The Scoundrel’s Daughter by Anne Gracie
Chapter Ten
That swine Bamber has been threatening Alice again, damn his impudence!” Thornton told James. It was early morning, the dew was still on the ground, and James and Thornton were on horseback. After a good fast gallop to sweep the cobwebs away, they were now walking their mounts and talking. Hyde Park was almost deserted, except for a family that rode out together most mornings.
James gave him a sharp look. “Threatening? How?”
“Sent her a note complaining that the girl wasn’t being seen with enough lords—can you believe the fellow’s insisting his daughter must marry someone titled?” He snorted. “He also sent a copy of one of the letters he’s blackmailing her with, threatening to make it public.”
To whom had she written those letters, James wondered again. “Did you see it?”
“No, she burnt it.”
They rode on. James was thoughtful. Why would Bamber send Alice a copy of one of her own letters? To frighten her? It obviously had, if she’d told Gerald about it. But she’d burnt it, so she obviously was too ashamed to let him see it.
“Has Radcliffe’s man—what was his name again?—discovered anything yet?”
Thornton nodded. “Heffernan. He’s good, I’ll give him that. He hasn’t found Bamber—he’s a slippery bastard—but he’s already discovered a number of men who’ve been cheated by Bamber.”
“Cheated? How?”
“All kinds of cheats and swindles. You name it—financial schemes that turned out to be false, counterfeit deeds and certificates, fraudulent share schemes, card cheats, the sale of land he didn’t own. Quite inventive, really.”
“And blackmail?”
Thornton’s mouth twisted. “Harder to tell, according to Heffernan. Blackmail is the kind of thing people are more likely to deny, to hide. Cheat them out of their life savings and they’ll scream the house down, but blackmail them and they’ll deny there was ever anything to be blackmailed about. Understandable, I suppose.”
A breeze sprang up as they were passing under a spreading oak, and drops of water spattered down on them.
“None of the men we questioned knew anything about his daughter, howev—”
James twisted in his saddle to stare at Thornton. “Good God! You didn’t ask them directly?”
“Of course I didn’t,” Thornton retorted irritably. “I know better than to draw the attention of angry, vengeful men to Bamber’s daughter. Lord, they’d have the girl for breakfast.” He brushed water droplets off his coat. “I simply asked whether they knew of any family—as a way of contacting him. None of them knew a thing.”
“And you believe them?”
Thornton nodded. “If they had any way of contacting him, they would have done so, believe me. His victims are out for his blood. The fellow has to be one step away from a one-way journey to Botany Bay, if not a lynching. No wonder he’s so hard to find.”
“All the more reason to keep these inquiries discreet. I won’t have Lady Charlton and Miss Bamber bothered any further by Bamber’s nonsense than they already have been.”
Thornton gave him a quizzical look. “You won’t have my aunt bothered?”
James gave him a level look. “No.”
“Then perhaps I should ask you again about your intentions in that direction.”
“My intentions?” James responded. “Breakfast. My girls will be up and dressed by now. I don’t want to keep them waiting. We always take our breakfast together. ’Morning, Thornton. Thanks for keeping me up to date with the investigation.”
“But I meant—” Thornton began, but James was already cantering away.
* * *
Gerald’s visit to the Horse Guards had been an eye-opener. He’d found it fascinating working with Heffernan over the last few days, but it had been even more interesting listening to Tarrant and Radcliffe discussing the situation in post–Napoleonic Europe, on which they’d spent quite some time in that initial visit, before moving on to the question of Bamber.
He’d never given much thought to what happened after a war was won—or lost—but it was clear from their talk that a war of a different kind was being conducted on a number of different fronts, only now it wasn’t called war—it was called diplomacy.
Gerald had always assumed diplomacy was a dull kind of career, where dull people attended dull functions and made or listened to endless dull speeches. He hadn’t realized that under that smooth, polite surface appearance, all kinds of exciting things could be happening.
Several times during the discussion he’d felt Radcliffe’s gaze resting on him with a thoughtful expression. Once this Bamber problem was dealt with, he might investigate the possibilities of the diplomatic service. It would be a change from frittering his life away with curricle races and card games and boxing matches, endlessly waiting for his father to allow him some responsibilities.
But first, the hunt for Bamber. It was all very well for Aunt Alice to assure him that the Bamber girl knew nothing about her father’s whereabouts, but Gerald wasn’t convinced. Aunt Alice was a soft touch, and Lucy Bamber—well, she was a tricky, twisty piece. He didn’t know quite what to think of her. She attracted and annoyed him in equal quantities. And she occupied far too much of his thinking time.
He decided to ask her straight-out, face-to-face. He fancied himself a reasonable judge of character: if she lied to his face, he would know.
To that end, he sought out her and Alice in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour. His aunt was in her favorite burgundy pelisse, and Miss Bamber was walking on the arm of a large, neatly attired gentleman, smiling up at him with every appearance of interest.
Gerald ground his teeth. What the devil was she doing with that crashing bore Humphrey Ffolliot? And what the devil was he doing to make her smile up at him like that, curse him?
She was looking exceptionally pretty in shades of yellow, a breath of sunshine beneath a flower-trimmed straw bonnet that framed her face charmingly.
This was an investigation, he reminded himself sternly. He was not swayed by charm—hers or any other female’s. He drew up beside them, greeted the ladies, gave a curt nod to Ffolliot and invited Miss Bamber to take a turn around the park with him in his curricle. Her creamy complexion flushed with surprised pleasure and, assisted with pompous ceremony by Humphrey blasted Ffolliot, who acted far too possessive for Gerald’s liking, she climbed up lightly to take the seat beside him.
Part of her dress floated up and settled over his boot. He carefully removed it and shifted his leg so that they didn’t touch. He needed no distractions for this, and as it was, Miss Lucy Bamber was all too distracting for his peace of mind.
“Ffolliot, eh?” he said as the curricle moved off. “Can’t imagine what you could possibly see in that fellow.”
“Can’t you?” she said with a provocative glance. “And yet you introduced him to me as an eligible prospect.”
Damn. He’d forgotten that.
She added in a dulcet tone, “Mr. Ffolliot has been setting my opinions right. I had no idea how ignorant I was, being a mere foolish female. Such a masterful man.”
Gerald snorted. If that’s the sort of fellow she admired, more fool her.
They drove on in silence. She sat beside him looking pretty and guileless and all butter-wouldn’t-melt, a little smile playing around her delectable mouth. But he knew—he just knew—that underneath that angelic exterior, she was as devious and deceitful and disingenuous as her scoundrel of a father. She had to be. She was the whole purpose of his vile scheme. The contrast, the cheek of her, infuriated him. He wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled. Or kiss her senseless. Which would be madness.
She sat there smiling gently to herself as if she knew something he didn’t, and enjoyed knowing it, all the while pretending to be simply enjoying the park and the sunshine and the wretched tweeting birds. Little Miss Innocent.
They reached a quiet corner of the park, and Gerald brought his horses to a stop and turned to her. “Miss Bamber.”
She turned to him and the soft, expectant light in her eyes caused him to catch his breath.
Female wiles. He hardened his heart. “I’ve met several men recently who knew your father.” He had to know whether she was involved with her father’s schemes, or if she even knew about them. And if she was involved, how much?
Her eyes narrowed. “Checking up on me, Lord Thorncrake?”
He refused to react. “Checking up on your father.”
“You mean raking up dirt.” Her mouth twisted cynically. “And hoping to find some dirt on me, too, I suppose.”
He arched a sardonic brow. “If the cap fits.”
Her mouth tightened. She gazed out across the park, saying nothing.
“You will admit, I hope, that I have a right to investigate your father, considering what he’s doing to my aunt.”
“You mean the blackmail.”
His brows flew up. “You know about that?” Alice had given him no indication that Miss Bamber knew anything about it.
She gave a careless flip of her hand. “Only that it exists, not what it involves.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Why so surprised? There had to be some reason why Alice took me in, a perfect stranger. She told me about it when I tried to wriggle out of the whole mad scheme.”
“Mad scheme?”
“To marry me off to a lord.” She gave a scornful huff. “Ridiculous.”
Why ridiculous, he wondered. Most girls wanted to marry into the aristocracy. He had the evidence of his own sudden popularity after his uncle died and his father became Lord Charlton and Gerald became Viscount Thornton. Females who’d never given him a second thought now hung on his every word and gave every indication that he was the finest fellow in the world.
He wasn’t sure he believed her claim. “Why would you want to wriggle out of it?”
She turned her head and met his gaze squarely. “Because I don’t like lords, and I can’t think of anything worse than to be married to one.”
He blinked. “How do you know you don’t like lords? We’re not all the same, you know. ‘Lord’ is just a word, a title—it doesn’t tell you anything about the man who bears it.”
She snorted. “It’s not just a word. It’s an attitude, a belief about one’s importance in the world. A lord thinks—no, he knows—that the world is his oyster. And that everyone else is some kind of lesser being put on this earth for his pleasure and convenience.”
“That’s a revolting attitude!”
“I know, which is why I could never bring myself to marry a lord.”
“No, I meant your attitude toward lords. How do you that that’s what they think?”
“I’ve met plenty of lords, and I know.”
Her certainty annoyed him. “Where? How have you met this vast profusion of lords? You’ve only been in London a short while.”
“Lords also infest the countryside, you know. I met dozens when I lived with the c—a grand lady I was living with.”
“Another grand lady?” he said sarcastically.
“Yes, a French comtesse,” she said coolly. “And she had grand visitors—lords and ladies, marquesses and dukes—coming to stay with her all the time.”
“A French comtesse,” he repeated in a flat voice. What nonsense. “In France, was it?”
“No, in England, not far from Brighton. She kept a pet goose.” Her sherry-colored eyes taunted him. “The goose you tried to run over.”
“I did not try to run the blasted thing over. I stopped!”
She gave an indifferent shrug, dismissing his words as she so often seemed to do. Gerald held on to his temper. She was trying to annoy him, and he refused to let her win.
“And did your father blackmail her too?”
She sent him a scathing look. “No, he made a different arrangement. Do you think it will rain later?” she said, making clear the conversation was closed as far as she was concerned.
Gerald begged to differ. They drove down an avenue of trees, and something else she’d said occurred to him. “You said Alice took you in, ‘a perfect stranger,’ but I thought you were my aunt’s goddaughter. Was that a lie?” If so, he’d be surprised. Alice never told lies.
“No, she really is my godmother.”
“Then in what sense were you a stranger?”
“Oh, work it out yourself,” she snapped. Color rose in her cheeks. “Is this what this drive is all about? Getting me alone so you could confront me about the sins of my father? Looking for reasons to blame me? Because if so—”
“I have the right to look out for my aunt’s interests. She is family, after all.”
“Oh, ‘family,’ is it?” she flashed. “Then why has the current Lord Charlton—your father—done nothing to help Alice out of the financial difficulties her husband—his brother, your uncle, the previous Lord Charlton—left her in? Yes, of course I know about it. And don’t you dare imagine that Alice has breathed a word of it. She’s far too proud to say anything, but servants let things slip, you know. And I have eyes and a brain. It’s obvious.”
Gerald shifted uncomfortably on his seat. He completely agreed, but he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of admitting it.
She continued in a low, vehement voice, “As for your mother”—Gerald winced in anticipation—“she loses no opportunity to belittle Alice in front of others. A fine family you can boast of. But do I blame you for your uncle’s selfishness or your father’s miserly neglect of his duty or your mother’s bitchiness? No! So don’t blame me for my father’s dirty dealing! I blackmailed no one, I stole nothing, and I’ve never cheated anyone in my life!” Unshed tears glittered in her eyes.
She breathed in a deep, ragged breath. “So how do you think I feel, knowing my father has made me the instrument of ruin for a dear, kind lady like Alice? And the only way I can prevent it is by marrying the kind of man I most despise!”
Gerald stared at her. That aspect of things hadn’t even occurred to him.
“Oh, look—there is Mr. Frinton.” Leaning out of the curricle, she waved vigorously.
Corney Frinton, dressed up like a dog’s dinner, spotted her and, beaming, maneuvered his phaeton to come up beside them.
“Miss Bamber, Gerald,” he managed, his Adam’s apple bobbing furiously.
“How splendid to see you again, Mr. Frinton,” Miss Bamber said warmly. “And what a very smart outfit you’re wearing. So stylish and elegant.”
She was practically gushing, Gerald thought sourly, overdoing it, lavishing compliments on his friend just to annoy him, not that poor old Corney would realize. Corney Frinton would be over the moon if any female under eighty noticed him, let alone a pretty young thing like Lucy Bamber.
Corney swallowed, ran a gloved finger around his immaculately arranged collar and neckcloth, then gestured silently toward the seat beside his.
“Take a turn around the park with you, Mr. Frinton?” she said. “Why, thank you. I’d be delighted.” And before Gerald had time to blink, she was clambering across from his curricle—without even setting foot on the ground—and Corney was solicitously helping her into his rig. As if she were some kind of delicate flower, which, Lord knew, she wasn’t.
“Thank you for taking me up, Lord Thorncross,” she said across the gap. Her voice was flat and brittle and she didn’t even bother to look at him. “And for the lesson in family honor. Next time you think to invite me, don’t bother. Goodbye.”
Corney blinked, gave Gerald a reproachful look, tipped his hat and drove away.
Gerald watched her drive off with Corney. He owed her an apology, he knew he did. He didn’t want to apologize—he was still annoyed with her for reasons that weren’t clear to him—but he knew he’d gone too far. Alice had told him that Lucy wasn’t responsible for her father’s machinations, that Lucy was as much a victim as she herself was.
But Gerald hadn’t believed her. Alice was such a softhearted woman.
Now . . . The memory of Lucy Bamber’s pale, tense face, her eyes glittering with anger and indignation and . . . it looked almost like hurt, but it couldn’t be that, could it?
Do I blameyou for your uncle’s selfishness or your father’s miserly neglect of his duty or your mother’s bitchiness? No! So don’t blame me for my father’s dirty dealing!
He’d almost made her cry.
I blackmailed no one, I stole nothing, and I’ve never cheated anyone in my life!
It rang shockingly true.
He watched the phaeton disappear, swallowed up by the crowd of fashionable carriages and horses, and a hollow feeling of shame—or was it loss?—lodged in his chest.
What had he done?
* * *
It being a fine day, James had decided to bring his daughters to the park, to see the fashionable people and horses—he caught himself up on the thought. Might as well admit it to himself. He was hoping to meet Lady Charlton again.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her.
He’d hired a barouche—he was trying out various carriages to see which would suit his enlarged family. Nanny McCubbin sat with a girl on either side of her, with Debo’s hand firmly clasped in hers, in case the little girl spied a cat somewhere and jumped out.
Judy sat up beside her father, eyeing the colorful throng with interest, in particular the ladies on horseback. “Papa, when may I get a horse?”
When, he noted, not may. But it was a reasonable question. All the girls needed to learn to ride. He’d had to teach their mother from scratch—Lady Fenwick had refused to allow her delicate daughter such a dangerous activity. Selina had taken to horseback like a duck to water. And as small children, both Judy and Lina had ridden up in front of their parents numerous times.
“I’ll organize lessons for you first. Riding in London is not the same as riding in Spain.” Judy bounced on her seat with excitement.
“Me too, Papa?” Lina asked.
“You too,” he agreed.
“Idonwannahorse. I. Want. A. Kitten,” said a gruff little voice.
Up ahead, James spotted Lord Thornton’s curricle, pulling up beside Lady Charlton and Miss Bamber. Thornton took up Miss Bamber, leaving Lady Charlton alone in the company of that frightful bore, Ffolliot.
“Look, there’s Lady Charlton,” he said, and the children and Nanny McCubbin craned to see her. He pulled up beside her. “Out you hop, girls. Stretch your legs,” he told the children, and helped Nanny McCubbin down.
“Lady Charlton, would you care to take a turn around the park?” he said after the greetings were completed. Her look of thankfulness almost made him laugh. She climbed in with alacrity, and the barouche set off at once, leaving Nanny McCubbin and the children staring after him with mixed expressions.
Ffolliot, having no interest in children and underlings, stalked off.
“Thank goodness you happened this way,” Lady Charlton said. “I was ready to murder that man.”
“No ‘happened’ about it. I saw you in the company of the biggest bore in London and came racing to the rescue, callously abandoning my children and their nanny in the process.”
She laughed. “Thank you. But he’s not the biggest bore in London, I’m afraid. You clearly have not yet had the pleasure of the company of Mr. Cuthbert Carswell, pig breeder extraordinaire, who can talk for forty minutes at a stretch about the breeding of pigs—without ever being asked a question about anything! I promise you, he could outbore Mr. Ffoilliot.”
He gave her a shocked look. “No! Ffoilliot is a member of one of my clubs, and I promise you nobody can empty a room faster. And you say this Carswell fellow is worse?”
“Infinitely,” she said with feeling.
“But how is it you are acquainted with these appalling windsuckers in the first place?”
“My nephew introduced them to Lucy as likely prospects,” she said grimly.
“Likely prospects? For what? Murder?”
She laughed. “For marriage. Honestly, when I think of the gentlemen Gerald has introduced us to, I wonder what on earth he thinks eligible means!”
“Impossible?”
“Completely! Oh, they’re all wellborn, and each of them is well-off, I gather, but not one of them is the slightest bit likely to appeal to a lively girl like Lucy. I cannot imagine what Gerald was thinking.”
“Can’t you?” he asked dryly.
“No, I—” She gave him a thoughtful look. “You don’t mean . . .”
He nodded. “Your nephew is no fool, so if he’s introducing impossible men to Miss Bamber, there’s a reason for it.”
A faint crease appeared between her brows. “You don’t mean he wants her to fail, surely? When he knows the situation I am in.”
“It’s more likely he wants them to fail—the impossible men.”
“Ohhh,” she said on a long note. “I see what you mean. Do you know, several times I’ve thought those two were playing some sort of deep game. But honestly, if they have feelings for each other, why not say so—why not act on it instead of all this contrary rigmarole?”
“Why not indeed,” he said meditatively. He gave her a thoughtful sidelong glance, opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again and decided not to say what was on the tip of his tongue. Instead he said, “I don’t know Lucy well enough to guess, but as for your nephew, I’m not sure he realizes it himself. He just knows who he doesn’t want her to marry. And thus, all these impossible men.”
“What a devious boy he is. I am still cross with him, however. Do you know, at Vauxhall the other night, Gerald had the temerity to abandon Lucy and me to hours of Mr. Carswell lecturing us on pig breeds, the creation of and uses of—all with absolutely no encouragement! Gerald just walked off, leaving us stuck with Mr. Carswell in full porcine flight!”
James couldn’t help laughing. “Flying pigs, were they?”
Her lips twitched, but she managed to say with a fair attempt at indignation, “You, sir, are a callous beast, laughing at my misfortune. You may put me down at once.”
“Here? In the middle of nowhere? Now that would be abandonment. Now, how shall we punish your nephew? String him up by his thumbs? Place him in the stocks? Or, better still, lock him in a cell with Ffolliot and your bacon-brained pig man.”
“He is not my pig man.” She tried to keep a straight face but failed miserably. “An hour with Carswell would teach you.”
He patted her hand. “Poor love, you have endured some dreadful people, haven’t you?”
There was a short silence. “What did you call me?” she said quietly.
Ah. “When?” he said unconvincingly.
“You must not say such things,” she said after a moment. “It is not appropriate.”
James took a deep breath. He hadn’t meant to raise this now, but the word had slipped out and the time had come. “I think it’s entirely appropriate.”
She looked away from him, her gloved fingers knotting restlessly. “I told you when we first met that I wasn’t interested in anything other than friendship.”
“Yes, but—”
“And using words of . . . of endearment is not fitting for a friendship between a man and a woman.”
“What if I want more than friendship?”
She shook her head distressfully. “No, no. It’s not possible.” He couldn’t see her face for the damned bonnet. He wanted to pull it off and toss it away.
He placed a hand over her twisting fingers. “Look at me, Alice.”
She stilled. “And you should not be calling me Alice. I have not given you permission.”
“Look at me, please. We cannot discuss this with your face turned away from me.”
“We’re not going to discuss it at all.” She finally turned her head, and he saw at once that she was distressed, more than he’d imagined. And it wasn’t simply a matter of propriety, so what was it?
“It’s marriage I’m talking about, nothing dishonorable.”
She shook her head. “I can’t—I won’t marry again.”
“Why not?” he asked softly, and then when she remained silent, he added, “Can you not trust me a little? I promise you, I won’t bite.”
She didn’t answer, just shook her head, her lips pressed together—to hide their trembling, he thought. What could be so distressing about an offer of marriage?
“I don’t mean to press—”
“Then don’t. Please take me back. Lucy will be back by now.”
“Very well. I haven’t made this offer lightly, but I acknowledge that I’ve sprung it on you and that I could have chosen a more appropriate time and place. But we will talk about it again,” he said with gentle emphasis.
“It will make no difference. My mind is made up.” And if he wasn’t mistaken, that sounded like flat despair.
The carriage turned around, and they headed back toward the busier part of the park, where the fashionable people were parading. An awkward silence hung between them.
* * *
Alice breathed slowly, trying hard to appear calm. Her hands were cold, her fingers trembling. She smoothed the fabric of her gloves over them and recalled the touch of Lord Tarrant’s hand over hers just a few moments earlier.
She darted a sideways glance at him and found him watching her. The look in the eyes told her he was recalling it, too. And was puzzled by her abrupt rejection of him.
She tried desperately to think of something ordinary to say. And remembered the card in her reticule. She pulled it out. “Oh, by the way, I spoke to Lady Beatrice—Lady Davenham, I mean; the lady with the cats—and she said she’d be delighted to give Debo a kitten. She gave me this card to give to you. It has her direction. There’s a note on the back.” She handed him the card.
He examined it and chuckled. “I gather I’m to present this to her butler.” He read the writing on the back. “Admit Lord Tarrant and daughters on important kitten business.”
“She said to call on her as soon as you liked.”
“We’ll go today.”
They reached Lucy, who was standing talking to a young man, with Lord Tarrant’s daughters and their nanny standing close by. The nanny was chaperoning Lucy, too, by the look of it. “Nanny McCubbin takes her duties seriously,” he commented. “She’s enjoying caring for the girls. My brother and I weren’t nearly such fun, I suspect.”
Alice would have liked to learn more about Lord Tarrant and his brother, but the time for such confidences was gone, destroyed by his wretched intention to offer her marriage. Oh, why had he done it? They could never go back to their easy friendship now.
“I’ll call on you tomorrow,” he told Alice. “At eleven?”
She made an indifferent gesture. “If you must.” She climbed down, and the girls scrambled into the carriage, talking nineteen to the dozen. A passionate argument was in progress between Judy and the plump, motherly-looking nanny about some of the hats they’d seen ladies wearing and whether they were elegant or horrid with so many birds cruelly deprived of their feathers. The whole question hung on whether the poor birds would have survived their plucking or not. Nanny McCubbin was unable to state categorically that they did. What did Papa say?
Lord Tarrant glanced at Alice with a humorously resigned expression, but she turned away, pretending not to see it. They couldn’t share such intimate glances any longer. But oh, it hurt.
They waved the carriage and the girls off. “Are you all right, Alice?” Lucy said as it disappeared from sight. “You’re looking rather pale.”
“A slight touch of the headache, nothing to worry about.”
“Do you want to go home?”
“No, a stroll in the fresh air will revive me. I’m fine.”
But she wasn’t. Marriage! How could he deceive her like that when he’d offered her friendship? She’d been so enjoying their friendship, too—she’d never experienced anything like it. But it was all spoiled now. They could never go back to how it had been. She’d have to sever the connection.
They strolled on. Ladies and gentlemen greeted them, bowed, made small talk. Alice went through the motions,
Marriage.The whole idea appalled her. Under a man’s thumb again, subject to his whims and fancies, her own desires ignored, her opinions trampled underfoot. Belonging to a man, her body his to use as he willed, whenever and however he wanted.
The marriage bed.She shuddered.
“Are you cold?” Lucy asked.
She shook her head and forced herself to pay attention. “Did you enjoy your drive with my nephew?”
“Him? Hah!” They walked on, brooding in silence, stopping from time to time to exchange a brief greeting with an acquaintance.
Alice responded absently, her mind wholly taken up with Lord Tarrant’s proposal. He wasn’t at all like Thaddeus, she told herself. But when she’d first met Thaddeus, he’d seemed charming—until after the marriage had taken place.
Lucy suddenly said, “Lord Thornton didn’t invite me for a pleasant drive in the sunshine—it was to question me about my father. He’s been investigating me, did you know?”
Alice did know, and it was her fault Gerald was looking into Lucy’s father’s background. Guiltily, she wondered whether she ought to confess to Lucy what she’d asked Gerald to do.
“He’s trying to implicate me in Papa’s actions.”
Alice gave her a sharp look. “But he can’t. You’re not complicit in your father’s actions—are you?”
“No, of course I’m not.” Lucy gave her a hurt look. “Though I doubt your nephew, with his nasty, suspicious mind, believed me. He’s doing his best to paint me as some kind of an adventuress, which, to be fair, I suppose I am, though not”—she kicked at a stone on the path—“by my own choice. And then he had the cheek to lecture me about family!”
“What about fam—?”
Lucy rushed on, “You would have been proud of me Alice. I so wanted to hit him and knock that stupid, smug, superior expression off his face, but I managed to control myself. I was a lady—on the outside, at least. Luckily Mr. Frinton came past just then. He invited me to take a turn in his phaeton, so I went off with him, and I don’t care if it was rude to change carriages like that. He deserved it—Lord Thornton, I mean.”
“I see. And how did you get on with Mr. Frinton?”
“He was quite sweet. It was much pleasanter driving with him than it was with your horrid nephew—oh, I’m sorry, Alice. I know I shouldn’t say such things about your nephew, but honestly, he can be so infuriating.”
Alice nodded. Men often were, in her experience. Promising a nice, safe friendship when really they were planning on marriage.
“And it’s so much easier talking to Mr. Frinton than with that arrog—er, than to Lord Thornton.”
“You mean Mr. Frinton actually spoke?”
“At least twenty-eight words,” Lucy said. “And after spending fifteen minutes in a curricle with your nephew, I’m inclined to think I’d be better off with a man who never spoke.”
They strolled on, heading for the gates now. “Did you tell Lord Tarrant about Lady Beatrice’s kittens?”
“Yes. He’s probably gone straight there.”
“Debo will be thrilled.”
“Mmm.” She was going to have to break the news to Lucy. Those little girls, he’d used them to entice Alice into his so-called friendship. And all the time, he’d just wanted a mother for his daughters—it was clear to her now. Men! Why could they not simply say what they wanted? Why did they have to lie?
She was going to miss those girls. Lucy would, too. She’d opened up so much more with them. The role of big sister suited her. She was going to make a lovely mother one day.
“I doubt we’ll see much of Lord Tarrant and the girls in the future,” she told Lucy.
Lucy turned to her in surprise. “Why? Are they going away?”
“No, but . . .” Alice swallowed. “Lord Tarrant and I have had a . . . a disagreement. I fear we’ve reached a parting of the ways.”
Lucy gave her a searching look, but all she said was, “What a pity. I liked him and his daughters.” There was no reproach in her voice. After a moment she sighed and added, “What a day, eh? I quarrel with your nephew, and you quarrel with Lord Tarrant. Men! Why are the wretches so impossible?” She linked her arm with Alice’s and they crossed the road into Mayfair.
* * *
Lord Tarrant had said he would come at eleven. Alice had been restless and pacing all morning. She’d slept badly and had woken in the wee small hours and lain in the dark, waiting for the dawn to show through the crack in the curtains, going over the speech she would make to him.
She would be calm and quietly resolute. She would explain her reasons—no, she wasn’t required to justify herself. A simple yes or no would do, and there was no question about which it would be: no. She wasn’t playing coy or hard to get. She meant it.
She would never marry again.
Oh, why had he gone and ruined everything? It wasn’t fair, making her feel safe with friendship when all the time he was plotting marriage. She was halfway to loving his daughters already, thinking perhaps she could be like an aunt or a godmother to them, or simply an older friend, as she was now with Lucy.
She recalled the feeling when little Lina had slipped her hand into Alice’s and skipped along beside her. She’d never had a child hold her hand like that before. Such a simple thing, unthinking childish trust, but it had moved her unexpectedly.
She would miss him as well, more than she could say. His presence in her life—and that of Lucy—had dispelled some of the loneliness she’d lived with most of her life. He’d given her the kind of adult companionship, understanding and acceptance that she’d never really experienced.
But as she’d feared, there was simply no way a single woman could be friends with an unmarried man. Oh, why did men always want more than she could give?
The front door bell jangled. Lord Tarrant had arrived on the dot, as usual.
Alice smoothed down her dress, took a deep breath, turned to face him and, for a moment, lost her breath.
He looked magnificent. Immaculately attired in fawn buckskin breeches, gleaming boots, a dark olive coat and a subtly patterned olive waistcoat, he strode across the room to greet her. His neat, unfussy neckcloth and crisp white shirt contrasted with the slight tan of his complexion. His short dark hair was casually tousled. His presence filled the room.
“Don’t you look lovely this morning? Like a sea maiden.” His smile went all the way to his eyes. It pierced her heart.
She mustered her composure. “Good morning, Lord Tarrant.” She waved him to a chair and seated herself on the sofa. He was freshly shaved; she could smell his faint masculine cologne.
“Well, you’ve made one little girl very happy.”
Alice blinked at his unexpected opening.
“And almost shortened my life,” he continued in a light, relaxed tone. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Warn you of what?” she asked, all at sea.
“That there were three kittens. Three! And there I was with three little girls, all oohing and aahing over these, squeaking, climbing, purring, tiny fluffy creatures.” He gave her a mock-indignant look. “Did I tell you that cats make me sneeze? I don’t suppose I did, otherwise you might have warned me that there are I don’t know how many cats in that house. Twenty-five at least.”
She couldn’t help laughing. “Three grown-up cats plus the kittens.”
“Perhaps,” he said austerely, “but I sneezed for twenty-five!”
She laughed again. “Oh dear. And how many kittens do you now own?”
“Just one!” he said triumphantly. “But it was very expensive.”
“Expensive? But I thought Lady Beatrice gave them away.”
“Yes, and the cunning old dear did her best to foist all three kittens on me—she’s a charmer, isn’t she, when not trafficking in kittens? But I foiled her! I told Judy and Lina that they could have either a kitten or a pony. The ponies won by a narrow margin—tiny kittens are disgustingly cute, and they were there. But though stabling horses in London will cost me an arm and a leg, horses don’t make me sneeze, so I consider it a victory.”
She laughed again. “And Debo was happy?”
“Delirious with joy, except that she wanted to take all three home. But it was explained to her that with three kittens in the house, she would have to share, which is not a word in Debo’s vocabulary yet—though Nanny McCubbin is on a mission to change that. So after much anguished deliberation, she finally chose the black-and-white kitten with three white paws, or rather, the kitten chose her by climbing up onto her shoulder and refusing to budge. Its name is Mittens, and she and Debo are in love. And yes, sadly, Mittens is female—I checked—so it seems my future will include flocks of small cats and a great deal of sneezing.” But he didn’t seem too distressed by the prospect.
It sounded hilarious. She wished she could have been there to watch it. “I’m so glad it worked out.” She smiled at him and suddenly realized that they were leaning rather too close to each other, and that not only was she smiling up at him, he was smiling back at her with a warmly intimate expression in his eyes.
And she had been so determined to remain cool and rational and firm.
Biting her lip, she straightened and looked away.
“Oh now, don’t poker up on me again,” he said. “When we were getting on so well.”
He reached out to her, but she waved his hand away, saying, “Don’t.”
“Why not?” He said it gently, inviting her to explain rather than demanding it.
“Because I can’t, that’s why. I will never marry again. I simply can’t.”
“But—”
She began her rehearsed speech. “You’re a baron with three daughters—”
“And a cat.”
“If you’re not going to take me seriously—”
“I’m sorry. I take you very seriously. It’s just . . .” He made a helpless gesture. “I don’t want to hear this nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense. Now please let me finish. You’re a baron with three daughters, and you’re going to need an heir to inherit the title.”
He opened his mouth.
“Pfft!” She glared at him and held up a minatory finger. “I’m not finished. I can’t give you an heir because”—she took another deep breath and forced out the painful words—“I’m barren. I was married eighteen years, and I never once quickened with child.”
“But—”
“And before you suggest that maybe my husband was the one at fault, his mistress, whom he kept exclusively before and all throughout our marriage—he even died in her bed—did bear him a son.” And Thaddeus had never let her hear the end of it. “So, you see, I was the one lacking.”
She sat back, weaving her shaking fingers together. Foolish that she found it so upsetting to talk about—Thaddeus had rubbed her nose in it often enough over the last eighteen years, and Almeria, too—but still, admitting it left her trembling. But at least it was out now.
He sat for a moment in silence, just looking at her. “Finished?”
“Yes.”
“Good. To start with, I don’t need an heir—I have half a dozen cousins who would be delighted to step into my shoes.”
“But—”
“Pfft!” He held up a stern finger in imitation of her earlier gesture. “My turn. Second, I don’t want children from you, Alice, though if they happened, I would, of course, be delighted. So you see, your worries are groundless. What’s more—”
“Stop, just stop.” Tears flooded her eyes. She blinked them away, shaking her head in repudiation of his words. “It’s very kind of you to say so—”
“ ‘Kind’?”
“But I can’t do it. Can’t marry you, can’t marry anyone. I couldn’t bear it. I’m not the—not the sort of woman made for marriage.”
He took out his handkerchief, moved beside her on the sofa and, cupping her chin, gently blotted her tears. “Alice, my dear, I don’t know what maggot you have in your mind about marriage, but if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that you’re exactly the sort of woman made for marriage.”
“Ohhh . . . Don’t . . . I’m not . . .” She shook her head, rejecting his words, though they pierced her very soul.
“Yes, you are.” He tilted her chin and, very gently, pressed his lips to hers.
She stilled. Cupping her face between his big, warm hands, he feathered tiny kisses over her mouth, her cheeks, her eyelids, as if tasting her tears. She couldn’t move, could hardly breathe.
Her mind went blank. The warmth of his body soaked into her.
Brief, fleeting, tender touches. It was like nothing she’d ever known. Almost as if she were being . . . cherished.
She put a tentative hand to his face, feeling the faint prickle of bristles under the firm, smoothly shaven skin, and breathed him in. The light fragrance of his cologne mingled with a darker, more masculine scent. It was addictive.
Still feathering her with kisses, he stroked along her jawline with one hand and slipped his fingers into her hair, loosening her pins and letting her hair fall out of its careful knot. One long, strong finger stroked the tender skin of her nape. Faint shivers ran down her spine, warm and enticing.
His mouth closed over hers, and she recoiled in surprise as his tongue ran along the seam of her lips, gently insistent. She pulled back, startled.
Gray eyes, dark with some unknowable emotion, met hers. “Alice?” he murmured. He leaned forward again to capture her mouth, and again she pulled away.
“I’m not . . . Oh, stop it.” She pushed feebly at his hands and said in a choked voice, “Don’t you see? I can’t.”
He released her at once. “Can’t what, sweetheart?” His voice was low, understanding.
“Can’t be married. Ever. Not ever.” She crushed his handkerchief in her hands and fought to regain her composure. She’d allowed him to kiss her. It was a mistake. Giving him the wrong idea.
“Not even to me?” As an attempt at lightness, it fell sadly flat.
Despairing, she shook her head. “It would only make us both miserable in the end.” Sooner than later.
“I don’t see why.”
“Perhaps you don’t, but I know. I cannot be a wife to you, or any man.” Her voice cracked, and a few more tears trickled down her cheeks. She scrubbed at them with his handkerchief. “Marriage, for me, was . . . was . . . unbearable. So please, let us drop the subject.”
“But—”
“No. Just . . . no.” In a stifled voice she added, “Please leave.”
He hesitated, then rose slowly and stood, troubled as he gazed down at her. “I’m sorry, Alice, so sorry I have upset you. I’ll leave you now, my dear. I have no wish to distress you any further.” His voice was like a caress, warm and deep and sincere, and it brought on a fresh flood of useless tears.
Eyes squeezed closed—she couldn’t bear to look at him and see the reproach, or hurt, in his eyes—Alice shook her head. He hadn’t distressed her; it was the situation, the resurgence of old pain, the reminder of hopes crushed and dreams shattered. All because, foolishly, she had let herself dream again, just a small, timid, hopeful dream that she could be content with half a loaf—with friendship. But that had turned out to be just as painful, if not more so.
She held out his handkerchief, and when he didn’t take it, she looked up.
Lord Tarrant was gone.
* * *
James walked home, his thoughts back in that room with Alice. What was going on? I cannot be a wife to you, or any man. What did she mean by that?
Did she mean she was repulsed by the opposite sex? Some women were attracted more to their own sex than to men. But he didn’t think Alice was one of them.
He thought about their kiss—well, it was barely a kiss. She’d stiffened at first, like a wooden doll, wary, as if expecting . . . expecting what? He had no idea. But he’d felt her trembling and knew she was taut and on edge.
So he’d taken it gently at first, slow and reassuring.
And she hadn’t repudiated him or his attentions. In fact, after a few moments she’d softened in his arms and started to unfurl, like a flower opening to the sun. She’d begun to relax against him, savoring his caresses, mild as they were. The way she’d hesitantly stroked his face—she wasn’t repelled by him, he was sure of that. In fact, he was pretty sure he’d felt the first few shivers of arousal rippling gently through her.
She was attracted to him, he was certain—well, as certain as a recently rejected man could be.
Marriage, for me, was unbearable.
Lord, but that husband of hers had a lot to answer for. Thaddeus Paton had been an insensitive bully at school, and James doubted he’d changed much. Any woman would be miserable with him.
But she’d said “unbearable.” What part of marriage was unbearable for her?
He thought about the moment she’d jerked back, pulling away from him. What had he done to cause her to startle like a wild bird? He tried to remember. It wasn’t easy, as he’d been losing himself in her, the taste of her entering his blood, the hunger in him growing.
The taste of her—that was it.
It was when he’d stroked the seam of her lips with his tongue.
She’d pulled back, surprised. A little shocked. As if . . .
No, surely not. She was a married woman. She’d been married for eighteen years. And yet . . .
He picked up his pace. Part of him wanted to turn around, march back into her house and get to the bottom of it, but she’d had enough upset for the day. He wanted her in his life and in his bed, and the last thing he wanted to do was to bully her.