wish to know my grandchildren . . . and my
son’s new wife.” The deep-set gray eyes took on a knowing gleam. “I
am certain,” she added, “that the boy can only benefit from my
approval.”
Slowly, the duke uncurled his fingers from
his wife’s arm, where they had been tight enough to bruise. The
younger duchess watched him warily, even as she blessed her
foresight in keeping Susan home from this duty call on the dowager.
No child should have to endure behavior as outrageous as that
exhibited by the Marcus’s mother. Caroline, Jen noted, was poised
in flight, looking very much as if she wished to continue her grand
exit. But Laurence was eyeing the tea tray with considerable
interest, seemingly all too willing to forgive his grandmother in
return for food.
The Dowager Duchess Georgiana had never
been more aware that it was her son who was head of the family, not
herself.
Miserable man!
Not
only was she going to have to accept this grandson—whose
resemblance to Marcus she could not doubt—, but she was going to
have to give up the family jewels to that . . .
army
wife, that mountainous creature who had
actually followed the drum. Amy, the silly fool, had not taken a
single bauble when she darted off into the unknown, and the dowager
had been enjoying the sumptuous Carlington collection of gems for
many years now. But her son had asked for their return shortly
after his betrothal. The jewelry, he had informed her, was to be at
Longville House by the time he returned from his wedding
journey.
Yet until this very moment the dowager had
not really thought he meant it.
So be it. She would have the gems
delivered before nightfall. Not that that great gawk of a female
would ever do them justice. Oh, yes, she’d heard the tale. The
entire
ton
had heard the
tale.
As for the awkward moment at hand . . .
The duchess seized on the genuine
hunger in her grandson’s eyes. Very well, it was a good moment for
food. Not many
faux pas
could
pass people’s lips when they were busy chewing and swallowing. The
dowager gulped back sixty-odd years of pride and asked the new
duchess to pour. Good! She detected a slight tremor in the great
gawk’s hands. Imagine! Blotting the Carlington family escutcheon
with such a lumpish creature.
Truthfully, only Laurence seemed to enjoy the
Carlington family tea. At least he enjoyed the little cakes and
apple tarts, but even he was not immune to the strained atmosphere.
His natural exuberance was considerably subdued.
On the drive back to Longville House,
Caroline held her brother close to her side, talking softly of the
sights they had seen when out with Lord Frayne, of the picnic to
Richmond Park that the viscount had suggested. The duke and duchess
spoke not a word. The tension radiating from Longville’s set
shoulders and grim expression was palpable. Yet it was only when
the duke left his family standing in the entry hall, stalked down a
short corridor, and—reaching the bookroom two steps ahead of a
scurrying footman—slammed the heavy oak door behind him, that his
duchess realized he was more than disturbed by his mother’s
revelations. The duke was outraged. That anyone should dare
question the affairs of the Duke of Longville . . .
Poor Marcus, Jen sighed. His smooth, if
glittering, life was suffering from an astonishing number of blows
of late.
~ * ~