Amy Lake (8 page)

“Oh!” 

“I beg your pardon,” said the viscount.  Some emotion I could not identify flashed across his face.  “I am truly sorry.  I can’t imagine what I was thinking.”

Regardless of who had started the kiss, he had broken it off.  He stepped away from me and I grabbed something—anything—to keep myself from falling over.  I tried to smile to let him know everything was alright, nothing to worry about, we can forget this ever happened, but my own lips were not up to the task.    

I must have been staring.

“Shall we return?”  He held out his arm to me.  I took it without thought, and we stepped back into the ballroom.

* * * *

The rules about such episodes are not as stringent as one might suppose.  A few high sticklers claim that a proposal of marriage must be made before the next sun sets, but most of our modern generation would agree that if discretion was maintained, and the young lady’s reputation suffered no harm, then why bother?  I was certainly a member of the latter group, and I can recall what a fuss we all made when Catherine Wilbreham was married off within weeks of having taken refuge in a garden folly—during the few minutes of a summer downpour—with the Earl of Waite.  Their marriage has not been a happy one, I regret to say.

Luckily enough, no-one had seen us, so I was a bit surprised when the viscount did not return me to my friends forthwith and make himself scarce for the remainder of the ball.  ’Twas the convention—another social cipher, if you will—to indicate that discretion had been maintained.

He asked, instead, if I might like a glass of punch.

“Oh.  Yes, thank you.”  It was the best I could do.

I stood bemused, he returned with the punch, and after a few minutes of conversation about the weather—manfully accomplished by his lordship, with my answers ranging from ‘ah’ to ‘hmm’— Cassandra showed up with Lord Jeremy in tow.

“Here you are!”

Thank the gods.  The Viscount of Cardingham bowed and made his leave, and I was left thinking that there might be something to the high sticklers’ point of view after all.  I certainly could no longer imagine any other man’s lips touching my own.

Chapter 10: A Viscount is not an Earl

I should have been suspicious when the countess met me at breakfast the morning after the Larkinton ball, all smiles and happy chatter.  My mother is never happy with me after large society entertainments.  I never look well enough, flirt well enough, or dance with a sufficient number of partners.

Not to mention she can be counted on to take breakfast in her own suite, at some time past noon.

“Regina!  How lovely!”

I had just poured my first cup of coffee and was, I admit, still bleary-eyed.  I force myself to arise at my usual time after a ball, and take a bit of exercise in Green Park.  Otherwise one simply becomes sluggish and drained.

“I understand from Lady Wexley that you had a
most
successful evening.”

What was this?  The Countess of Aveline, congratulating her daughter on a social accomplishment?  I looked up from my coffee, frowning.

“I cannot say that he is so handsome—the coat was rather severely cut, don’t you agree?—but he’ll do quite well for
you
.”

I had no idea of whom she spoke, and said so.

“Oh, la!  Don’t be so modest!  She and Lady Handleford saw you waltzing with the Viscount of Cardingham!”

My first thought—how can I be blamed?—was that the esteemed ladies had seen more than that.  My mind flashed to the kiss on the garden terrace, and I suppose I blushed, although the countess seemed not to notice.  She was in transports of joy.

“The Viscount of Cardingham!  Lord Davies, I believe, is he not?  And so rich, my dear, you would not credit it—”

How could she say the viscount was not so handsome?  He was the finest looking gentleman I’d ever seen.

“—and your father is prepared, I assure you, to give his consent at any moment the viscount would care to apply—”

Any of my thoughts that had been tarrying on the kiss, or the feel of the viscount’s hands against my back, came to an immediate halt.

“Madam,” I said, knowing that the countess would be stopped by nothing less than plain speaking, “I assure you that no application of any kind will be forthcoming from Lord Davies.  We shared a single dance.”

In truth I hoped I was wrong.  Not that I expected the viscount to propose marriage within the week, of course, but perhaps our relationship was, indeed, something more than one dance.  Unfortunately, to admit so to my mother at this juncture was only requesting trouble.  All London would be informed, and a modiste would be produced with plans for a wedding gown before tiffin.  I waited, in some anxiety, to see if evidence would be produced of my interlude with Lord Davies on the terrace.  But my mother did not pounce, and her expression returned to that disappointed
moue
which is her more usual regard of my unsatisfactory self.

But the disappointment was . . . a bit sharper, somehow.  And her next words brought me up short.

“Regina, my dear.  I’m afraid that simply will not do.  The earl and I have discussed this, and we’ve been most patient.  You have already turned nineteen, and ’tis past time to be on your own.”

Nineteen is not yet on the shelf, but one begins to feel spinsterhood’s approach.  Gods, I thought, feeling guilty and knowing at the same time that guilt was absurd.  On my own?  How?  They cannot complain that I have turned down proposals—well, there was Lord Sands, but even the countess did not promote his suit, he was clearly with pockets to let and in search of a rich wife—

Ah. 

I did not bother arguing further.  Lord Davies was not the sort of man to be the least affected by my father’s raised voice or my mother’s airs.  If he did not offer for me, even the countess could not force him to do so.

* * * *

But only two days later I spoke to Freddie, who turned up shortly after Miss Barre and I sat down to tea in the music room.  We had returned from a longish ride in the park and Cassie was just suggesting an expedition to Lock’s—the fine purveyor of hats—on St. James’s Street.

“This is utter nonsense,” said Miss Barre.  “Do not tell me you cannot afford a new bonnet.”

“Well, I suppose—”

“We are
going
to Lock’s.”

My brother sauntered in, all smiles.

“La, Reggie, I hear you’ve made a conquest!”

I sighed.  “Not the Viscount of Cardingham, again.  Freddie, I assure you I’ve endured enough of this from our mother.”

My brother affected shock—or I thought ’twas an affectation, until his next words.

“Not the viscount!  But ’twas all the talk last night at Whites!”

Those who say women are the gossips of society have never heard of a London men’s club.  Cassandra and I exchanged looks; in my case, one of alarm.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Oh, I say, is this the new music you’ve been practicing?”

I play the piano, fairly so.  My brother never shows interest in this activity.  “Freddie, you said something about Whites.”

“Lord Davies has two sisters, you know,” said Freddie, absently. 

“Of course I know he has two sisters,” I said.  “They paid a visit to Roselay only a sennight ago.”

“Twins, if you can believe it, and they are both of an age.  But the viscount has been out of London for
years
—”

“Two years, Freddie, ’tis not some inconceivable length of time.”

“They’ll need husbands, both of them.”

A conversation with my brother is an education in scattered thinking.  It does little good to hurry him along, as he only becomes more entangled.

“Indeed.” 
What did Lord Davies say?
  I wanted to scream, and controlled my tongue with some difficulty.  “Isolde and Carys are lovely girls,” I added.  “They can certainly find suitable husbands on their own.” 

Cassandra was following the conversation with a thoughtful expression, biting her lower lip.

“Wilfred—” 

Miss Barre always calls my brother ‘Wilfred’.  It annoys him no end.

“—are you saying that Lord Davies has announced his intentions to marry Reggie—at Whites?”

Freddie gave her his best attempt at a censuring frown.  “Well, no.  Not exactly.”  His face brightened.  “He isn’t going to marry her
at
Whites.”

“Don’t be an idiot.  What then, exactly, did he say?  Or was he even there?”

I wanted to know, too.  In fact I was ready to throttle it out of him. 

“Well, no.  Not the viscount himself, you understand.  But Peter Wilmott may have mentioned something,” said Freddie.  He sat in front of the piano and began fingering through the music, as if the ability to read it had suddenly been vouchsafed to him.

“Something.”

“Well, I cannot be expected to remember
exactly
.  But Peter heard from Lord Nattersfield, whose aunt knows the family, that the viscountess—”

I was confused for a moment, until I remembered—oh, of course.  Lord Davies’s mother. 

“The viscountess?” prompted Cassie. 

“Did I not just say?  She is said to want husbands for the girls as soon as ever, but a viscount, you know—”  Freddie, diverted by the music room’s enormous gilt mirror, stood up and began fussing with his cravat.  He turned to one side and the other, making adjustments.

 “I do not know,” said Miss Barre.

“Well, a viscount’s not an earl, is he?” 

“Nor a marquess.”

“Exactly,” said Freddie, as if all was now clear. 

“And?” said Cassandra.

“Well, one of the twins has her eyes set on Cathorn’s eldest.”

Cathorn’s eldest was Lord Adrian Cathorn, heir to the marquisate of Glay, and out of reach for a viscount’s daughter.  Or at least, a viscount’s daughter without connections.  I should be embarrassed, I suppose, that the penny only dropped at that moment. 

“So of course something needed to be done.  Old Fancher’s daughter was Glay’s first choice, according to Peter—”  Freddie nattered on.  I was in shock.

“—but you know she was engaged only a fortnight ago to Lord Sutton, and—“

But there were limits even to Freddie’s stupidity.  He broke off and his eyes, unwillingly, glanced my direction.

“Wilfred Knowles, you are an utter nodcock,” said Cassandra.  She grabbed my hand and we swept out of the room, although in my case, ’twas more of a stagger.

* * * *

“So Isolde’s
tendre
for Cathorn’s son is the only reason he has shown interest in me!” I said, bitterly, when Cassandra and I reached the sanctuary of my bedroom.  In the scenario Freddie sketched, my own value was in offering a connection to my high-ranked family, a prize the viscount would purchase on behalf of his sisters’ marital prospects.  ’Twas hardly an unusual transaction, and under other circumstances—with someone other than myself involved—I might have shrugged.

“Reggie—”

“Who better to recommend them to society than the Earl of Aveline’s daughter?”

“Fustian.  Lord Davies strikes me as a gentleman with far more sense. 
Breathe
, Regina.”

I was pacing the length of the room, near gasping, the simple day dress suddenly too tight at my neck.  I had always found the romantic machinations of the ton—families jockeying for position and greater wealth—rather depressing. Was true affection out of the question? Could a woman not hope to be more than a bargaining chip?

“And he doesn’t seem the type to be overly influenced by alliance with a marquisate,” added Cassandra.  “I’ve
told
you about the viscounts of Cardingham.”

“But with his own sister’s happiness at stake, certainly he—”

“Ah, yes,” interrupted Miss Barre. “Isolde.  I happen to know a bit of that story.”

I stopped, staring at her.

“Miss Davies has very little interest in the Marquess of Glay’s son.”

“But—”

“’Tis at her mother’s instigation.  The viscountess fears that Carys will not take so easily, and believes that a splendid marriage on Isolde’s part will smooth the way.”

 “How do you know all this?  Why have you said nothing?”

“Because ’tis all nonsense, and nothing whatsoever to do with you and the Viscount of Cardingham.”

“Nothing!  Of course it—”

“Reggie, just consider.  You’ve waltzed with that gentleman twice.  And from what I understand, he can hardly keep his hands from you.”

I’m quite sure I blushed.

“Did he act like he was being put upon?”

I collapsed into the nearest chair.  “No,” I admitted. 

No.  He did not act so.  And despite the countess’s persistent efforts to detail my many deficiencies and failings as a daughter, my own estimation of self-worth was not so low.   I did not find it impossible to believe that a man could enjoy my company. 

I also had the advantage of feeling Lord Davies’s lips against mine only a few evenings past.  I had not imagined
that
interest.

Chapter 11: Mother and Sisters

The Viscount Cardingham slept little the night after the Larkinton ball.  His dreams, when he did drop off for a brief spell, were not peaceful.  He dreamed of a green-eyed young woman, with fair skin and a slender waist, he dreamed of words whispered under a silent moon, he dreamed of kisses shared in a bed.

He accomplished little during the course of the next day, finally escaping to Whites after a nuncheon taken alone.  The talk at the club, predictably, centered around Peter Wilmott and Alice Montvale.

“She is taking him back,” confided Lucien Cranfield.

“So we will be spared more weeks of such moping?”

“One hopes.”

Lord Peter arrived shortly thereafter, and confirmed that Miss Montvale
might
be agreeable to a resumption of their engagement.

“She is willing,” he said, “provided that there are no similar . . . activities in the future.”

He did not seem quite as happy as one anticipated, thought Talfryn.

“Well, you’re in for it now, my boy,” said Cranfield.  “One broken engagement is bad enough; a second time will be impossible.”