Autumn Rain (26 page)

It occurred to Lucien then that Kingsley's mind had snapped, and that his recovery was physical rather than mental. Still, he forebore reminding him that Charles had perished.

"Well, I cannot say I have any great familiarity with your family," he conceded. "But there are not many who do not admire the size of your fortune."

"Elinor is a beauty—you got to admit that. When I took her to town, there wasn't a buck's head as did not turn."

"An Incomparable," Lucien agreed.

"Don't look like a milk and water miss—got color. Gave her style, too."

"Striking," Lucien murmured, wishing that Mary or anyone would come, for the old man was making him uncomfortable.

"Still in the bloom of youth—twenty next month. Isn't much for her to do here. Daresay she could be ripe for anything, don't you think?"

Somehow it angered Lucien that Kingsley could think that after all he owed Elinor he would be so base as to consider seduction. "You are better advised to discuss this with Bell Townsend," he declared stiffly.

"Don't want him. Fellow's a gamester, and I don't need that on both sides of the blanket. I did not work to see my money disappear at the likes of White's." He leaned closer, so close that his eyes were but inches from Lucien's. "I want an heir with wits enough to keep what I leave him."

The old man was crazed—his grief had made him mad. Nonetheless, Lucien answered, "Most empires fall, so you must not repine over what cannot be. Another generation and neither of us will be remembered."

"There will be a Baron Kingsley here."

"My dear Arthur—"

"Think I've lost m'mind, don't you? Haven't. Been thinking about it ever since I read the boy's journal, waiting to see if you meant to live." His eyes seemed to bore into Lucien's. "You can name your price, Longford—all you got to do is give me m'heir."

It was the first time in recent memory that Lucien could truthfully admit to being stunned. "Sir," he managed when he found his voice, "what you suggest is repugnant in the extreme."

"Elinor's got a soft heart," the old man went on as though he'd made no objection at all. "Ripe," he repeated. "Ready for a young buck like you. And you need not worry that I don't mean to acknowledge any babe you get of her, 'cause I've got nobody else I'd want to leave anything to." He leaned back, chuckling wryly. "Irony, don't you see?"

"No," Lucien snapped.

"Man my age getting a babe. But you must be discreet about it—I don't mean to be pitied. I'd have it thought it was mine." He stopped, smiling smugly. "Well?"

"Regardless of what you think me, I've no wish to take advantage of your wife in her grief. She cared for Charles, you know. And as you can see, I am in no case—"

"Not as you think, my dear Longford—not as you think." Kingsley cut him off. "Having observed them closely and having read his letters to her—and hers to him—I believe the passion was his."

"She mourns him!"

"Of course she does," Kingsley agreed. "But who is to say for what?" he added enigmatically.

"You sicken me, sir. If you would have an heir, I suggest you get your own."

The smile vanished. "If I could, I'd not ask you."

"No."

Arthur sighed. "I should not be hasty in denying what I offer. The child will have every advantage the Kingsley fortune can gain him." He rose slowly. "Think on it," he advised. "As you said, you are in no case to do much else yet, anyway. Otherwise, I shall have to encourage Townsend—or Leighton."

"George wouldn't do it," Lucien growled.

Kingsley shrugged. "A beautiful woman—a husband willing to be blind—are you quite certain?"

"What sort of man are you? You cannot just throw your wife at another man's head!" Again, he wished he'd not raised his voice, for now he nearly strangled from the cough. "No."

The old man smiled enigmatically. "The question, my dear Longford, is what sort of man are you? I had expected rather more from Mad Jack de Clare's son, I suppose." He started for the door, stopped, and turned back. "We both know what sort of man Townsend is, don't we?"

Long after the old man left, Lucien stared at the ceiling, telling himself he was so sick he'd imagined the whole thing. But he knew he hadn't. It was Arthur Kingsley who was sick—it was Arthur Kingsley who would push Elinor into Bell's all-too-willing arms. And he'd be damned before he let him do it.

CHAPTER 24

Had Bellamy Townsend been a praying man, he'd have asked first for Longford's immediate and total recovery, and second for an end to what seemed to be early and interminable rains. For despite his daily visits to Stoneleigh, she took him at his word that he meant to help with Lucien, and he seldom seemed to get Elinor Kingsley's undivided attention. It was beginning to wear on his temper. On this day, nearly three and one-half weeks since the earl had had the misfortune of nearly dying on Stoneleigh's doorstep, he not only was still there, but he did not appear anywhere close to leaving.

"Your move, Bell," Lucien murmured across the chess board. He sat back and waited. "You know," he chided, "I'd say neither your heart nor your mind is in the game."

"It's the rain," Bellamy muttered. He looked up resentfully. "Don't suppose as you've given any thought to removing yourself back to Langston Park?"

Lucien shrugged. "Beatty is against it."

"Country bonesetter!" Bell snorted.

One black eyebrow lifted. "If I did not know you better, I should suspect you see me as some sort of rival, old fellow."

"See you as a deuced dog in the manger!" Townsend leaned across the board and lowered his voice. "You've got no interest in that quarter, and you know it, but how the devil am I to pay court to Lady Kingsley when you are always about? Every time I suggest an entertainment to her, it seems I end up playing nursemaid to you," he observed with disgust. " 'I am sure Longford would enjoy that,' " he mimicked. He sat back and sighed. "Sorry—rain makes me out of reason cross, I guess. I know it's not your fault, but I don't seem to be any closer to fixing her interest now than before. And I didn't mind the pounding thing either, if it helped you." Having vented his frustration, he moved his queen.

"Quite certain you wish to do that?" Longford murmured, unperturbed.

"How the devil should I know? It's not my game. Now if you was to get out the dice—"

"You already owe me a thousand pounds this week," Lucien reminded him. "Check."

"I quit," Bell declared, disgusted. "Where the deuce do you think she is? Thought she meant to join us."

"I daresay she is attending to Kingsley." A faint smile twitched at the corner of the earl's mouth. "I believe she wished to give me the benefit of masculine companionship. She seems to think I must find being surrounded by females onerous."

"Kingsley!" Townsend fairly spat out the word. "How long can the old gent last, I ask you?" he demanded rhetorically. "A month ago he was out of his head."

"He seems to have recovered his wits," Lucien muttered dryly. "In fact, he comes to visit me."

"It's all of a piece, I suppose—like the Fates don't mean for me to have her."

"I suspect it's the pursuit that intrigues you, old fellow. If she fell into your arms, I daresay you'd be gone in a trice."

"Much you know of it. If we are speaking of constancy, I don't think you are noted for that either." Bell ran his hand through his blond Brutus, contributing to its fashionable disorder. "Thing is, I cannot stay with Leighton forever, you know."

"You could go back to London for the Little Season."

"And leave the field to you?"

"You have admitted I have no interest in that quarter," Longford reminded him.

"Daresay you could get one."

"I expect to be returning to the Park next week. Besides"—Lucien paused, waiting for Bell to react to that, then went on—"besides, I am not noted for seducing other men's wives, am I?"

Bellamy flushed. "Told you—got good intentions this time, Luce. If you was to get out of the way—"

The old man's words seemed to echo in Lucien's ears.

For all that he denied it, he'd thought often of Kingsley's suggestion. Indeed, but it was a good part of his reluctance to leave, but not for the reason the baron supposed. He knew if he went, the old man would encourage Bell. Before he returned to Langston Park, he supposed he would have to suggest to Leighton that Townsend had stayed overlong.

He rose and rubbed his still-tender shoulder. "I think I shall retire for a while, Bell."

That irked Bellamy also—while he cooled his heels waiting for Elinor Kingsley to favor him with her company, Longford ran tame in her house. And if Lucien went up, and she did not come down, he'd have to leave.

"Dash it, Luce! You go to bed, and I've got to go home in the rain!"

"Have you never thought that perhaps she finds your company onerous, old fellow? After the wager at White's..." He let his voice trail off meaningfully.

"Made it up with her and Kingsley," Bell retorted. "Sally Jersey saw to that." Realizing that the earl was indeed leaving him, he coaxed, "A hand or two of anything, Luce."

"My shoulder pains me." Lucien put his hand on the doorknob, then turned back. "The field is yours, Bell."

"In case you have not noted it, she's not down."

"I daresay you could wait."

Townsend wavered. "How long d'you think she'll be?"

"Well, I believe she is reading
The Iliad
to him."

"
All
of it?"

"As to that, I am afraid I cannot say," Lucien lied.

"Damn!"

The viscount sat staring at the chess board after Longford left. In all of his nine and twenty years, he'd never found a female yet that he could not bed. He had looks, wealth, style, and address, and he'd be hanged if he could tell that Elinor Kingsley had noted any of it. To give Longford his due, maybe he was right—maybe that was why he wanted her, maybe it was the difficulty of the chase. He was beginning to feel as though he were making a cake of himself over her, that maybe he ought to try a bit of indifference. Maybe Luce was right—maybe he ought to go back to London until she was done grieving over Charles Kingsley. If she had any interest in him at all, he'd leave word where she could find him.

A glance to the window told him what his ears had already heard—it was raining hard outside. He rose, sighing heavily, and called for his hat. If there was any consolation in the dreary day, it was that at least she could not be interested in a cold fellow like Longford.

Lucien heard the butler wish Bell a good day before the outer door closed. Stopping at Elinor Kingsley's door, he rapped lightly with his knuckles, then told her, "You can come out now, my dear—your swain is gone."

She opened the door sheepishly. "Is it that obvious?" she murmured. "And he is not my swain."

"Actually, I believe he aspires to be your
cicisbeo."

"Don't be ridiculous."

That was one of the things he'd come to like about her—despite all that Kingsley had done to her, despite the extraordinary beauty she possessed, there was an utter naivete about her—not a stupidity, but rather a desire to expect better of a man than she ought to.

She stepped out into the hall. "Actually, I do not mind Lord Townsend upon occasion."

"So I informed him."

"Well, I hardly think it
your
place to do so, my lord."

"Did you wish to?" he inquired, lifting one black brow.

"No, of course not. I could not."

"The difference between us, Lady Kingsley, is that I do not mind being unkind."

She looked up at him, regarding him almost soberly for a minute. "Perhaps it is that I know you now," she said softly, "but I should not count you unkind at all."

"Then you are a fool, my dear." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt the greater fool for saying them. After all she'd done for him, she deserved better than that. "Your pardon—my unruly tongue."

"I daresay I have heard worse from you, my lord, so I shall not refine too much upon anything." She smiled faintly. "You forget—it was I as heard you rave and rant. You'd best have a care, you know, for I am possessed of your secrets."

"In truth, I don't think you a fool, Lady Kingsley."

"There is no need to dissemble with me, my lord."

Her smile broadened, dimpling her cheek at one corner. "Indeed, after London, I have had a surfeit of that." Impulsively, she held out her hand. "May there always be truth among friends, Lord Longford."

Even in her plain black mourning dress, with her hair combed about her shoulders as though she were a schoolgirl, she was incredibly lovely. He could almost curse Arthur Kingsley for insinuating that he could have more than friendship of her. Despite his best intentions to the contrary, it was beginning to affect his manner toward her.

When he did not take her hand, she dropped it awkwardly. She ought to have known better. Now that he was nearly recovered, she had no reason, no justification for touching him. Indeed, but he must think her quite forward. She felt a pang of regret, for she'd quite come to treasure the intimacy of sharing her thoughts once again with another human being, of being able to talk to him about Charley. In some ways, it was almost as though Charles had come home with him—and in some ways it was quite different. Where Charley had viewed the world expectantly, Longford seemed to expect nothing from it.

Damn Arthur Kingsley, Lucien reflected bitterly. He genuinely liked Elinor—in fact, she was the only woman of his memory he could say that about—and the old man had ruined it, making every word, every touch, every gesture seem to take on a different meaning in his own mind. If he'd done nothing else, the baron had given him thoughts that made him no better than Bell. Seeing her disappointment, he tried to retrieve the situation.

"Sorry. I guess Bell wears on my temper. Somehow having him nursemaid me leaves something to be desired."

"Oh, I suspect he means well enough," she conceded. "It's the rain that blue-devils us, I daresay." She started to retreat back into her chamber. "Perhaps we shall both feel more the thing before supper."

He did not want to let her go with the strain between them. "Well, if you are feeling low, I do not mind listening," he found himself offering.

She could no longer go to his sickroom with impunity, and she certainly could not invite him into her bedchamber. "I should not ask you to go back down."

"I don't mind—there's not much else to do."

Despite the nearly healed abscess, he was still weak from the lingering effects of the lung inflammation. As he started down the stairs, he experienced a momentary dizziness, and he stopped to hold the rail. She caught at his elbow, thrusting her slight body beneath his good shoulder to steady him.

"Perhaps you ought to be abed, after all."

"No." His good arm encircled her shoulder. "I am all right now."

"You are quite certain?"

"Yes." The faint smell of lavender wafted up from her hair, enticing him with the cleanness of it.

She felt his arm tighten, and she thought he feared to fall. "You can lean on me," she murmured, slipping an arm about his waist.

In all the days of his illness, after all the times she'd held him, lifted him, and tended him, it seemed to be the first time he'd noted how very slender she was. And then he recalled the feel of her body against his as she'd raised him to drink, and his mouth went dry. "I can manage," he told her curtly, drawing away. "I am too heavy for you."

The saloon where he and Bell had played chess was as gloomy as when he'd left it. She looked down, seeing pieces on the floor, then stooped to pick them up. "I collect he lost again?"

"What makes you think so?"

"Because you once told me you never play what you do not win. On the other hand, I suspect he is like Papa, and will play at anything."

"Not chess willingly."

"A pity."

"Do you play?"

"With Arthur. Though I cannot account myself very good at it," she admitted ruefully. Despite the grayness of the room, her amber eyes seemed to dance mischievously. "I much prefer whist, you see. When we were in London and Arthur was out, I played often with Jeremy, the lower footman."

"And won, no doubt."

"Well, I could have—but he had no money, so I pretended to lose often enough to let him win whatever he lost back." She looked out into the steady rain, then sighed. "I daresay it will even rain on my birthday this year."

"Arthur said it was this month."

"Next week—the seventeenth, to be precise." She turned back. "I shall be twenty. It's odd, but I feel ever so much older than that. Come December I shall have been wed five years."

"It cannot have been much of a life for you."

"You are the first to note it." She smiled and shook her head. "The rest of the world seems to think I ought to be grateful for what he gives me."

"There is a price to be paid for everything."

"Oh, I have come to accept what I cannot change, my lord. I have learned what Arthur will and will not stand, what pleases him, what does not, what to wear, whom to acknowledge—"

"You acknowledged me," he reminded her.

"And he was not precisely pleased," she recalled. "It's odd, but he seems inclined to tolerate you now. I suppose you must be coming back into fashion."

"I would doubt that." He crossed the room to where the brandy decanter sat on a sideboard. "Would you care for a glass?"

"Arthur does not approve of ladies partaking of much of anything beyond a light punch." Even as she said it, she felt a wellspring of rebellion within. "He cannot abide a sotted female, he says," she continued impishly, "so I think I might."

"Good girl." He poured two glasses and held out one to her. Looking over the rim of his, he repeated her earlier words, "May there always be truth among friends, Lady Kingsley."

She sipped hers and nodded. "It's strange, isn't it? You and Charley are the only friends I have had since— since I wed."

He did not miss that she'd called Charles a friend. "Surely not. What of Sally Jersey? Or Emily Cowper? My dear Lady Kingsley, even I have heard of your triumphs."

"Fiddle. As if they care a fig for anything beyond their own consequence."

"And their lovers," he reminded her.

"It's the way of polite society, is it not?" she countered acidly. "They promise devotion, then practice license."

She moved to take a chair in front of the empty fireplace. He carried the decanter with him and dropped into the chair opposite. "Poor Lady Kingsley—so very unfashionable in that respect, at least," he chided.