Anne Barbour (14 page)

Chapter Ten

“Hester, please.” Lady Bracken gasped as she spoke.

“This must be the tenth bookstore we have entered this afternoon. We are in Hatchard’s now, and if they don’t have your wretched book here, you may be sure it is no longer extant.”

Hester turned to her companion with some compunction. “Oh, Gussie, I am sorry! After all our shopping, and then for me to drag you all over town on a book hunt. You must be exhausted. Come, let us recoup in that tea shop across the street.”

Gussie accepted the suggestion with expressions of gratitude, and in a few moments the two ladies sat opposite each other at a small table. Hester regarded the older woman with amusement. In the fortnight since Hester’s arrival at Bythorne House, her ladyship had unbent markedly toward her nephew’s guest. Particularly after the Wery dinner party, she had behaved in a manner that was positively friendly. Just the other day she had insisted that Hester call her by the nickname used only by her nephew, her husband, a select group of relatives, and very old, very dear friends. She had listened with some attention to Hester’s beliefs, even admitting that she had read snatches of the Apologia. It was Hester’s private view that Gussie went so far as to subscribe to some of these radical theories, for if ever a woman was born to fill a higher position than that of a mere reflection of her husband’s status, thought Hester, that woman was Augusta, Lady Bracken.

“What is it again you’re looking for?” asked Gussie, accepting a cup of steaming liquid from their waiter.

“It is a collection of arguments against the slave trade that Mr. Wilberforce made in Parliament and elsewhere.”

“Ah. But hasn’t the slave trade been abolished?”

“Yes, but I am looking for references to support my own argument that many of our own citizens are held in virtual slavery to masters who hire them to work long hours in factories for wages that barely keep them in bread and clothing. Why, do you know, Gussie, that the average worker in England—

“Lady Bracken!” said a musical voice. “Yes, I thought that was you. I had heard you were in town.”

“Barbara!” cried Gussie in a pleased voice, swiveling about in her chair. “How lovely to see you. Can you join us?”

Hester turned to behold one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. Tendrils of golden hair escaped from a charming villager bonnet, the blue ribbons of which exactly matched eyes of a smiling azure. Her nose was straight and perfect as was the full mouth that curved upward in an expression of warmth. The vision settled into a third chair at the table with a whisper of silken skirts.

“I can stay but a moment,” she said. “I am here with Sally Merton and her aunt.” She gestured to where two ladies smiled and fluttered their fingers in greeting.

“Do let me present my, er, cousin, Hester Blayne,” said Gussie. “Hester, allow me to introduce you to Lady Barbara Freemantle, a very dear friend of our family. And yes,” she added in response to Lady Barbara’s quizzical expression, “you have heard the name before—at least, if you are cognizant of the current feminist movement.”

“Of course,” replied Lady Barbara. “I am so pleased to meet you, Miss Blayne. You must know, I am a great admirer of your work.”

“Indeed?” asked Hester in some astonishment.

“Yes. I purchased a copy of your Apologia when it was first published, and I attended a lecture you gave in Gloucester not long afterward. I was most impressed—not only at the content of your dissertation, but at your courage in coming forth to speak out.”

Hester, who had experienced an instant, irrational antipathy toward Lady Barbara, now, not unnaturally, found herself warming toward her.

“That is most gratifying. Lady Barbara. Have you considered speaking out yourself? Surely, someone of your stature—”

Lady Barbara laughed. “Oh no. Unfortunately, I am not possessed of a single spark of moral fortitude. If asked, I’ll certainly share my opinion, otherwise I simply mill along with the herd. I tend to my crocheting and my gardening and the odd good work now and then. But, do you reside in London now. Miss Blayne? I understood you to dwell some distance from town.”

Gussie interposed with a slightly expurgated version of Hester’s presence at Bythorne House.

“Well, I hope your visit will be an enjoyable one.” Lady Barbara rose. “And now, I must be off, as I see Sally and Lady Bilkham are ready to depart. Shall I see you at the Debenham ball?” she asked Gussie.

“Oh, yes. I collect all the world and his brother will attend,” replied Gussie with a laugh. “Thorne will be there as well. Perhaps you could join us for dinner first.”

“That would be lovely. I haven’t seen Thorne for this age. I’ve heard,” concluded Lady Barbara, her eyes sparkling with laughter, “that he has been somewhat heavily occupied of late, if rumor is to be believed. Really, he has the most exquisite taste in opera dancers.”

She left then, waving a graceful hand in farewell. Hester turned a surprised stare on Gussie.

“Lady Barbara does not seem to mind Thorne’s, er, opera dancers?” she asked. An instant later, she flushed. “Oh, I do beg your pardon. It is certainly not my place to ask such a question, only Chloe said—

“Oh, yes, it’s true,” remarked Gussie in some haste. “Barbara and Thorne have had an understanding for years, but she is a realist. She knows that Thorne’s little flings are nothing to concern herself with. He would not consider marriage with any of his
cheres amies
, of course.” She leaned forward confidentially. “It is my belief that in speaking so, Barbara is assuring Thorne that she will not interfere with his way of life after they are married.”

“How—how very singular,” said Hester faintly.

“Oh, no,” replied Gussie earnestly. “It is the way of the world, to be sure.”

Hester fell silent. Mystified, she contemplated Gussie’s words. Good God, how could Lady Barbara not feel rage and jealousy at Thorne’s behavior—if he had truly professed his intention of marrying her? If it were herself—if she held any man in high enough regard to consider marrying him, she would be devastated at such contempt for her feelings. She would be prepared to scratch his eyes out, as well as those of his current inamorata.

Sipping her tea, she recalled yesterday’s episode in the gold saloon at Bythorne House. The memory of Thorne’s touch lingered on her body. Her lips still seemed swollen from the feel of his mouth on hers. She should have fought to protect her virtue, of course. He must think her the veriest wanton. But all she could think of at the moment was that she must conceal the shocking response that had shot through her the moment he had caressed her cheek in that intimate gesture. She would rather be nibbled to death by ducks than let Thorne know that she was so deeply attracted to him. The attraction was solely sexual, but that did not matter. She was not ashamed of her carnal instincts— they were a part of the human makeup, after all, but she had no intention of giving in to them.

As for Thorne himself, despite his overwhelming physical charisma, she still disliked the man. He was amusing, but charm was a rake’s stock-in-trade, and she was not to be taken in. No, it mattered not how his eye gleamed with humor, or how engagingly that one feather of midnight hair curled over his forehead, Hester stood in no danger of losing her heart. She was no schoolroom miss, and she knew that one breath-stealing kiss did not a lifetime relationship make. And she would settle for nothing else—with a man who measured up to her standards, thank you very much.

To be sure, it was somewhat lowering to realize that this edifying little reflection was purely academic. The idea that the Earl of Bythorne could be seriously interested in a plain maiden of meager attributes was laughable. Indeed, since yesterday’s encounter, his demeanor toward her had been distant to the point where she felt virtually invisible in his presence.

She sniffed. What a very good thing that Lord Bythorne’s opinion of her counted for naught. Less than naught.

By the time she and Gussie had finished their tea and settled themselves in the carriage for the journey home, Hester felt herself once more firmly in control of her destiny. When they encountered Thorne just pulling up before the house in his curricle, she was able to greet him with a cool equanimity.

It was an emotion not shared by his lordship. His first urge on beholding Hester being handed down from his aunt’s carriage was to stride up to her and shake her by the shoulders until that stupid cap she was wearing flew off into the gutter. He had learned to expect an interesting variety of reactions of his kisses, but never, not even as a stripling attempting his first amatory explorations at Oxford, had a female treated him to such utter disinterest. “You do that very well!” for God’s sake, as though she were a governess complimenting a backward student on the marginally acceptable accomplishment of an assignment.

Who the devil did she think she was, this spinster with so little to recommend her, this plain little female with her ludicrous theories? Well, it served him right for even thinking of amusing himself with a bluestocking. What in God’s name had possessed him to first plunge his hands into the heavy satin fall of her hair, and then to gather her into his arms for a kiss that had sent him into a spiral of wanting?

For, if he were to be honest, the spinster had more than confirmed his surmise. Underneath that cap, below that puritanical exterior, burned a flame just waiting for the breath that would stir it into a firestorm of passion. He had sensed her response, and was just beginning the enjoyable process of coaxing it skillfully into a breathless acquiescence, when she had pulled back. Dammit, she had as much as admitted that she found his embrace stimulating—much, however, as she might find the taste of a strawberry parfait!

Well, he had learned his lesson. There would be no more dalliance with Miss Prunes and Prisms. There were uncounted women in London who would be pleased to welcome the Earl of Bythorne into their arms and into their boudoirs. He would waste no more time with the likes of Hester Blayne and her perverted ideas about the place of women in the general scheme of things.

He approached the ladies as they moved toward the house. Hester paused when she saw him, dipping her head to one side to gaze up at him from beneath her bonnet. Her brown eyes were wide and bright, putting him in mind of a vixen he had encountered once outside his uncle’s chicken coop—all innocence and charm, and liberally adorned with feathers. He laughed suddenly, and when after a moment she joined him, he felt oddly relieved.

“No, no, I mustn’t come in,” Gussie was saying. “I have an appointment in less than half an hour with Monsieur LaCosse. I am thinking of getting a crop.” She patted her curls. “And he is going to advise me.”

She bestowed a kiss on Hester’s cheek and threw a careless wave to her nephew before remounting her carriage, and in a moment it rattled off along Curzon Street.

Upon entering the house, Hester moved hastily toward the staircase, but Thorne stopped her by the simple expedient of grasping her wrist.

“I would like to speak to you, if I might,” he said, almost shyly.

“Oh, no,” replied Hester with a little gasp. “That is, I must—”

“I shan’t keep you above a moment.” Without waiting for a reply, he propelled Hester into the library and after seating her in an elegant straw silk armchair, settled himself in a wing chair nearby. Casually, he crossed one leg over the other and surveyed her. When she lifted her brows questioningly, he laughed a little self-consciously.

“I was just wondering what magic you possess to have turned Gussie into one of your most ardent supporters. I expected that she would treat you with a reasonable degree of courtesy, but she seems to have welcomed you into the family with open arms. And Chloe! Lord, I hardly recognize the chit these days. I don’t think she’s started a brangle with me once since you have been here. What is your secret?”

Hester became aware of the flame that danced in the depths of his coal dark eyes. Accompanying, as it so often did, the blinding effect of The Smile, it produced a feeling of breathless discomfort in her breast. She knew a spurt of relief that he evidently had not brought her here to discuss last night’s untoward episode. She flushed. “If Gussie shows any partiality for me, I’m sure it is because of my sister. She told me that she and Mary were almost bosom bows in school. As for Chloe—well, I’ve merely convinced her that it is in her own best interest to behave prettily toward Mr. Wery.”

“Hmm.” Thorne grinned warily. “I’m not so sure I like the sound of that. I trust she is not planning some truly awful devilment.”

“Welt, she is—but, I think in the end she will find she has defeated herself. For, I must tell you, I am convinced that marriage is the best situation for Chloe, and Mr. Wery should be given the chance to prove that he is the best candidate for the position of groom-to-be.”

‘This all sounds very mysterious, but I am prepared to let you have your head.”

“Why, thank you, sir.” Hester nodded her head with an air of great condescension.

“Oh, very well.” Thorne threw up his hands. “I will admit freely that I really have no choice in the matter. As long as we appear to have the same goal where Chloe is concerned, I bow to your judgment.”

Hester nodded again, but wisely held her tongue.

“It is unfortunate,” she said instead, “that you had no one to turn to in your immediate family when Chloe came to you. That is,” she continued as Thorne stiffened, “Gussie has her own brood to raise.” She hesitated. “I meant, if your mother were here—

She halted, startled, as Thorne’s harsh laughter interrupted her.

“My mother! Good God, I can think of no one who would make a worse model for a young girl on the brink of womanhood.”

“But—-but, she was so beautiful,” said Hester in astonishment, thinking of the woman in the portrait. “She had such a warm smile.”

“Oh, didn’t she just!” Thorne’s lips curved bitterly. “Just ask every man in London with whom she came within luring distance.”

“Oh!” Hester gasped a little. “I didn’t mean—”

Thorne shrugged. “I should not be so hard on her. She was what she was, after all.”