Lady Lucy's Lover (3 page)

She had just finished performing a lively reel with an ebullient young Hussar when she saw her husband. No longer did her heart beat faster with joy. Instead, all she felt was an apprehensive ache somewhere in the region of that organ.

His handsome high-nosed face was marred with patches of red and looked slightly swollen. His normally pale blue eyes were crisscrossed with red veins, and instead of smelling of new brandy, he smelled abominably of old spirits and snuff.

But all his famous charm was to the fore and he turned the full blast of it on his young wife.

“Lucy,” he murmured, kissing her hand. “What a wretch you must think me, and what a forgiving little wife you are. We'll spend the whole day together tomorrow and I warrant I shall bring the stars back to your eyes. I know you've been cursing me for being a poor sort of husband, but I'll make it up to you. You do forgive me, sweeting, do you not?”

Lucy looked up into his anxious eyes and her heart melted.

“Of course I forgive you,” she whispered. “Do you wish to dance?”

“No, my love. Food is what I need. Let us go and sample some refreshments.”

He tucked her hand in his arm and led her to the refreshment room. The long windows were open to the garden and a cool breeze made a refreshing change from the heat of the ballroom.

He fetched her food and drink, hovering over her anxiously until she was seated and served, in such a humble, apologetic, almost schoolboyish way that Lucy's heart went out to him.

“What have you planned for us to do tomorrow, Guy?” she asked gaily.

“Oh, tol rol, just drive somewhere, you know, and be by ourselves for a little.”

“I would like that of all things,” said Lucy earnestly. “I had… had begun to think you had ceased to care for me.”

“Fustian. That beanpole friend of yours has been putting nasty ideas in your pretty head.”

“Ann? Oh, no. It's just that… well, I may as well be open with you, Guy. There are terrible rumors that you are spending your time with Harriet Comfort.”

The red patches on the Marquess's face deepened to an angry color. “Harriet Comfort is the fashion,” he said in a calm voice, belied by the angry glint in his eyes. “One calls on her to take tea. It's a ritual thing like going to the opera or stuff like that. Even Brummell goes and no one has ever credited him with any mad passions.”

“Oh,” said Lucy in a small voice. “But people do talk so, Guy, and I would rather not share you with
anyone
.”

“Don't listen to all those tabby cats. I won't go again. So there! Smile at me, my love. It's not like you to be such an angry kitten.”

Lucy smiled and, as she did so, she had an uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched. She turned her head slightly and met the steady gaze of the tall, dark man who had disturbed her so much before. He was standing at the door to the refreshment room, talking to three ladies while his eyes ranged over their heads to where Lucy was sitting with her husband.

He had thick black hair worn in a fashionable Brutus crop and strange gray eyes which were almost silver. His heavy lids gave his face a shuttered appearance. His skin was very white and the Greek classicism of his face was saved from effeminate perfection by the strength of his chin and the long humorous curve of his mouth. His evening coat was tailored to fit across his broad shoulders without a wrinkle and his knee breeches and clocked stockings were molded to a pair of long, muscular legs.

He was a very imposing man, handsome in an autocratic way. Lucy lowered her eyes quickly, feeling to her confusion a blush mounting to her cheek.

“Who is that tall man over there?” she whispered to the Marquess.

He followed the wave of her fan and his eyes lit up. “'Fore George! That's Habard—Simon, the tenth Duke. He'll put us all in the shade. I wonder what brings him to Town. He hardly ever does the Season.”

“Is he married?” asked Lucy, fanning her hot cheeks.

“Not he! Too clever to be leg-shackled,” laughed the Marquess as Lucy winced.

“And is it his bachelor state that puts you all in the shade?” asked Lucy quickly to cover her hurt.

“No. Habard's an out-and-outer. Up to every rig and row in town. A top-of-the-trees. Can pop one over Jackson's guard and can drive better than Lade.”

“Hush!” said Lucy, putting a stop to this flow of enthusiastic cant by laying a restraining hand on her husband's sleeve. “His Grace is coming this way. I think Lady Courtland is going to introduce us.”

The Marquess and Marchioness of Standish rose to their feet. “His Grace the Duke of Habard wishes to make the acquaintance of your beautiful wife,” said Lady Courtland. “Your Grace, allow me to present the Marquess and Marchioness of Standish. Lady Standish, His Grace the Duke of Habard, Lord Standish, His Grace the Duke of Habard.” And then looking quite fatigued with all the exertion of the introductions, Lady Courtland gave a little half-bow from the waist and took her leave.

“Pray be seated,” said the Duke with a wave of his hand. He smiled suddenly and blindingly at Lucy, who sat down feeling quite weak at the knees.

The Duke drew up a chair between the Marquess and Lucy. “I say, another bottle of burgundy!” shouted the Marquess to a passing footman. “This is a great honor, Habard,” he said with all the enthusiasm of a schoolboy. “We did meet, you know, some years back… at Codlingham's shoot, I think it was.”

The Duke nodded, studying Lucy's lowered eyes.

“And what brings you to Town?” went on the Marquess jovially. “We are not often honored with your presence.”

“I have had a great deal to do in the country,” said the Duke. His voice was deep and husky. “I have no intention of letting my estates go to rack and ruin. How are matters at Standish? Do you expect a good harvest?”

“We… we don't know,” said Lucy. “We have not been there…oh, since we became married.”

This naive remark earned her a burning look of irritation from her husband.

“These young brides,” he said with a smile that did not meet his eyes. “You know how it is, Habard. She would make me out to be an absentee landlord.”

“In your case, Standish,” said the Duke gallantly, “it would be understandable if you were. The delights of town and the delights of a pretty bride—”

“But you do not answer my question,” interrupted the Marquess. “What brings you to Town?”

“Oh, a need to see a beautiful face once in a while,” said the Duke. “My farming work does not qualify me for the role of monk, would you say, Lady Standish?”

“I-I have no idea, Your Grace.”

“I plan to visit Jackson's tomorrow, Habard, and would be honored to see you in action,” said the Marquess, helping himself liberally to burgundy. Gentleman Jackson's boxing saloon was a haunt of the Corinthians, the bucks and bloods and Toms and Jerrys who aspired to be expert in all forms of sport.

“But… but…” began Lucy and then flushed and bit her lip.

“You were about to say, Lady Standish?”

“Nothing,” muttered Lucy, but casting a fulminating look at the Marquess. Had he forgotten so soon that they were to spend the day together?

“I am president for the day at the general meeting of archers at Blackheath,” said the Duke. “I would be honored if you would both be my guests. But perhaps you do not have an interest in archery…?”

“Oh, indeed we do, don't we, Lucy,” said the Marquess, giving his bride a warning scowl.

“Yes, indeed,” said Lucy faintly.

“It is an early start, I am afraid. I shall call for you at ten in the morning. Clarence Square, I believe?”

“That's exceeding cordial of you, ain't it, Lucy?” said the Marquess.

“Not at all. Now if you will excuse me?”

The Duke stood up and took his leave.

Lucy rounded on her husband. “You said we should spend tomorrow together.”

“Look here, Lucy,” said the Marquess angrily. “When an out-and-outer like Habard singles you out, you don't turn down his invitation.”

“But you said…”

“I said,
I said
,” jeered the Marquess. Lucy's eyes filled with tears. “Oh, if you're about to play the watering-pot, I'm going.”

And with that, the Marquess rose abruptly to his feet, nearly sending the chair flying, and stalked off.

The Marquess was quite restored to good humor after he had bragged of the forthcoming outing to several of his cronies. It was no small thing to be known to be on comfortable terms with a paragon like the Duke.

After some time, he bethought himself of his wife. The Duke had seemed to find Lucy pretty and it would not do his standing in the Duke's eyes any good if he were seen to be at odds with his wife.

He decided to seek her out to make amends but she was dancing a lengthy country dance with a young man.

The Marquess was still feeling too fragile to take part in the dance himself so he propped up a pillar under the musicians' gallery and waited for the country dance to end.

It was then that he heard the Duke's voice coming from the other side of the pillar. The man the Duke was with asked loudly, “And how did you find the Standishes?”

“Oh, very well,” came the Duke's lazy, husky voice, and the Marquess preened.

“But,” the Duke went on with quite dreadful clarity, “I would not have given either of 'em the time of day. He is a boor and she is a timid little mouse, but I promised Ann Hartford to be civil to them. I'm taking them with me to that archery contest at Blackheath and after I have paid my promises to Mrs. Hartford, with good luck, I may not have to trouble myself with either of them again.”

The red patches on the Marquess's face deepened almost to purple. He moved away quickly so that he would not be discovered. He writhed under the insult and yet he bitterly longed for Habard's friendship.

His friends had promised to attend the archery contest. And so he simply must go. He longed to confide his woes to a sympathetic ear. Lucy would simply say that they must not go and that they must have nothing to do with the Duke again.

She was
so
unsophisticated. And damn Ann Hartford for her patronizing ways, always poking her long nose into his affairs.

All he needed was a little feminine comfort and understanding.

Comfort.

All at once he thought longingly of Harriet, Harriet who understood better than anyone the trials and tribulations of a fashionable man.

Harriet had so far favored him above her other courtiers. That had made him envied and the Marquess needed to be envied. The fashionable life of London consumed him. It meant all the world to him. To be seen, to be noticed, to be envied—that was what he craved.

And that was what Lucy did not understand. The hold Harriet Comfort had over her husband was fashionable rather than sexual.

He blundered his way through the ballroom to the exit and found himself face to face with Ann Hartford.

“Ah, just the lady I was looking for,” he said cheerfully. “Do tell my wife, Mrs. Hartford, that I have the headache and must leave. Lucy will understand. She is having such fun t'would be a pity to spoil her pleasure.”

“Being abandoned by her husband is the only thing that is likely to spoil her pleasure,” said Ann tartly, but the Marquess smiled vaguely, affected not to hear, and took his leave.

When the country dance finished, Ann conveyed the Marquess's message to Lucy, bitterly watching the hurt and dismay in her friend's wide eyes.

“Then I had better go too,” said Lucy.

“Tish!” exclaimed Ann. “Habard! My Lord Duke. My friend Lady Standish is threatening to leave us, and all because my lord has left with the headache.”

Lucy found the Duke's eyes on her, strangely cool and calculating.

“I must go,” she said nervously. “Please do not try to detain me.”

The Duke bowed in indifferent acquiescence to her wishes and Ann sighed as Lucy hurried off.

Lucy could hardly wait to get home. She was consumed with guilt. It seemed to her now that her husband had every right to be furious with her. She had corrected him in front of the Duke, had made him sound like an absentee landlord. And she had sworn to be loving and gay and affectionate.

She decided, boldly, to go to her husband's bedroom as soon as she got home. He had obviously left on foot or had taken a sedan, since he had at least, thoughtfully, left the carriage for her. Poor Lucy did not for a minute realize her husband's “thoughtfulness” was simply prompted by a desire not to let the household servants know where he was spending the night.

She ran lightly up the stairs to her husband's bedroom and knocked at the door. Only the silence of the house answered her, a silence punctuated by the ticking and tocking and chiming of the many clocks.

She opened the door very gently. An oil lamp was burning on the toilet table. The bed curtains were drawn back and my lord's nightshirt was laid out on the bed.

But of the Marquess there was no sign.

Lucy went quickly to her room and went slowly to bed after telling her maid to awaken her early.

Her mind refused to think. Worn out and exhausted with emotion, she immediately fell asleep.

Lucy could not help hoping for a new start to her marriage as her maid helped her to dress in the morning.

The sun was shining down outside and the little square of sky she could see from her window was the same celestial blue as her cambric gown.

The dress was one of her favorites, having a double row of shell lace at the neck and wrists. It was high-waisted in the current mode, with a broad blue silk ribbon tied under the bosom and meeting in a bow at the back. White linen gloves, an amber necklace, a blue parasol, and a white chip bonnet completed the ensemble.

She refused to think about the ball, or even about the Duke of Habard. It was an outing, and she and her husband would at least be, in part, together.