The Gallant Guardian (14 page)

There was nothing like the warmth in Charlotte’s welcoming smile as he strode into the room or the appreciative light in her eyes when he made some particularly telling point in one of their frequent discussions. And there was nothing so rewarding as William’s pride and pleasure at being in the company of
a real Trojan,
as he insisted on labeling the marquess.

While Lady Hillyard in the country was unavoidable, Lady Hillyard in the city was much more easily ignored. Lord Lydon could see from the determined look in those blue eyes that the flirtation was over. The lady’s pursuit was in deadly earnest, and if he wanted to escape her clutches, it was, as he had previous decided, high time to give her, her
conge
.

“Lady Charlotte may do as she wishes, but I must return to London soon. I have left my affairs in the hands of others far too long.” Max was almost certain that his removal to London would draw Lady Hillyard back to the metropolis while his ward would remain at Harcourt, but he could not help being gratified by the disappointment he saw in Charlotte’s eyes. It was not until he actually saw that expression that he realized how much he had hoped that she and her brother would want him to stay with them at Harcourt. Heretofore, he had worked sedulously to avoid any sense of obligation or relationship in which he would think twice about saying good-bye, but now, inexplicable though it was, he rather relished the thought that he would be missed.

“How convenient. I am just about to return to town myself for I have several social engagements that cannot be put off. I should be delighted to have you as an escort, my lord.” Isabella smiled triumphantly.

This was a bold move even for Lady Hillyard, and Maximilian, catching the ironic glint in his ward’s eye, could not help looking somewhat shamefaced as he gave in to this barefaced manipulation, but he did so with a marked lack of enthusiasm. “Very well, but I warn you that I travel at a shocking pace, and I travel very light.”

Lady Hillyard was forced to be satisfied with this concession and, having gained her point, bade good-bye to Charlotte without even nodding in William’s direction, and held out her arm for the marquess to lead her to her carriage. Charlotte and her brother were left to their own rather uncomfortable reflections.

William, at least, was very clear in his reaction to the marquess’s upcoming departure. “Charlie, I don’t want Lord Lydon to leave. Make him stay with us.”

“I cannot do that, dear. His lordship is a very important man with many pressing affairs back in London that need his attention.”

“But…but,
we
need him and we are having such a good time here.”

“We
are
having a good time, but he has many people in town who need him too.”

“Maybe if I told him how much we wanted him to stay here he would stay.”

“That is very sweet of you, dear. I am sure he knows we want him to stay, but he cannot.”

“It is that pretty lady who made him go, isn’t it, Charlie? She is very pretty, but I don’t think she likes us.”

“She is just not used to people like us. Now run along to the schoolroom, dear. Dr. Moreland will be along directly and I must finish the accounts I was working on.” Charlotte followed her brother from the drawing room, glad for the distraction of the bills.

William might have been entirely sure of his reaction to Lord Lydon’s imminent departure, but his sister was not sure of hers. In fact, she was a mass of conflicting emotions, but the primary one she felt was relief—relief that she would not have to observe Lady Hillyard’s fawning attentions to the marquess or endure her condescending air toward herself and William; relief that she would not have to wonder about the hungry look that stole into Lady Hillyard’s eyes every time they rested on the marquess, relief that she would not have to speculate any longer on whether or not he felt that same hunger.

At first Charlotte had been certain of Lord Lydon’s lack of enthusiasm for Lady Hillyard, but the more Charlotte had observed them together, the more she became convinced that the two of them had a history, had shared some intimate connection in the past, and perhaps shared one now. Charlotte felt distinctly uncomfortable with those observations. It was all very subtle—a glance here and there, an air of familiarity as Lady Hillyard took the marquess’s arm—but Charlotte felt it, nevertheless, and suffered a host of conflicting emotions that came along with it. First and foremost among those was a dislike for the lady herself. Charlotte had mistrusted Lady Hillyard’s motives and she disliked seeing her guardian under the cat’s paw, especially the paw of this particular cat.

From disliking the marquess intensely at first, Charlotte had begun to have a certain grudging admiration for him and now she was beginning to realize that she actually wanted to look up to her guardian. At any rate, she did
not
want to think of him as just some town beau who could be led around by a beautiful woman.

But there was more to it than that. There was an undercurrent—intense and inexplicable—between Lady Hillyard and the marquess that Charlotte could not really identify, inexplicable but no less powerful or unsettling. Somehow it made her see Lord Lydon as a man rather than as a guardian, and a very attractive man at that. It was as though she were seeing him through the hungry eyes of Lady Hillyard, noticing things she had never noticed before: the powerful shoulders, slim hips, long legs, square jaw, and well-shaped hands. Thinking this way made her feel as though the breath were being squeezed from her body and there was a fluttery sensation at the pit of her stomach. Charlotte did not like these sensations; it was unnerving in the extreme and made her feel like quite another person altogether, not the sensible, capable Charlotte Winterbourne she was accustomed to being.

Now the marquess’s visit was coming to a close and she and William could return to the peaceful, comfortable existence they had enjoyed before the arrival of Lord Lydon and Lady Hillyard. Charlotte heaved a sigh of relief as she turned her attention to the accounts lying on the desk, but the figures in front of her kept blurring and slipping away to be replaced by mental images of her guardian, his face intent as he proved some point to her in one of their after-dinner discussions, or his broad shoulders bent over the chessboard in friendly competition. In fact, the days and evenings stretched empty before her, and the life which had previously been busy and full now appeared dull and sadly flat. It was not an enlivening prospect and it was made even less so by the certain knowledge that Lord Lydon would not have a thought to spare for them as he immersed himself in all the delights that London had to offer.

Charlotte shook her head, blinked, and tried again to focus on the figures before her. At least the marquess’s absence would force the departure of the odious Lady Hillyard. What a piece of work
she
was, so determined to attach Lord Lydon. From the gentleman’s reaction, it was obvious to Charlotte that she would catch cold at that. After all, the Marquess of Lydon
did
have the reputation of being a rake and a libertine; and libertines were not the sort of men to be easily caught in the parson’s mousetrap. He had certainly not bothered to deny his reputation. The one time Charlotte had been close to learning more about this reputation, she had let him slip on to other topics of conversation before she found out anything. What had he truly done to deserve the raised eyebrows and horrified expressions on the faces of Lady Winslow and her daughters or the knowing glint in Almeria’s beady black eyes?

There had been nothing in his conduct at Harcourt that was not perfectly gentlemanly, but perhaps that was because Charlotte was not the sort of person men did ungentlemanly things to. She sighed. Perhaps she and William were better off without him. People rarely changed, and undoubtedly his libertine propensities would have asserted themselves sooner or later and she would have felt responsible for any repercussions in the neighborhood. Yes, it was better that he was going, but still she could not help wondering how he acted with a woman to whom he was attracted, for there was no denying that the Marquess of Lydon was a fine looking man—
a real Trojan,
as her brother would say. Charlotte smiled at the thought.

Chapter Sixteen

Much as his ward had predicted, Maximilian reverted to his libertine propensities almost immediately upon returning to the metropolis, but this arose less from an inclination for these rakehell pursuits than from a wish to avoid the presence of a particular female.

The night after his arrival in town he put in an appearance at the theater with the intention of selecting a new mistress from the
corps de ballet.
As luck would have it, there was a performance of
Othello
and Max, a fervent admirer of the bard’s skill in portraying the weaknesses of humanity, became so involved in the drama of jealousy and treachery that he almost forgot the purpose of his visit. Fortunately, a glint of candlelight on a blond head in a box opposite him reminded him of Isabella and her determined pursuit and brought his mind back to the issue at hand.

Act Three brought the appearance of Bianca, whose coyly seductive air toward Cassio betrayed an actress who was either very good at her profession or perfect for the role the marquess had in mind for her. His mind now at ease, Lord Lydon had a note conveyed to the lady requesting permission to visit her in her dressing room after the performance and expressing the hope that she might join him for a delicious private supper.

Ordinarily Maximilian preferred to woo his mistresses more slowly and seductively, but circumstances were pressing, and if the lady were to respond favorably to such a bold invitation, he would know he was dealing with someone experienced enough to know what she was doing.

He had chosen well. Madame Dufour was a woman of the world. The former Betty Trimble had left her village in Yorkshire in the wake of a traveling theater company at the tender age of fourteen, attracted as much by the free and adventurous life of traveling performers as by the charms of the French actor and dancing master Monsieur Dufour. It was unclear, even to members of the troupe, as to whether or not the nuptial knot had actually been tied; certainly they had lived together as husband and wife and she had been the picture of wifely outrage whenever his roving eye was attracted to other women. As this had occurred more often than not, their relationship had grown as antagonistic as any real marriage and had served to convince anyone who knew them that they were in fact husband and wife.

The strain in an already dramatic relationship was only increased by the rising popularity of Betty and the declining health of her
husband,
who was as fond of the bottle as he was of pretty women. Eventually, having fallen headfirst into a small brook during a drunken stupor, he departed this world leaving Betty with a suitably exotic name, a smattering of French and charmingly accented English, and a healthy cynicism where men were concerned.

Her success in the provinces had encouraged Betty, now Madame Dufour, to try her luck in the capital. Bidding a fond farewell to the troupe who had, to all intents and purposes, been her family for the last six years, she had signed on as understudy to one of the lesser actresses at the New Theatre Royal. Her cheerful personality and her ability to get along with even the most temperamental members of the company soon won her friends as well as the gratitude of the management, who saw to it that she was rewarded for her diplomacy by giving her bit parts that allowed her to demonstrate a genuine acting ability. This recognition allowed her to put into action the second half of her plan, which was to attract the attention of a wealthy protector, or if possible, several.

It was no time at all before Madame Dufour had captured the eye of a Mr. Bickerstaff, a successful banker with a penchant for aping his betters. Having built himself a mansion in Russell Square and acquired both a barouche and a curricle, he concluded that the next step toward establishing himself as a man of the world was to begin a liaison with a mistress—not a mistress so fashionable and so well known as to be demanding and expensive, but someone recognizable enough to make his friends green with envy. Madame Dufour was the perfect choice. In fact, the only drawback to the entire affair was that the lively thespian refused to let him set her up in a snug little house in Marylebone, but only allowed him to shower her with expensive trinkets. “For though I am extremely grateful for your generosity, sir,” Madame had explained graciously, “I should never wish to take you so much for granted as to depend on you for my support. Such arrangements inevitably kill all possible romance.” She had fluttered her dark lashes at him in a most affecting manner, one that never failed to make his pulses quicken. “And I, as you well know, am incurably romantic.”

If the truth were told, Madame Dufour had resolved never to be entirely beholden to one man again and had deemed it expedient to keep all her options open, should a more lucrative or more attractive situation present itself. Fingering the thick creamy paper and observing the forceful flowing script of the marquess’s invitation, she decided that just such a situation had presented itself. Betty, or Lise, as she preferred to call herself, smiled dreamily at her reflection in the looking glass as she removed the last vestiges of paint. Lord Lydon—she had certainly heard of him, but she could not quite remember him. Her delicately arched brows drew together in a charming frown as she tried to place him. No matter—she pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to bring just a little attractive color to them—he was the Marquess of Lydon, and that was enough for her.

Her pensive frown deepened. No matter who he was, she was not going to be so easy as to allow him to take her to dinner upon their first encounter. No, a woman had to have standards, no matter how attractive the proposition.

“My Lord Lydon,” her maid announced. And as Betty rose to greet her admirer, she acknowledged to herself that the Marquess of Lydon was an
extremely
attractive proposition.