The Gallant Guardian (15 page)

Surveying the tall, athletic figure, lean, tanned face, and gray eyes set deep under dark brows, Betty at last was able to place him. She had heard his name often connected with the dashing matrons of the fashionable world. “This is a most unexpected pleasure, my lord. Gossip says that customarily you confine your, ah,
interests
to the ladies of the
ton.”

Maximilian grinned. There was no false coyness here. He was going to enjoy dealing openly and honestly with this mistress for a change. “For once, madame, gossip is correct. However, situations change. Ladies of the
ton
are demanding. They expect nothing less than love or marriage for their attentions.”

“How very fatiguing for you, my lord.”

“Precisely. When I am with a woman, I wish to relax and enjoy myself and,” —his eyes traveled slowly from the dark ringlets tumbling over smooth, white shoulders to her voluptuously rounded bosom, slim waist, and the long line of her thighs— “I trust I do the same for them.”

Betty smiled slowly, luxuriating in the delicious tingle that his admiring gaze sent racing through her. “I am sure you do,” she murmured, licking her full bottom lip.

“Perhaps I could do the same for you.”

“Perhaps.” He had not moved an inch closer, but Betty could feel the heat from his body warming hers. Lord, he was handsome! She had not wanted a man so much in years, but she was not going to let a little thing like raging desire cloud her judgment. “We must discuss this further, my lord, but at the moment, I am desolated to say that I am late for an engagement. However, you may call on me tomorrow if you like. I shall be at home in my lodgings in Cadogan Place tomorrow in the afternoon after three o’clock.”

“I look forward to it eagerly.” Lord Lydon bowed low over the plump white hand that was extended to him before turning toward the door. He had not truly expected to be able to take this charming ladybird to dinner that very evening, but it had been worth the attempt. He had seen the desire in her eyes and sensed it in the parting of her full red lips. Her pride and her experience might have warned her not to accept his first invitation, but she wanted him, he had no doubt of that. Smiling to himself, he turned back just as he reached the door. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” she responded huskily.

~~~~

Tomorrow proved to be as satisfactory as each of them had anticipated that it might be. By the time the marquess left the slim house in Cadogan Place the sky was tinged pink with the setting sun. Madame Dufour, reclining languidly on her peach damask couch, was reflecting with a good deal of satisfaction on the skills of her latest lover. Not only was he wealthy, he was devastatingly attractive and knew exactly how to please a woman. Betty stretched luxuriously and smiled dreamily.

Not since the earliest days of her brief infatuation with Monsieur Dufour had she actually enjoyed lovemaking. Since then, all her relations had been as much a career as her acting had been and she had viewed them with the coldly professional eye of a business woman. But this,
this
had been different—not that she was in any danger of falling in love with Lord Lydon. In spite of what she might tell her lovers, Betty was not the least romantic, but the hungry gleam in the marquess’s eyes as they had rested appreciatively on her bosom, the insistent pressure of his lips on her skin as he had kissed her hand and then turned it over to kiss her palm and plant lingering kisses up the inside of her wrist, had left her shivering in anticipatory delight. In truth, he had taken not much more advantage of her than that, but his air of barely suppressed passion had made her as breathless and excited as if he had done a great deal more, and she looked forward eagerly to the time when he would do that great deal more.

Sauntering back toward Curzon Street and his own chambers, Maximilian was reflecting on his interlude with the charming actress with equal satisfaction. The sensuality she had exuded even on stage had not been an act. The red lips invited kisses; the seductively lowered lids hinted at the desire sparkling in her eyes; and the sensuous stretch of that magnificent body as she draped herself on the couch begged him to run his hands over its ripe curves. And he would do just that; oh, he would, but not quite yet. Seduction was an art, and rushing it only ruined the pleasurable anticipation.

He chuckled to himself. Freeing himself from the clutches of Isabella was proving to be more than merely regaining his independence; it was going to be extremely enjoyable. There was no question that Isabella would find out about his latest inamorata; the servant who had tracked him down at Harcourt for his mistress would have no trouble discovering the marquess’s liaison with Madame Dufour. In fact, he might be being followed at this very moment. Max did not even bother to look around. The only question was whether or not this relationship with the actress would make Lady Hillyard angry enough to break off with him or if Max would be forced to make the break.

In the meantime, he had a great deal to do outside of his amatory adventures. There was a stack of correspondence to answer, various merchants to contact about his next shipload going to India, and the former Earl of Harcourt’s chambers to deal with. That would not involve much for he would have the furniture and other belongings sent down to Harcourt and turn over any complicated affairs to his solicitor, but he did wish to go through his late friend’s correspondence to make sure that there were no nasty surprises, no unfinished business that might surface later to cause Charlotte grief. She had not alluded to anything that might cause her embarrassment or unhappiness, but the picture she had painted of the earl as a cold and distant parent left Max with the impression that she knew very little about her father and was hungry for any information that might make him more real to her. He felt certain that she would pore over all of her father’s letters in a desperate attempt to know him better, and he did not want her discovering anything that would tarnish her image of her father. The marquess had seen the loneliness in those deep green eyes, heard the longing in her voice whenever she spoke of the earl, and he was determined to leave her with the best memories of her father that he could possibly give her.

Chapter Seventeen

The next morning found Lord Lydon at the former Earl of Harcourt’s lodgings in Mount Street. Seating himself at a battered mahogany desk littered with papers, he began to go through the drawers carefully and methodically. All of the earl’s current and most pressing correspondence would naturally be on top, but the marquess was more interested in unearthing documents that would reveal something more about the man, letters that would have been important enough to him to save. Even a man so single-mindedly devoted to politics as the earl had been must have had some memento that he treasured, something that kept special memories alive for him.

Max opened the top middle drawer, which contained nothing but old keys, a pistol, and a few broken writing implements. The top drawers on the side revealed only old account books and a pack of cards. Finally, in the bottom right-hand drawer, way at the back, he felt something. Reaching deep inside the drawer, he pulled out two packets of letters, yellow with age and bound with a faded blue ribbon. Carefully he undid the ribbon and opened the first one, gently unfolding it and smoothing out the creases. It was covered in a childish scrawl, the words straggling haphazardly across the page at an oblique angle.
Dearest Papa,
it began.
We are well. I hope you are too. I am doing my lessons just as you told me, but I wish you would come home to us. We miss you. Your loving daughter, Charlotte.

The script on the next one was smaller and neater and the sentences marched smartly across the page. It thanked the earl for William’s pony and spoke glowingly of his progress with riding lessons. It went on in some detail about the writer’s own lessons with Dr. Moreland. Again the writer begged the earl to visit Harcourt, but there was no mention of missing him and it was simply signed
Charlotte.

There were others of increasing length and complexity and demonstrating improvement both in grammar and style. As they progressed, there was less and less mention of Harcourt, William, or any of the affairs at home and greater and greater discussion of the politics of the day. Maximilian could picture Charlotte poring over
The Times
and
The Edinburgh Review
searching for topics of interest to her distant parent. Had he answered her? the marquess wondered. There was never any reference to letters received, and Charlotte’s were all dated at six-month intervals. Had she gone on faithfully for years and years writing to a father who never replied, striving to discover a topic of sufficient interest to him to make him answer her?

Lord Lydon finished the last of the letters and stared blankly across the room into the cold dark fireplace, but he was not seeing the sooty bricks; instead, he pictured a pair of wistful, dark-fringed eyes and heard a soft voice saying
and after I could read, I discovered that his activities and speeches were often mentioned in
The Times
so I read it every day to follow what he was doing and to be able to write him letters that would be of interest to him.
His heart ached for the serious young girl who had tried so desperately to please her father.

Why had the earl not responded? Any man would have been proud to have such a daughter: capable, intelligent, demanding none of the gewgaws and pin money or the London Season that most gently bred young women considered their birthright. Had the earl been so cold and selfish, so bent on living his own life, that a daughter’s devotion meant nothing at all to him? Maximilian cast his mind back to the evenings spent at the card table with Hugo, trying valiantly to remember conversations, expressions, anything that might give a clue as to his feelings. True, the man had been single-mindedly devoted to his politics, but he had not been inhuman. In fact, the political causes he had given his support to were all humanitarian ones. He had been an outspoken and unremitting adversary to the slave trade and had worked tirelessly at reforming the poor laws. Why had someone so benevolent in spirit toward society at large been so begrudging of his interest and concern toward his own flesh and blood?

And what did he, Maximilian, care, anyway? The marquess shook his head ruefully. He had come a long way from wishing to hand over Lord Harcourt’s affairs to his solicitor to poring over his private papers in an effort to bring some happiness to his children.

What magic had Charlotte Winterbourne worked on him to effect such a complete change?

Carefully, Lord Lydon put the letters back in order and gently relied them with the ribbon before turning his attention to the other packet. This one contained more than letters, for on the top of it was an oval-shaped object, wrapped in silk—also yellow with age. Gingerly he pulled away the folds of material to reveal a miniature of…Charlotte. No, it was not precisely Charlotte, for on a second glance he could see that the features were more delicate, the mouth not quite so generous, the lips more delicately sculpted, the cheekbones not quite so high, and the forehead not quite so broad. But the eyes were the same—deep green, dark-fringed, eyes that revealed a lively mind and an inquisitive nature, eyes that looked directly into one’s soul.

Slowly Maximilian let out his breath, which he had been holding since opening the packet. He turned the picture over. On the back in a flowing hand was written,
My darling Maria 1770-1795.

Now he was beginning to understand. Hurriedly, he turned to the letters, opening them gently, reverently. They were written in two hands, one delicate and spidery and beginning
My dearest Hugo
and the other bolder, stronger, and addressed to
My darling Maria.
For a moment Maximilian hesitated, overcome with the uncomfortable feeling that he was intruding in a private and very sacred place, but then his glance fell again on the portrait, seeing those eyes, but not those eyes—other eyes, Charlotte’s eyes, filled with loneliness and yearning. Max read on, leafing carefully through the yellowed pages of shared dreams and tender outpourings.

In those days the earl’s absences had been kept to a minimum and he had obviously chafed at their necessity, looking upon the affairs that required them as a duty rather than a pleasure and something that detracted from his home fife rather than replaced it. But as Maximilian read on, he began to notice that though the earl inquired after his infant daughter, all his solicitude, all his anxieties over health and happiness were for her mother, and it almost appeared as though he asked after Charlotte simply to bring pleasure to Charlotte’s mother, his beloved Maria.

Max paused over one line in particular. I am distressed to hear of your being so anxious over the baby. You must take care that you do not wear yourself to a shadow over this. There are others who can help with the nursing, and you must not ruin your own delicate health, my love, in looking after her. Please take the utmost care of yourself and allow Tibbs to bear the burden of her care. You are not strong and I am frantic with worry over your own well-being.

The marquess gazed off into space, the letter clasped loosely in his fingers. That must have been it. Harcourt, with all its happy memories of Maria, would have been too much to deal with after her death. And the sight of his daughter, such a constant reminder of her adored mother, would have been more than the earl could bear. It had not been a lack of love, as Charlotte seemed to think, that had kept her father from Harcourt and his family, but an excess of it. Unhealthy though it might have been for Hugo to be so wrapped up in his wife at the expense of his children, it at least showed him to be a man capable of love instead of the cold and distant figure of Charlotte’s memory. And, following this line of reasoning, it also appeared that it was Charlotte and the memories evoked by her resemblance to her mother, not William and his disability, that the earl had been unable to face, that had kept him safely away in London and buried in his work.