Anne Barbour (23 page)

“I’m sure he would,” Hester now replied tartly, “but, as I keep telling people—to very little avail—I do not wish to marry. In any case, I cannot see that Mr. Carver has the slightest interest in marrying me, either.”

The two women glanced at their escorts. Thorne bore himself with his usual courtesy, but it seemed to Hester that his mind was elsewhere. In some secluded little boudoir just off St. James’s, perhaps. Robert Carver, on the other hand, was unable to conceal his discomfort. Hester almost expected him to hiss in her ear, “You didn’t tell me she would be here!” For his attention, though he never once looked at her, was obviously on the lovely Lady Barbara.

Only Lady Bracken and her husband seemed to be enjoying themselves. Stanton, Lord Bracken, was a tall, thin man in his early forties. He was very much a political animal and seemed to know everyone in London. A surprising number of people, from many walks of life, made it a point to greet him, and he responded heartily to all. Gussie, too, nodded to acquaintances, so that their walk to the box reserved for them near the pavilion resembled less a leisurely stroll than a royal progression.

Once seated, the group settled back to enjoy a repast of punch and the thin slices of burnt ham for which the Gardens were famous. Afterward, Gussie announced that there was just time for a promenade along the paths bordering the pavilion before they would be obliged to return to their places for the concert.

Hester could not remember ever having felt quite so awkward as she did taking Mr. Carver’s arm. She was quite well aware by now of Gussie’s machinations, and she was sure Mr. Carver must be as well. Not that it seemed to matter to him. His eyes were on Barbara, moving along the path some distance ahead of them, her head bent close to that of Lord Bythorne.

“What?” he asked absently in response to a remark from Hester.

“I was saying, how lovely it is that the sticky buns are in bloom.”

“Mm, yes, they—what?”

He turned to look at her, bewilderment writ large on his features. Hester laughed.

“So you are paying attention. I thought I had lost you altogether.”

In the light of the hundreds of lanterns lighting their way, Mr. Carver could be seen to blush hotly.

“I am sorry, Miss Blayne. I must confess that for a moment my mind wandered.”

“For a moment! My good man, it is obvious to the meanest intelligence that your mind has had only one destination all evening long, and it is not my humble self.”

“Oh! No—really—”

Hester laughed again. “It is perfectly all right, Mr. Carver. Or, no—do let me call you, Robert, for I have quite decided that I like you very much and we are destined to become fast friends.”

Robert seemed somewhat startled at this ingenuous declaration, but he nodded smoothly. “Of course. Miss Blayne, but only if I may be granted the same privilege.”

“With my blessing. Now, Robert,” she said peremptorily, “what is all this between you and Barbara.”

Robert’s bonhomie disappeared. “I have no idea,” he said austerely, “to what you refer.”

“To what I refer,” she returned tartly, “is the fact that your attention has been glued to her like a sticking plaster all evening—and every other instance in which you have been in her company.”

In the frigid silence that greeted this remark, Hester wondered if she had gone too far. Men were so protective of the ridiculous barrier they put around their feelings.

“Robert, we are friends now, remember, and I don’t like to see my friends unhappy. I do not wish to pry. Well—” She dimpled. “Perhaps that’s not quite true—but, my motives are pure. I only want to help. Now,” she began again, encouragingly, “tell me how it is that you seem to know Barbara so well.”

For a long moment, he remained silent, but at last he said tightly, “I’m sorry, Hester, but I will not discuss Lady Barbara, I—” He paused again, and from somewhere brought out a smile that was almost painful to behold. “And now, newest of my friends, may I suggest that we return to the pavilion? We have been gone for some time, and I do not wish to give rise to gossip.”

“Very well,” she said in some chagrin, “but I shall not give up, you know.”

Robert said nothing, but placing an elbow beneath her arm, turned hack toward the garden’s main thoroughfare. It was in a thoughtful mood that Hester allowed herself to be escorted back to the box where the others waited. All during the concert, she kept her attention on Thorne and Barbara, her mind busy with the puzzle of the relationship between Barbara and Robert. For it had become blindingly obvious that there was a relationship.

Well, this was all just ridiculous. If the two star-crossed idiots did not have sense enough to bring their sundered hearts together, she would just have to help them. She glanced speculatively at Thorne. She felt no compunction about snatching Barbara out from under his nose, so to speak, for despite his courteous attentions to the lady, he obviously felt no more for her than friendship.

Hester was uncomfortably aware of a still, small voice deep within her commenting rather acidly on her extraordinary eagerness to do such a selfless bit of interfering with the lives of two people to whom she had just been introduced. Well, that was just nonsense, too. She certainly was not motivated by a wish to remove the beauteous Lady Barbara from Thorne’s proximity. What a ludicrous idea. In fact, if she knew of a young woman who would suit, she would be the first person to encourage Thorne to settle into connubial bliss. For if ever a man needed settling, that man was the rakish Earl of Bythorne.

Somewhat to her surprise, she turned to discover that the concert was over.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked Robert, who had turned to speak to her.

“I believe the orchestra is about to phase into music for dancing,” he said. “Would you care to take a turn?”

Nodding, she rose, observing that Lord and Lady Bracken, as well as Thorne and Barbara, all had the same notion. As did most of the other merrymakers thronging about them. The area before the pavilion was a solid mass of bodies and as Hester and Robert took their places for a quadrille, the crowd surged against them and they were separated.

She clicked her tongue in irritation and reached out a hand, but Robert was nowhere to be seen. With some difficulty, she began to retrace her steps to the box, but she was halted by a large obstruction. A stringent oath fell on her ears.

“Madam, if you would be so kind as to remove yourself from my foot—Oh, it’s you.”

Thorne attempted to dodge to one side, but was pushed against her once more.

“Good God, what a mess!” He placed an arm about her waist and drew her apart from the dancers until they stood on the perimeter of the floor. Still holding her, he glanced about.

“I’ve lost Barbara. Do you see her?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Hester caught a glimpse of Robert, who held a lady whose face was hidden, safe in the protection of his arms.

“No,” said Hester.

“Well, let’s try to get back to the box.”

Their efforts were unavailing, however, as the crowd pushed them farther toward the outside of the circle of dancers. In a few moments, breathless and disheveled, they found themselves at the head of a path that lead away from the maelstrom created by the dancers.

“Lord!” exclaimed Thorne as they made their way along the secluded lane. “I haven’t seen such a crowd at Vauxhall since the peace celebrations of fourteen and fifteen.”

“Uff,” gasped Hester, pulling her shawl of gossamer about her. “I guess everyone in London decided to come out to enjoy themselves—all on the same night.”

“The fireworks should be starting soon. The crowd will swarm to the center of the gardens then.”

Thorne turned to survey her.

“You look the very devil,” he said, but the oddly tender grin that accompanied his words took away much of their sting. He reached to remove her cap, which had been wrenched sadly askew. His gesture put her so much in mind of that other time he had forcibly taken off her cap that she felt a breathless flush flood her cheeks. He combed her hair for a moment with his fingers before placing the cap back atop her head. His hand brushed her cheek as it dropped again to his side and he stepped back hastily.

Patting their clothing into some semblance of order, they continued down the lantern-lit path. Other strollers could be seen emerging and disappearing into the leafy bowers that bordered the walkway, and at the end a miniature temple glowed a welcome.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Hester?” asked Thorne suddenly. “Other than being trampled by your fellow revelers.”

Startled, Hester nodded. “Why—yes, of course. It’s a beautiful evening, and the music was heavenly.”

“Really? It did not seem to me that you were paying much attention to the music.”

Hester flushed. “Oh, no—that is, yes—I was.”

“Ah.”

They continued in silence for a few moments.

“Gussie tells me,” began Thorne again, “that she believes Chloe has suffered a reversal of feeling for John Wery.”

“I believe that’s true. She has not yet admitted as much to herself, but I think she will be much more amenable the next time he asks her to marry him—which, I should think would happen very soon.”

“I expect you are looking forward with great anticipation to that day.”

Hester glanced up, surprised.

“You must be anxious to return to your home,” continued Thorne.

“Oh. Yes, of course. Not that I haven’t enjoyed myself in London,” she added hastily.

“Good.” He turned to face her once more. “I shall miss you when you leave. You—you have brightened Bythorne House with your presence.”

In the flickering light, his expression was hard to read, but Hester could find no trace of the mocking smile that usually accompanied polished words of praise from the earl. Instead, she fancied she could perceive a glow in his eyes that owed nothing to the lanterns overhead. He raised his hand again to cup the back of her head. Oh dear, was the shadowed walkway and the scent of roses that lay heavy on the air causing the consummate rake in him to revert to type?

Well, she would just have to assure him that she wasn’t having any.

He lifted his other hand, sliding it along her arm until it reached her shoulder.

In just a minute, she would tell him to stop.

Gently, the earl pulled her toward him, and a breathless, slow heat began to uncurl within her.

Yes, she would just push out from those wonderfully strong arms—in another moment, or so.

But in the next instant, his head bent close to hers and his mouth descended in a kiss of such aching sweetness that her well-conceived intentions—indeed all coherent thought—fled like starlings at the approach of a hawk.

Chapter Sixteen

“I vow,” declared Chloe discontentedly from her place at the breakfast table, “London has become so flat of late, I almost wish we were at the Park.” She crumbled a piece of toast on her plate.

Hester lifted her head from her own breakfast of soused herring and eggs.

“Did you not have a good time last night at the Carstairs’ rout?” she asked. While the others in the Bythorne household had spent the evening at Vauxhall Gardens, Chloe had attended the rout with her friend Charlotte Tisdale, accompanied by Charlotte’s mother.

“It was utterly tedious.”

“Ah. Who was there?”

“Oh, everyone and his brother, of course. It was an impossible crush.”

“Mm, I suppose.”

Hester returned to her herring and eggs. She was finding it hard to concentrate on either her breakfast or Chloe’s dismal conversation, for her thoughts, despite her best efforts, drifted inexorably back to last night’s events.

Or, more particularly, to last night’s kiss.

What, she wondered dazedly, had happened to her in that leafy, moonlight bower? One minute, she was firm in her resolution to treat the rake to his just desserts, and the next she was a quivering mass of sensation, pressing herself against him like a limpet and twining her fingers in the soft, curling hair at the base of his neck.

He had drawn back abruptly at the sound of laughter nearby, and she found it necessary to cling to him a moment longer or she would have fallen. Oddly, he had seemed as nonplussed as she, completely bereft of his usual aplomb. He had murmured no polished, flirtatious phrases, made no sly, suggestive remarks. He had merely stood there for a moment, staring at her, while she . . . Good God, she had gibbered something inane and—  Her appalled ruminations were cut short by the sound of a sniffle.

“Chloe? Chloe, what is it?”

“Oh, nothing, only .. .” Chloe dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her handkerchief. “Oh, Hester, I am so wretched!”

Hester rose and hastened to the other side of the table, where she sank into the chair next to Chloe’s. “My dear, what is the matter?”

“It’s John. He is making my life miserable.”

“But I thought he had accepted the fact that you are not going to marry him. I cannot believe he would make you the object of unwelcome attentions.”

Chloe began to sob in earnest. “That’s just it. He acts as though I were not even alive.”

“But I saw him greet you very pleasantly the other night at the Winnerings’.”

“Oh, y-yes—just as he does everyone else he knows. He b-bows and he smiles and then he just walks right on past me and bows and smiles at someone else. He danced twice with Charlotte at the Winnerings’, and last night, he spent nearly the whole evening in conversation with Mirabelle Brent. You should have s-seen her, Hester. I never realized what an ill-bred hoyden she is—flapping her eyelashes at him and simpering in such an unbecoming fashion.”

Hester clicked her tongue. “Some young women simply have no breeding,” she said, hiding a smile.

“And then the orchestra played ‘
Les Petites Jouees.
’ Oh, Hester, he knows that is my favorite song! He glanced over at me, but then he walked up to Gwendolyn Marchbank and asked her to dance. I could have just sunk through the carpet.”

“Chloe,” said Hester carefully, “I am surprised to see you so blue-deviled. Are you regretting your rejection of John’s proposal?”