The Golden Season (15 page)

The truth of the matter was that having spent half his life at sea, Ned knew precious little about ladies. Those he did know were either his fellow officers’ spouses and/ or those in his own immediate family. They were not like Lady Lydia. But no one was. And while his mirror confirmed he’d been allotted his share of the Lockton good looks and athletic build, his weeks in London had established that he was no “buck,” nor “dandy,” nor “Corinthian,” nor any of the other species of gentlemen Society adulated. Not that he aspired to be.

He did not understand the fashionable gentleman’s manners or affectations, his petty cruelties and outré contrivances, his extravagant ennui and childish quibbles. Yet Lady Lydia seemed to like these dandies—at least, she certainly she seemed to like Childe Smyth. Her greeting had been warm, her manner welcoming.

No, there seemed no sense in pursuing the acquaintance.

Except that he wanted to. And save for the day that he’d run off to join the navy—finally having had enough of the dramatics in his family—he’d done very little that he simply wanted to do, and for himself. Duty drove him; responsibility guided him.

But not when it came to Lady Lydia Eastlake.

Thoughts of her beset his nighttime musings and followed him through the day. He found himself recalling the atrocious accent she’d adopted at Roubalais’s and he would smile, wondering how she could honestly believe he would not recognize her as the woman from Roubalais’s shop. He kept going over their short conversation in Lady Pickler’s garden, finding pleasure in the unexpected honesty of that exchange, a rarity, he had since discovered, amongst the
beau monde
. He was haunted by the image of her looking up at him as the rain began falling, diadems of mist tangling in her hair and shimmering in her long, silky eyelashes.

Yes. He wanted to know her far better. But such a pursuit would be a waste of time and time, Josten kept writing to tell him, was running out. The creditors were getting nasty.

So instead, Ned concentrated on becoming acquainted with other young ladies of the
ton
. They were for the most part nice, agreeable young women in possession of many fine qualities. Dark- haired Jenny Pickler was very pretty and serious- minded, but her mother made any thought of courtship impossible. Besides, Borton had informed him that the Pickler fortune was entailed and thus belonged only to succeeding generations of Picklers. Lady Deborah Gossford was an accomplished pianist whose “bad teeth” proved to be nothing more than a slight overbite that Ned thought charming, but she dreaded water and declared she would not live near the sea. Lady Anne Major- Trent was very pleasant, but he could not think of anything to say to her.

It was simply happenstance that put Ned in front of Lady Lydia’s house the week after the Pickler party and during those hours when ladies generally received visitors. Just as it was simply good manners that had convinced him to present his card at her door. The footman took it and bade him wait while he inquired whether Lady Lydia was at home. A few minutes later Ned was ushered inside.

He took little note of the surroundings, although he did experience an impression of lightness and elegance. He followed the servant down the hall to the first door, amused by his anticipation and eagerness. The footman opened the door and stood aside as Ned entered. He saw her at once.

She sat on a dark gold settee in front of a south-facing window. The sun glazed in her dark brown hair and limned the curve of her cheek, turning her three-quarter profile into a cameo against the settee’s dark background. She smiled in delight and he wondered why he had stayed away and knew the answer: She ignited something in him unused and rusty, some part of him that reacted without consideration or hesitation, something that was therefore suspect.

“Captain Lockton,” she said, rising.

Now that he was here he felt awkward. Another uncomfortable and alien sensation; he never felt awkward. But his pulse had quickened at the sight of her and his gaze roved hungrily over her features. Yes. Skin as fine as ivory. Yes. Hair as glossy as a seal’s pelt. Yes. Eyes the color of brambleberries. Yes. A mouth made for kissing . . . Madness.

“Ma’am.” He bowed.

“Won’t you be seated, Captain?”

“Thank you.” He took a seat opposite her and only then realized they were not alone. Mrs. Cod sat motionless in a chair by the other window, softly snoring in a spot of sunlight. He looked at Lady Lydia, who laid a finger to her lips.

“Perhaps I should leave?” he suggested softly.

“Oh, no,” she replied calmly. “That won’t be necessary. Mrs. Cod is an inveterate snoozer. Only a loud sound will wake her. We can talk.”

Yes, if only he could think of what to say. Oh, there was much he
wanted
to say, questions about her family and her history, what things she considered important, what books she read, what people she admired, all the things that made up the fabric of who she was. . . . But custom demanded he posit only innocuous comments to which she would then frame equally innocuous responses. Though he’d found no trouble making that sort of polite chat with other ladies, he resisted it with her. Because he wanted the sense of intimacy with her he’d tasted at Lady Pickler’s luncheon, he realized.

“Another cold day,” he finally said.

“Yes,” she said, eyes lighting with amusement. “Very cold.”

“You have been well since Lady Pickler’s party?”

“Yes. Thank you. And you?”

“Good. Good,” he muttered. “Kind of you to ask.”

The amusement faded from her expression and her gaze dipped to her hands, folded serenely in her lap. “Nothing compared to the kindness you showed my friend, Mrs. Cod. I cannot tell you how grateful I am, Captain Lockton. I am indebted to you—”

“Not at all,” he broke in, embarrassed. He did not want her gratitude. He had done only what decency demanded. “Best to forget the incident.”

“I am afraid I cannot do that.”

He was surprised. Most people would eagerly accept an offer to void a debt they felt themselves to be under.

“Mrs. Cod means far too much to me to take for granted any act of kindness made on her behalf.”

He tilted his head. He’d forgotten his awkwardness now. She was not saying this because it was the appropriate sentiment, he realized. She sincerely loved her thieving companion.

“Mrs. Cod is fortunate in her friend,” he said.

Rather than blush and demure, Lydia laughed. “Not so fortunate as I am in her. What other chaperone would so conveniently nap when she knows I wish to hold a private conversation with someone?” Her nod directed him to glance at Mrs. Cod and be damned if the smallest of smiles, so quick he wondered if he’d imagined it, twitched across the plum dame’s face. By God, she was feigning the sleep.

And once again Lady Lydia had displayed that bracing, unconventional honesty—

Then the import of Lady Lydia’s other words struck him. She’d just told him she wanted to converse privately with him. His gaze swung to her just as a tap on the door preceded the footman’s entrance. At a small gesture from Lady Lydia, he brought her a card on his silver tray. She glanced at it and nodded. “Show them in, please, James.”

As soon as he left she asked, “Captain, do you know Mrs. Jonas Pendergast and her daughters, Mrs. Samuel Ballard and Mrs. Fitzhugh Hill?”

“No. I have not had that pleasure.”

“Then I shall have the happy duty of rectifying that,” she said and rose as the footman opened the door and a trio of ladies sailed in, their skirts swishing noisily, their faces alight with animation, and their hands outstretched in the manner of friends greeting one another.

He stood. They saw him.

Their hands dropped and their eyes widened. Their glances darted to Lady Lydia, and he was amazed to see pink stain her cheeks. Had his call embarrassed her? Were the unintelligible sidelong glances signaling some sort of disapproval? Or was there a far more detailed conversation going on, one to which he, as a man, was not privy? If he’d been aware of his relative unfamiliarity with ladies before, he was doubly so now. His quick easiness with Lyd—with Lady Lydia—vanished in front of these newcomers. Oh, he’d no doubt his manners would stand the test of any Society, but the naturalness of their earlier conversation had disappeared, and he regretted that.

The ladies were taking their seats, a flurry of fans and reticules being discarded, dresses rustling, sidelong glances as keen and assessing as a crow’s nest watch’s surreptitiously taking his measure. Now, Horatio Nelson himself had taken Ned’s measure and during those uncomfortable moments when he’d been called upon to account for his actions, he’d stood without a whit of self-doubt. But beneath these three pretty women’s gazes he felt himself quaking.

As soon as the introductions had been made and the requisite five minutes of niceties observed, he pardoned himself and retired from their company, though he suspected he did not so much retire as flee, much like a scow in front of an armada.

But he went back to Lady Lydia’s town house the next day and the one after that and the day after that and four times the following week. Each time his visits were bookended by that of other callers and curtailed. Still, it pleased him to be with her, to watch her interactions with others, to learn the vocabulary of her expressions, how easily her smiles came, how spontaneous her pleasure and sympathy.

The
beau monde
seemed to Ned both artificial and small, engorged on extravagance and excess. He would have thought her eye would grow weak if constantly bedazzled, her palate be dulled by a constant diet of the rich and fantastical, and that she would have lost the ability to be impressed, constantly surrounded as she was by the exotic and rare. But none of those things could be said of her. She immersed herself wholeheartedly in the moment, the conversation, and the experience.

It was fascinating. It was seductive.

The following week he presented himself at her door knowing full well that he was arriving before visitors would normally be received. The footman accepted his card and bade him wait. He stood at the door so long he’d begun to feel he would be turned away when it suddenly swung open not on the footman, but on a breathless, glowing Lady Lydia, a pert bonnet perched atop her chocolate-colored curls and a dun-colored pelisse over her shoulders.

“Ah, Captain Lockton!” she said. “I was just on my way out. There is a bit of shopping I neglected to finish this morning and . . . well, I believe that’s an actual peep of sun overhead, is it not?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, inclining his head and stepping out of her path. “Forgive me for calling so early.”

“Think nothing of it,” she said, moving down the steps toward the street.

Ned glanced about. Generally a person’s carriage would be waiting outside when they left their house, but Lady Lydia’s distinct yellow-wheeled barouche was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it was being repaired. Still, in that case he would suppose her footman should have arranged for a hired carriage to be waiting.

“May I find you a conveyance, Lady Lydia?” he asked.

“Ah . . .” She looked around, obviously a little rattled. “Oh. Yes. Yes. Thank you.”

He understood then. She’d decided to go shopping only after receiving his card. He had been too forward, his attention too marked, and she did not want to encourage him any further. He stiffened, surprised by the sharp pain the realization brought. He mustn’t allow her to know he understood this, as the knowledge would only embarrass and distress her.

He stepped into the street, raising his arm. Just past the gate leading into the residential circle, a hackney-man waiting for a fare lifted his whip in recognition and started toward them. Ned turned to Lady Lydia, smiling politely.

He would hand her into the carriage and he would not return to her house. He would see her at various functions and that would be enough.

It would be enough.

The carriage rocked to a stop beside them. He pulled open the door before the carriage driver could alight and pulled out the steps. Numbly, Ned extended his arm and she put her hand on his forearm. Even through his jacket and shirtsleeve he could feel the press of each slender finger like a brand. Her clasp tightened and he looked into her upturned face.

She was regarding him quizzically, a little furrow marking the space between her dark brows. He did not know what to say, how to explain himself. He stood disoriented by a sense of loss alien to him, but no less acute for that.

“Captain?” she said, her tone hesitant.

“Yes, ma’am?” he managed.

“I . . . Mrs. Cod is napping and . . . well, I am having friends to dine this evening and I should hate to rob my staff of another pair of hands in James, my footman. . . .” She swallowed, her violet eyes searching his. “Since you were visiting me anyway . . . I mean . . . if you have nothing else . . . no pressing appointment . . .” She trailed off and bit her lower lip, looking mortified.

Understanding unrolled through him like cool water in a parched riverbed; she wanted him to accompany her.

She wasn’t trying to discourage his interest. She had raced to dress in her bonnet and pelisse in order that they spend some time together without interruption from visitors. That is why she had been breathless. That is why there had been no coachman waiting. That is why she blushed so deeply.

She swallowed and looked away. “Of course, you have other things to do.”

He’d stood silent too long. Her face filled with bright color and her eyes shimmered with mortified tears as she fairly flung herself into the carriage, calling, “James! Please attend me!” and reached out to snatch the door shut.

He caught it before she could, then turned around to say to the advancing footman, “That won’t be necessary, James. I shall accompany Lady Lydia. If she allows me, that is?”

The footman looked askance at his mistress. Lady Lydia once more colored up, though this time not so brilliantly, and nodded.