Banished to Brighton by Sydney Jane Baily

Chapter Fifteen

“Nonsense,” Hargrovesaid. “Put whatever you’re thinking right out of your pretty head. You’re here to help me charm the woman, remember? If you get in wrestling match with her, we shall both be sunk.”

“I know my own property,” Glynnis insisted.

Mrs. Fitzherbert was twirling her white silken umbrella while bending low to peer at something in the jeweler’s window.

“Maybe it simply looks like yours, just like the last one.” He glanced around. “See for yourself. Every one I see is the same.” He gestured to others walking around them.

But the viscount was wrong. True, her parasol was the same white mulberry silk lined with white tussore silk as nearly every woman’s on the street. However, it didn’t have an ivory or bone ferrule, but rather a shiny brass tip, which she was plainly visible along with its fetching tan-colored tassels. The two of them whipped around in a dizzying dance.

And while she couldn’t see the handle clasped in Mrs. Fitzherbert’s hand, this time she had no doubt it was ivory with a spiral carving and not the wooden one of Mrs. Bertram.

“It is mine! I know it,” Glynnis said, beginning to quicken her steps.

Hargrove put a hand to her upper arm and stopped her. “What do you think you are doing?”

She glanced from where his fingers branded her arm with his heat then back to his face, which currently wore a severe expression.

“I am going to demand it back,” she told him.

“You are not.”

“I am.”

“Mrs. Fitzherbert might not have been recognized as a legitimate consort by Prinny’s royal parents or by Parliament or even by the Church of England, but he adores her nonetheless. And she can be a little, shall we say, unpredictable. I don’t want you angering her and then having her tell the prince about it. It could go very badly for you.”

“But she has my parasol.” Glynnis managed to keep the whine out of her voice with great difficulty. She was not wrong this time.

“Doubtful,” Hargrove said. “Was she even at that first picnic?”

“I don’t recall,” Glynnis said truthfully, “but somehow she got her hands on it.”

“Regardless, you cannot confront her. It’s a damned umbrella, and you are behaving beyond all reason. Why haven’t you bought another one?”

“More to the point, why does she even need it?” Glynnis asked, feeling spiteful. “She is a bit long in the tooth to worry about the sun damaging her face now.”

“Hush,” Hargrove bit out. “If you’re overheard, you’ll lose favor with her and then with him for certain. If it is yours, which I highly doubt, then probably someone picked it up and set it inside the Pavilion where she found it. She merely didn’t want it to go to waste.”

“Then she won’t be offended if I tell her it is mine.”

Mrs. Fitzherbert had moved on from the jewelry store and was getting farther from them, still twirling the parasol as she strolled. It was almost as if she were taunting Glynnis, who could see her little tassels waving to her.

“I will simply tell her I would like it back.”

“No,” he insisted. “It will embarrass her.”

“Then what do you suggest? Do you see the strong sun beating down upon me?” she fumed.

“As I said before, let’s go to a notions’ shop at once, and you can buy another.”

“I cannot,” she said softly.

“Why?” he pressed.

Thinking of her situation of near destitution, she felt tears prick her eyes as the last glimpse of her parasol turned the corner and was lost to her.

He waited.

“I cannot,” she repeated loudly and clearly, then spun on the toes of her shoes and began walking in the opposite direction. What point was there to being on a street with shops when one hadn’t a spare farthing?

Hargrove caught up to her in a flash.

“Are you well?”

She considered her situation, even as they passed by Hanningtons, a large shop selling not only parasols but every other capricious or practical desire, from gloves, fans, hats, stockings, to painted feathers and fancy buttons. She sighed and peered at the clipping from the Brighton Herald stuck prominently upon one window:

“New and elegant Assortment of Goods ... at unusual Low Prices.”

“Better yet,” Glynnis said, knowing she sounded confrontational, “let’s go in here and you can buy a parasol for me.”

Instead of being affronted, he laughed.

“You are always very free with my money. Did you enjoy your almond tart?” he asked by way of reminding her of his previous generosity.

She shrugged. “You have plenty, don’t you?” she challenged. If she pricked his nobleman’s pride, perhaps he would stop this pointless discussion and simply buy her a blasted silk umbrella.

But looking directly at her, he shot back, “I do, as do you. Don’t you? Or do you race through the allowance of a viscount’s daughter, like a spendthrift and now seek to go through my income as well?”

That remark was like a slap to the face.

“I assure you I am quite frugal.” He had no idea. She could squeeze a penny until it cried.

“Then you ought to have enough for a trifle like a parasol,” Hargrove persisted.

“Why are you being so unchivalrous and ungentlemanly and ... and miserly?” She was ready to stamp her foot like a child.

But he laughed again. “I am not. But you are not my responsibility. It would appear strange for me to be buying you presents, would it not? Where is that wretched fiancé of yours who should be buying you baubles and bonnets?”

The tears threatened again and Glynnis raised her eyes heavenward for a second. When she believed they wouldn’t spill over, she looked at him again. She wanted to tell him there was no fiancé and that she was facing the world by herself. But she couldn’t. She knew what he thought of her actions in London. If he discovered she’d lied about being engaged, he would bolt so fast, she would see nothing but a blur of breeches.

“My fiancé will be here soon enough,” she said, recalling her dinner with Lord Dodd that very evening.

In any case, for some reason, her words wiped the smile from his face.

“Will he?”

“Yes.” She looked away, tired of lying to him and to herself. “Anyway, I don’t need a parasol. My hat is doing the job perfectly and keeping my hands free.”

“To do what?” he asked, offering a sly look.

“You are incorrigible. I’m going back to my hotel,” she said.

“Not yet.” And Hargrove opened the door of Hanningtons for her. “I cannot possibly pass up ‘unusual low prices.’ Let me buy my friend a parasol.”

***

JAMES HAD THE SUDDENand terrible notion that Miss Talbot really didn’t have any money. It would make clear why she starved herself some days and moaned over the loss of a hat or a pair of shoes or even paltry gloves, for that matter. He didn’t know any other ladies of the ton who didn’t have a dozen of everything and yet ordered more of each on a whim.

However, she seemed truly distressed over a parasol and willing to incur the wrath of someone as powerful as Mrs. Fitzherbert, even if Prinny had moved on to sharing his bed with Lady Hertford. James would hate to see Miss Talbot given the cut direct by the Prince Regent over such a silly matter.

He would buy her a damn parasol if only to see her soft brown eyes look happy again, rather than glistening with tears. And where was that damned fiancé? Aberavon was negligent at best. Moreover, why was a viscount’s daughter traipsing around unchaperoned and perhaps with insufficient funds to her name?

He didn’t like it, not one bit.

Thus, he ushered her into the store, known for selling linens, mercery, haberdashery, and hosiery. Assuredly, it would have something to suit Miss Talbot.

“Why don’t you choose a colorful one. Green or orange, perhaps?” he suggested. Then she might not lose it so readily.

She looked at him as if he were a simpleton.

“I would need one for every gown in that case,” she said. “The best parasol is plain to match with anything at any event. Although I do like that blue one.”

He watched her linger at a dusky blue parasol with frills before taking hold of a white one. It looked similar to the one she’d almost wrested from Prinny’s one-time wife, except this one had not only two tassels but a small tassel at the end of each rib. He could see that additional bit of whimsy pleased her.

“A perfect-sized handle,” she said, wrapping her fingers around it, giving him a flash of entirely inappropriate thoughts regarding her fingers around an equally hard part of his person.

“Not too heavy so as to be tiring,” she continued, oblivious to his wildly libidinous thoughts, “not too thick as to be clumsy, nor too thin so as I might lose my grip upon it.”

His mouth dropped open slightly. James had no idea there were so many factors to choosing such a utilitarian object as an umbrella.

When she was satisfied with her choice, he paid for it with ready coin from his purse before slipping it back into his pocket. Easy as that, they departed the shop.

“Thank you. It was very kind of you.” She seemed sincerely grateful.

“I was glad to oblige you, Miss Talbot.” He was. What’s more, seeing her happiness, he wished he’d done it sooner before she’d been brought to the brink of tears.

As soon as they were on the pavement, she popped it open, and he stooped to peer under it, amazed at how brilliant her smile despite the sun no longer shining on her face.

His breath caught slightly. How was it that Miss Talbot grew more enchanting each day?

“What now?” she asked, as if they had agreed to an outing or to spending the day together.

“I was going to wait a few minutes and then call upon Prinny to see if he’ll allow me to bring the art to him. Or to force him to look at my crude descriptions of what I’ve brought. I know he’s disappointed, but I believe he will like something.”

“I asked you once if I could help. Maybe if I saw the art first, then I could accompany you and express to the prince my enjoyment of it.”

James hesitated. That would mean taking her back to his home. Alone.

Yet she looked so earnest, he heard himself agreeing. In less than ten minutes, they were at his front door, which remained unlatched until nightfall. He pushed it open and they walked into the foyer where they stood awkwardly.

He considered calling for the butler who came with the house. Mr. Sparks was probably in the back with his feet up drinking James’s tea — hopefully not his brandy — as he was not expected back until later.

“Set down your parasol, Miss Talbot. No one will steal it here.” In turn, he put his hat and gloves on the hallstand.

She had nothing else to remove, at least not if this was to remain a decent encounter. Therefore, he gestured toward the stairs.

“The art is in a bedroom.”

“Oh!”she uttered.

That one little word and the way her cheeks pinkened were nearly his undoing. James wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her up the stairs, although that was never as easy nor as romantic as one hoped. Usually, there was an awkward amount of huffing and puffing, occasionally a staggering at the top on the landing before that blissful moment when one could set the dead weight of a relaxed woman upon the bed.

These feminine creatures looked like froth and air and light, but they felt like a huge sack of unwieldy coal.

Watching her ascend in front of him, he could not return his wayward thoughts to civility. Rather, they were playing in the lowest level of impropriety, of lusty actions and wicked wantonness.

When they reached the landing, he said, “One more flight up, I’m afraid.”

She turned and shot him a smile, as if to say that was no matter. And again, he followed her luscious figure, with her round bottom making the merest outline of an appearance at each step.

When she turned toward the front bedroom, he had to reprimand himself for almost allowing her to go the wrong way, which would lead to an entirely different showing than one of art.

“No, not that door,” he said. “That’s my room.” He enjoyed the sea view and the breeze in the night. Swallowing his desire, he added, “The other end of the hall. The last door.”

He went in ahead of her and considered the crated contents. With ease, he removed the wooden top of the first one and drew out one of the smaller paintings. Holding this up for her perusal, he waited.

While he hadn’t expected her to adore it, he also hadn’t expected the look of dislike, quickly shuttered over to one of neutrality.

“Maybe it’s the way the sunlight is streaming in here so brightly, but the painting does seem to be rather dark.”

He sighed. “Yes. They are all like that. But in a large room with some grandeur, it could be the perfect decoration.”

She nodded, and he put it back, drawing out a vase of peacock blue porcelain and gold overlay.

Miss Talbot smiled, and he thought it worth more than the entire roomful of art.

“Now that should please him,” she said. “How could it not?”

“Because he is the unpredictable Prince George. But I do think he will like some of these pieces. If not for here, then for Carlton House.”

“They should be on public display,” she mused. “As they were at the Louvre.”

“If Prinny has them, they practically will be. He has so many parties, anything in his homes is widely seen.”

“I suppose.” Uninvited, she lifted the lid on another crate and peered in. It was one of the few statues he’d secured and also had a sheet over it.

Drawing this aside, she ran a finger over its marble arm, making him lusty again.

“That’s rather splendid,” she proclaimed.

She was splendid! But he came to stand beside her and raise the other edge of the sheet.

“I think so, too,” he said. “No one has seen it outside of Paris or Prussia, except for me and you.”

She glanced at him and gave her saucy smile. “I’m honored.”

He wanted to kiss her, and the honor would be entirely his.

A fiancé,he reminded himself, dropping the sheet and moving as far from her as he could.

To his amazement, she followed him, getting too close, looking at his face with the same attention she’d given the pieces of art.

“Shall we?” she asked, and he would vow her voice had dropped to a purring tone.

“Shall we?” he croaked, repeating her words, unable to take his gaze from her upturned face.