A Reckless Promise (10 page)

“We all knew this could happen at some point, but Rigby was adamant. The problem, you understand, is that for weeks we've been parading Clarice around Mayfair as a member of the supposedly prestigious Virginia Goodfellows, and if the ton were to discover her true background now, I doubt she or Rigby would ever be forgiven. People have been bowing and curtsying to her, for Lord's sake. No, this isn't good. Deception rarely leads to a happy ending.”

Sadie lowered her head. Once again, he was coming close to whatever it was she continued to hide from him. But now was not the time for profound statements, was it? Their friends clearly needed help.

He went back on point, the dilemma at hand.

“The question is, however, since the deed is done, what the devil do we do about it?”

“Hope the woman decides she didn't see what she actually saw? I think that's what Clarice is counting on, although not enough to remain here. That's why she ran away, and why she's already planning to retire from Society until the woman takes herself home. Oh, I forgot that part, didn't I? Clarice told me the woman is from Fairfax County, Virginia, just as you probably already guessed. Her arrival in London is woefully inconvenient, but I suppose we can't keep Americans at home, can we, even for Clarice's sake. How are you going to tell Rigby?”

“It's not how, Sadie Grace, it's
what
will I tell Rigby. At the moment, that's not much. And here I had hoped for a romantic interlude with my betrothed sometime this evening—the current secrecy of said betrothal only adding to my anticipation.”

“You don't mean that.”

“Ah, but you can't be sure, can you? Perhaps I do mean it, Sadie Grace. I adore your name, you know, that much is true. Sadie Grace. I may even write a poem about it. ‘Sadie Grace, so fair of face...'”

“Please be serious.”

“Ah, Sadie Grace, but I am being serious, deadly serious. We've yet to share a betrothal kiss, and once we leave here, I doubt there will be time for much more than thinking about our distressed lovebirds.” He took her hands in his and leaned in. This time not Clarice or a bleeding Rigby or anyone else was going to interrupt him.

Kissing an untutored mouth had never been so sweet. He was careful not to startle her, keeping his grip on her hands in order not to pull her into his arms. The kiss, he admitted to himself, was purely experimental, a sort of test to see if his recent thoughts about the subject, or marriage in general, and a marriage to Sadie in particular, had only come to him because his friends were all rushing to the altar.

After all, there were certainly other ways to protect Marley, if she really did need protection.

He did not expect his reaction to be more than mild amusement at best, or feeling no reaction at all.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

“Well,” he said, drawing away slightly. “That was interesting.”

He watched as she drew in her lips, moistening them with her tongue. “We should go back inside.”

“Or down those stairs over there, and deeper into the gardens.” He let go of her hands and touched a fingertip to her nose.

“You don't have to do this, you know. The kiss, the betrothal, any of it. Nobody knows. There has been no announcement. There's still time to make good your escape. I won't mind.”

“God, woman, was the kiss that terrible? I can do better, you know.”

“Actually, I don't know what it was, but you've probably realized that. You're an extremely maddening man, my lord, which you also most probably know. I wouldn't be surprised if you believed it one of your charms.”

“It's not?”

“I won't answer that, as you'd probably counter with something else equally maddening. You must terrify the debutantes.”

“But not you.”

“No, I don't believe so. I am, however, still attempting to understand why you've gone so far in your guardianship of Marley as to propose marriage to her aged aunt.”

“Yes, there is that. How long in the tooth are you, Sadie Grace?”

“You'll notice that I refuse to be insulted. I'll be four and twenty next June. Decrepit by Society's standards, I believe.”

“Egads, on your way to being twenty-four, with me merely two years from thirty. Whatever will the ton have to say to that? Oh, wait. I don't care. Do you care, Sadie Grace?”

Her smile was genuine—he'd teased her into saying what was on her mind. “I don't believe so, if you're content with an aged spinster, and at least I won't be doomed to an eternity spent leading apes in hell.”

“Yes, there is that,” he agreed. “And the caps. We can't forget the caps. I supposed they're meant to warn the men away, an outward sign that the female wearing said cap is beyond her last prayers and consigned firmly to the shelf. We are a brutal bunch, aren't we? I'd never thought of that before. And what a miserable waste of fine women, I'm sure. You are a fine woman, Sadie Grace—I decided that days ago, even before I knew how aged you are—and I truly believe we're on our way to becoming true friends.”

“Yes, I suppose we are. At least I don't actively dislike you anymore.”

“Now who isn't being serious?”

“I have no idea,” she said, and he suddenly longed to kiss her again.

“Minx. We'll take this up again at another time. For now, let's step inside and you can point out our Mrs. Apple-cheeks. I need a name to go with the face if I'm to help Rigby.”

“If
we're
to help Rigby and Clarice. Don't think to exclude me.”

They hadn't taken five steps into the music room before he caught sight of the woman; Sadie had described her rather well. “All right, I've got her in my sights. You return to your seat—why in God's name Vivien chose the first row will always be a question—and I'll seek her out.”

“Seek her out? You mean engage her in conversation? But what will you say?”

“It appears she has a daughter in tow. I imagine my title alone will make it unnecessary for me to say anything else for at least five minutes.”

“You're rather full of yourself, aren't you?”

“To the brim, my friend. Another of my charms you may one day come to admire. Don't forget to secure a seat for me. I shouldn't wish to miss a moment of the harp recital.”

“Only if you promise not to make faces, as Rigby did throughout that other poor child's attempt at opera.”

“May I feign falling asleep?”

She laughed aloud. “And you're certain you're not younger than I, perhaps by several years? As for my answer, only if you don't snore. Now go.”

He watched after her as she made her way through the other guests, idiots all, who didn't marvel at the way the chandelier set sparks in her blond hair, or how she moved, those long legs not only putting her above many of the other ladies but even some of the gentlemen—a goddess, somehow rendered invisible, passing unnoticed among the mere mortals. Did none of them see what he saw? He might have only one good eye, but they obviously were blind.

His
friend
? Had he actually said that? Yes, he had, and he'd meant it. He wasn't accustomed to having females for friends, as equal partners in any conversation beyond the complexity of whether or not it was coming on to rain. In his experience, women were for other uses. He'd been attracted to Sadie purely by her physical appearance, which made him guilty to the crime of being insufferably shallow. He still admired her beauty, but more and more he found himself attracted to her mind. This fact amazed him, and he spared a moment to wonder if the same had been the case for Gabe and Coop. Rigby's reasons for pursuing Clarice had been simpler to understand. He'd been attracted to her face and body, and then fallen in love with her simple but pure heart.

My, but wasn't he growing philosophical, if that meant having deep conversations with himself at the oddest of times.

He watched as Sadie reached the front row of chairs and settled herself, placing her reticule on the empty seat beside her before he headed straight for the garish twin beacons of his target's cheeks. He probably could have located the woman in the dark.

He relieved a servant of two glasses of lemonade, having decided to use them as part of his entrée to the ladies' company.

The pair stood rather on their own island, ignored by the others in the room, their unfashionable gowns clearly not the work of any competent London modiste, their hair in braids wrapped around their heads like mousy brown crowns, their fairly frantic looks about the music room betraying their mutual discomfort. The younger one held a folded fan, and was tapping it against her thigh as if it was a riding crop. The elder was plucking at the tips of her gloves, as if repeatedly counting her fingers, just to make sure all ten were still there.

Engaging them in conversation could almost be considered a kindness.

“Pardon me, madam, miss, but did you see two ladies standing here a few minutes ago? They sent me off for refreshments, but now I can't seem to locate them. Ah, well, perhaps you and your daughter would care for some lemonade, as it's dashed warm in here, don't you think?”

“I... We...” The lady seemed lost for words, probably because a strange man had dared to approach them without a proper introduction. Then again, perhaps it was the patch, or perhaps it was protocol be damned and she wasn't about to shoo away what could be an eligible gentleman come to flirt with her darling daughter. In any case, either thirst or common sense ruled in the end, and she held out her hand for the glass, urging her daughter to do likewise.

He treated them to one of his most elegant bows. “You are saviors, dear ladies, else I might have been forced to drink them both. I abhor lemonade. I'm Nailbourne, by the way. Viscount, for my sins. Here, here, careful with that curtsy, miss, your glass is in danger of tipping.” He quickly reached out to steady her hand, at which point the hopeful debutante fell into giggles.

Really, sometimes it was all just too easy.

“Good evening, my lord,” the mother said, her curtsy only slightly less painful to watch as her daughter's. “I am Mrs. Henderson, widow of the late Henry Henderson of Fairfax County, Virginia, and this is our daughter, Belinda. We've traveled here to London for the Little Season, on invitation of my husband's cousin, Jackson Henderson. You perhaps know him?”

Darby feigned cudgeling his brain, already knowing he'd never heard of Jackson Henderson. “A hint, Mrs. Henderson, if you could? I'm afraid I can't place him.”

“Jackson resides in Exeter, my lord, but we've taken up lodgings in Half Moon Street for...for the nonce. He kindly offered to bring my Belinda into Society, for which I'm most grateful. Our invitation to this lovely soiree came courtesy of Lord Clathan, a long-time patron...er, that is, friend of Jackson's from Exeter.”

“Ah, a splendid and most proper connection, Mrs. Henderson. I'm convinced your daughter's appearance here this evening will lead to many more invitations of this sort.”

When desperate hostesses would reach out to any reasonably presentable hopefuls needed to fill otherwise empty chairs.

“Will you and your daughter remain in London for the spring Season, Mrs. Henderson? Company is always thinner now, and such a charming young lady as Miss Henderson would do well with a wider exposure.”

There had to be someone desperate enough to take on the child, whose unfortunate doughy resemblance to her mother might be overlooked if the dowry was sufficient.

“We were hoping she'd...that is, we haven't quite decided if we should stay on until the spring.”

“But, Mama, you promised we would be back in Virginia before Christmastime.”

Interesting. And much better than Clarice having the headache until Mrs. Henderson snags a suitable candidate for her little darling.

“Is Christmas a special time for you in Virginia, Miss Henderson?”

“No. I just don't like it here. I miss my horses and need to be there when the foals come in the spring. My lord.” She curtsied again.

Her horses. He'd guessed well about the fan as riding crop.

“Belinda, finish your lemonade, dear,” Mrs. Henderson said quickly. “My lord, perhaps you could assist me in something odd that occurred earlier. Do you see that rather tall blonde woman sitting in the front row?”

Darby didn't have to look, but he did, anyway. “Why, yes, I see her. That's Miss Hamilton. Do you know her?” He had nearly added “my companion for the evening,” but stopped himself in time or else the woman would probably ask to be introduced.

“No, my lord, but it was the oddest thing. She entered the withdrawing room with her maid, and I was certain I recognized her.”

“Miss Hamilton?”

“No, my lord. The maid. I was astonished to see her. I even called out her name, but she rudely ignored me and all but ran from the room. Clarice. I remembered then that she'd traveled to England in service to Miss Dorothea Neville. I was hoping she could give me Miss Neville's direction. It would be so pleasant to see someone else from Virginia, but apparently Clary has left her employ. Sacked, I would imagine, and for good reason, I'm certain. In return for transport home, I thought she might consider serving as our maid. Wretched girl, but I recall she was quite accomplished with hair. Ah, well, I'm sure I'll see her again.”

“I wish you luck with that, of course, and I'm sorry that I couldn't be of more assistance. Will you ladies please excuse me now? It would appear our harpist is about to begin, and for the sake of my ears, I needs must effect my escape.”

He bowed to both Hendersons and made his way back to the balcony, as it was now impossible to take up his seat beside Sadie. He walked the length of the balcony until he came to a set of French doors leading to what appeared to be His Lordship's private study, and stepped inside.