Lady Myddelton's Lover (5 page)

Richard paced in his room, slightly wobbly from a bit too much good champagne, and smoked his pipe. He paused every few minutes and started for the door, stopping inches from turning the knob and going to Aline’s room, before turning back to pace restlessly, feeling both bewildered and utterly disgusted with himself. After her departure he and Sir Carleton, he was ashamed to admit, spent the entirety of their meal drinking magnums of Pommery and Veuve Clicquot, before trying cocktails at the Savoy’s American bar, until both were absolutely, stinking blotto. For a brief moment, he was petty enough not to hope Sir Carleton made it to
his
home safely, but a sound from just outside his room diverted his attention, and he rushed to the door and flung it open, ear cocked in the darkened hallway.

There it was.

He leaned heavily against the doorframe, catching the sound of muffled grunts from behind Aline’s bedroom door. He pushed up and away, absently emptying his pipe in the plant beside his room, went to her door, and knocked.

“Yes?” She said a trifle breathlessly. “Is that you, Victorine?”

“No,” He turned the knob and opened the door, swaying—or was it the room that was seesawing up and down like a P. & O. steamer in the middle of the Indian Ocean?

“R-Richard,” She stammered over her shoulder, her arms twisted into a strange contortion at her back. “What are you doing in here?”

“I ought to surprise you more often if it forces you to use my given name,” He said teasingly, squinting to scrutinize why her gown looked so peculiar.

It dawned upon him that she was stuck, and that her attempts to undress herself resulted in the entanglement of her gown around her hips and waist as she tried to pull it up over her head.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me you…you conceited cad!” She lowered her arms and glared at him.

“I’m not laughing at you,” He composed his features, but his mouth twitched all the same. “Let me help you.”

He reached for her.

“I am not helpless,” She said as she side-stepped his hands. “These, these
damned
evening gowns are a devil to get off without Victorine’s assistance.”

“Pretend I am Victorine,” He replied. “And that I can help you out of this damned evening gown.”

She looked at him suspiciously, “Nothing but assistance with the gown, Lord Myddelton.”

“I promise,” He held up both hands to reaffirm his words.

She nodded and turned around, tensing when he placed his hands on her shoulder blades. He felt for the buttons or hooks closing her gown, loathe to admit his clumsiness was the result of being drunk.
Ah, there they were!
He unbuttoned the small buttons on the beaded overdress and pushed it aside, carefully loosening the tapes running down her back. He paused at the small of her back, swallowing hard, the fizzy, exciting feeling of champagne coursing through his blood and loosening his already precarious inhibitions.

She took this as a signal of his completion and moved away with a “Thank you,” shrugging the sleeves of her gown over her shoulders and down her body, where it pooled at her feet in a crumple of green silk and glittering beads.  She sat at her dressing table and switched on the small lamp sitting on its surface. A nimbus of warm light flooded across her body, casting a rosy glow across her skin as she raised her arms to unfasten her diamond necklace and then place it in her jewelry box.

“Do you, ah, need me to loosen your corset?” He asked casually.

She glanced at him over her shoulders and raised a brow. “Would you?”

He nearly tripped as he stumbled over to her and dropped to his knees, placing a hand on her waist to steady himself. The laces criss-crossed through the metal grommets in a dizzying pattern, and he felt for the knot at the top of the corset and tugged at it until it loosened. She took a deep breath, her torso expanding slight within the busk and the gap between the laces widened. He reached for them and began to work them through the grommets, blinking hard and swaying slightly on his knees with the repetitious in-and-out and in-and-out, growing lightheaded as the laces wiggled like tiny, slippery garden snakes in his hands. He closed his eyes to dispel the sensation, hearing a distant cry as the room tilted and crashed to the ground.

***

Aline fell to her knees beside him, her hands fluttering over him as she checked for any possible injuries. She leaped back when he twitched, his entire body shuddering before his chest rose and fell with a deep sigh. Her mouth dropped open when he began to snore, deep, zig-zagging snores that filled her entire room. She leaned close and in her rapidly receding panic, suddenly got a great big whiff of alcohol.

“Why you wretch!” She slapped his unresponsive form. “You are drunk.”

He merely snored in response, his hand flopping away from his chest to rest on her thigh. She gingerly lifted his hand away from her thigh and allowed it to drop on the floor. Even when unconscious he would use any means to touch her. Aline stood and looked down at his supine body, utterly aggravated. She cast a look at the speaking tube with which she could call for Truscott and James to carry him back into his own room, but thought better of it, nothing wishing to disturb their sleep (though she knew the unflappable Truscott would nonetheless rouse he and the footman to do their duty). She could not pick him up by herself and pull him all the way to his bedroom, but she also did not want him lying here in her room, on the floor.

She rounded his body and paused to ascertain the physicality of her idea, then worked her hands beneath his shoulders, grasping him beneath the armpits and tugging him up, inch by inch. She gritted her teeth with the effort, but eventually managed to pull his upper body vertical. His head lolled to his chest, disrupting the snores (Hallelujah), and his arms dangled in front of him. She began to pull, tug, and jerk him across the floor, thankful for her loosened corset because he was heavy against her chest, and the strain of dragging him to the other twin mattress of which comprised her half-tester bed quite winded her.

Aline managed to get him parallel to the mattress and with one strong heave, she fell backwards on the bed with him in her arms. She let out a long breath of air and grimaced at the ceiling, partially trapped beneath his body and his head resting on her stomach. He groaned in his sleep and rolled onto his side, and she used this movement to wriggle from beneath him and slide off the mattress. She stood in the small space between the twin beds and wrenched her corset around so she could unlace it and slide it over her head. She sat back on the other bed and dropped her corset on the mattress, unfastening her earrings and removing the aigrette from her hair as she swung her legs over the edge and bounced off the bed. She placed the earrings and aigrette on her dressing table and then fetched her dressing gown, sliding her arms into the sleeves and cinching the belt tightly about her waist.

She quietly clicked off the lamp at the dressing table and sighed, walking to the light fixtures on her wall to reach up and turn them down. The faint glow from the fireplace cast eerie shadows about the bedroom, and she felt her way to the plush sofa pushed against the edge of both beds, freezing at the sharp intake of Richard’s breath, fearing he had awoken. His breathing evened, but she walked to bend over him nonetheless, feeling a sudden pensiveness as she stared down at his face, his strong features almost boyish and harmless in repose. She reached out a hand to smooth his hair away from his brow before she could stop herself, the silky burnished strands still too long for fashion.

Aline felt surer touching him in his slumber, the disorderly emotions his very aliveness roused within her safely banked by her control over the circumstances. She dropped her hand and straightened abruptly at this thought, an uncomfortable thought that reminded her of her inadvertent interruption of his and Sir Carleton’s presumptuous conversation about her romantic life. It incensed her to hear them discussing her so cavalierly, as though she was a lot divided between them, or a prize won on the roll of a die. A rush of anger suddenly rushed through her at the image of them at the table, both so sure of their attraction and of their opinions about her, and of who she was.

To the baronet, she was the Countess of Myddelton, the beautiful and charming wife of his old friend, who always deferred to the greater intellect of a gentleman and cushioned them from the aggravations of life with her soft voice and concern. To the new earl, she was beautiful—desirable to be more exact—and someone to push and tease and scandalize, until she bent to his will. And to Hugh…Lord, to Hugh, she was his wife and it was her place to honor his name, obey his will, and bear his children. She failed the last, which was why Richard was here. However, did that mean she was a failure?

Aline struggled with this thought, trying to understand what she wanted. She wanted…oh she just wanted to be thought of as a person—a woman yea, but a person upon whom no one projected his or her expectations. She sank onto the sofa, head bent and a cool hand cradling her forehead, all of a sudden more than spent. She would sleep tonight, and make plans in the morning.

Richard jerked, swearing loudly at the shaft of light stabbing his eyes beneath their closed lids. His curses faded into a groan as he felt a dozen tiny devils walking up his spine to chisel away at pieces of his skull through his scalp.
Ooh
, he winced, forcing a sleep-numbed arm up to his head to brush at his devils. Every muscle in his body ached, even his ears (did ears have muscles?), which seemed to spasm and flinch at the horrible sounds of grunting and scraping and mumbling echoing in the room. He tried wrenching one eye open and a spell of vertigo hit him, followed by the nauseating churn of his stomach, and he dry heaved, nearly vomiting the entire contents of his innards.

“There, there, my lord,” Said a disgustingly cheery voice. “Drink this.”

He braved another attempt to open his eyes and realized he lay flat on his face, smothered in pillows and blankets. He jerked again when his tormentor ripped the blanket away from his body and lifted an arm, curling his fingers around something cool and round.
Not another damned drink!
He finally understood the multitude of sermons about the evils of drink and liquor. He had not consumed this much alcohol since he was a green lad on the cattle station, determined to prove to his mates that he could drink some foul-smelling concoction he brewed from every bottle and decanter of liquor his Da stored in their house. After that ghastly experience, he had not touched a swallow of alcohol.

He pushed it back at the person, but they held fast, guiding his hand to his mouth and using their other hand to lift the glass to his face so he could drink. Richard was as helpless as a babe against their gentle handling, and swallowed the liquid they tipped into his mouth. He wrenched his eyes open with a raspy cough, sitting up as the drink burned down his gullet and singed his stomach. He glared at Aline, who stood beside the bed with that awful drink.

“What the—” His voice crackled and he cleared his throat. “What the devil was that?”

“It worked!” She glanced dubiously at the contents of the glass. “Truscott recommended this as a remedy for a ‘gentleman’s head’, but it looks very nasty.”

“You’re damned right it is very nasty,” He took the glass from her hand and sniffed. “Tomato juice, Bromo seltzer, an egg, and a dose of fish oil—that fiend of a butler.”

He thrust it back into her hands and sat back on the bed, moving to grasp the blanket and pull it back over his head. His fingers paused on the lace edged coverlet and he glanced about with a frown, realizing he was in Aline’s room and that he was in her bed. He looked quickly at her and noticed she was dressed in a dark gray suit, boots, and a veiled hat. A monogrammed trunk lay propped against the wall beside the door. He tossed the blanket aside and would have jumped from the bed had he not been stricken by another stomach-churning jolt of dizziness. He fell against the pillows again, eyes closed and breathing carefully through his nose.

“Why are you dressed for travel?” He managed to ground out.

“I’m going to set this right here, on the table James placed beside the bed.” She answered instead, the clink of the glass against wood mirroring her words.

He felt her swift movement away from the bed and shot out an arm, reaching blindly for her. He opened an eye when his fingers curled around her wrist. She looked peevish, but allowed him to tug her back to his side.

“Where are you going?”

“To Myddelton Park,” She sighed. “The Dower House, actually.”

He opened the other eye. “Why?”

“Because it is where I belong.” She said simply. “I am no longer mistress of Myddelton, and it is not proper for me to reside with you as though I am.”

“Damn what is proper, Aline,” He scoffed. “You belong with me. Marry me.”

Her lashes lowered over her eyes, veiling her thoughts. His heart thudded painfully in his throat as he awaited her answer. She lifted her gaze and smiled tightly, twisting her arm to signal him to release her.

“Thank you Richard for your proposal, but no, I do not want to marry you.”

“You want to marry Sir Carleton,” He accused.

“No.” She said simply, and he had the uneasy notion that her eyes darkened perceptibly with disappointment.

She said nothing and more, he could do nothing but release her, his arm falling listlessly away from her to dangle at his side. He watched hollowly, tremendously frustrated and bewildered, as she walked out of the room and out of his life.

Richard sat in the library, attempting to read a book, but more often than not staring blankly out the windows overlooking Berkeley Square, as though the carriage driving Aline to the railway station would turn around, sweep back to the house, and she would leap out of it and chaff him for falling for her prank. He sat there for more than an hour, expecting his premonition to come true. He jumped to his feet at every passing carriage, only to feel incredibly foolish when it continued past the house, obviously only crossing Berkeley Square on its way to an unknown destination. He nursed the nasty cocktail Truscott brewed for his head, having forced the butler to use the same glass, the glass Aline had touched.

He turned to the window at the sound of hooves on the pavement, and he sucked in a breath when a carriage stopped in front of his house. He arranged himself casually, adjusting the lapels of his smoking jacket and crossing his leg to appear nonchalant. He turned to the opening door to see Truscott entering the library with an inquiring look. He nodded at the butler, shuffling the pages to pretend he was engrossed in the—what was he reading again? Oh yes,
The Visits of Elizabeth
by Mrs. Elinor Glyn—lively story of an innocent debutante attending a wicked house party.

“I beg your pardon my lord, but there is a lady—”

“A lady?” Richard tossed the book aside and rose to his feet. “Where is she?”

“She has left her card,” Truscott extended the silver tray to him.

Richard grunted softly with disappointment, but lifted the card from the tray. He briefly raised his eyes to the ceiling.

“Show her in, Truscott,”

However, Lady Idira barged into the library before the butler could show her inside, enveloping him in a violet-scented embrace. She tossed her wrap and feather boa aside and sank into the chair beside him in a frou-frou of silk and lace, her wide-brimmed hat perched saucily over one dark eyebrow. She reached into her bag, pulled a slim, gold cigarette case from its depths, and flicked it open. He shook his head to decline her offer, but handed her a case of matches he had in his pocket.

“Now,” She said, lighting a gold-tipped cigarette. “Tell me just why Aline left London in such a hurry.”

His conversation with Lady Idira was rather illuminating; though
she
did most of the talking, punctuating her very strong opinions with a wave of her cigarette. Nevertheless, he candor was surprisingly comforting, and he told her about his and Aline’s first incredible, though entirely surprising on his part, meeting. Lady Idira broke into peals of laughter, and he waited for her to explain her amusement, a smile playing about his mouth.

“You remember Lady Vernon, no?” She gasped between bouts of chuckles.

He nodded, gesturing for her to continue.

“It was entirely her idea to
arrange Aline’s desire for a lover for her birthday,” Lady Idira grinned. “I never would have imagined
you
would appear—I wonder what happened to the man she hired for the night.”

             
“Well, ah,” Richard said sheepishly. “It was always me.”

             
“Blow me down with a feather!” Lady Idira cried, startled from her mirth. “How did that come about, and without
my
knowledge?”

             
“Lady Vernon wired me on my ship as it sailed into Southampton, and told me Aline wanted to see me in London that night,” He ran a hand through his hair. “I had no idea what awaited me here.”

             
“And you rushed to meet her the moment you stepped out of the railway.” Lady Idira said wondrously. “You love her.”

             
“Madly,” He admitted.

             
“Why are you here, and she is there?”

             
He dropped his gaze from her inquiring gaze to hide the burning sensation in his eyes. “She does not want to marry me.”

             
“I don’t believe her,” Lady Idira exclaimed. “And I definitely do not believe you are craven enough to accept her rejection.”

             
“She said no, and she is gone. That appears absolute enough for me.”

             
“And what are you going to do now? Sail back to Australia and soothe your man’s pride amongst your cattle?”

             
“I’m the Earl,” Richard said shortly. “I have responsibilities, duties, and people here.”

             
“Then be the earl, and capture your countess.” Lady Idira said simply.

***

              Myddelton Park was famous for its gardens. A turreted baronial house gifted to an Elizabethan Myddelton by his grateful Queen, It surrounded three square courts and covers about five acres and contained three hundred and sixty-five rooms and had seven great staircases, some of them very elaborate. This Richard learned from the liveried guide who ushered the parties of gaping visitors, each of whom paid two shillings to tour the estate (a privilege extended to tourists by the fourth Earl of Myddelton in the early ‘eighties to shore up the family’s waning coffers). He joined the tour merely by accident, having caught a train from London packed with boisterous American tourists, who flipped through red leather bound Baedekers, and pointed and stared at every landmark printed in the guide.

             
He paused before a Gainsborough portrait of a distant ancestor of his, and smiled mildly at the guide, who frowned at him for not keeping pace with the party. He opened the printed guide of the house, planning to slip the tour as soon as he figured out how to get from the portrait gallery to the bedrooms near the Water Court without detection. They walked through the Second Painted Staircase and into the ballroom, and he realized he was quite near the south wing of the house. As the tour moved out of the ballroom and into the Archbishop’s Great Chamber, Richard headed for the door at the opposite end of the ballroom and used the map to direct him towards the bedroom wing.

             
He stepped into a hallway and came face to face with a startled Victorine.

             
“Where is her ladyship?” He said abruptly.

             
“I-In the garden, my lord,” She stammered.

             
He paused to thank her and hastily made his way through the house until he reached the Great Hall. He ignored the surprised looks of the servants, and walked out onto the marble terrace that led to the garden. He stood at the front of the garden, blinking beneath the bright sun and the vivid colors of flowers and fruit trees planted in neat rows and borders. The crown jewel of the park’s garden was the maze, one of England’s most famous and famously puzzling. He caught a movement from the corner of his eye and turned to see a veiled hat moving gracefully through the garden.

The woman carried a basket over her arm; her gloves stained with dirt as she pulled a small gardening tool from the basket and kneeled out of sight. He strode swiftly in her direction and hesitated a few feet behind her, feeling an attack of nerves, unsure of his welcome or of Aline’s reaction to his appearance. She dropped her tools and came to her feet, pushing her veil over her hat as she turned to face him.

“Lady Myddelton,” He breathed, dazzled by her appearance in the sunlight.

“My lord,” She greeted softly.

“I love you,” He said simply. “I’ve loved you from the moment you wrote me, and I cannot accept no for an answer.”

“Are you going to…force me to say yes?” She glanced up at him.

“No,” He said brusquely. “I want you to want me, to love me because you made that decision, not because I’ve seduced it from you, or embarrassed it out of you.”

She dropped her eyes to her dirt-stained gloves and then slowly worked them from her hands. “And if I still said no?”

Richard rubbed the knot of pain in his chest with trembling fingers, but he said, “It would shatter me to pieces, but I would accept it.”

Her silence felt like an eternity, and he stared at the brim of her hat, which shielded her face, at the wind tugging her veil. She moved to him before he could react, and he stared dumbly at the hand she placed on his chest and slid to his neck, curling around his nape and pulling his mouth to hers. His eyes widened with shock, his lips frozen as he struggled to comprehend her actions. She pulled away and arched a brow.

“You have to kiss me back, Richard,”

He chuckled shakily and bent to kiss her. Before their lips met, he paused, pulling back to frown at her. “Yes?”

“Yes, you fool!” She grinned, green eyes glistening. “Now take me somewhere before I tear your clothes off in this middle of the garden.”