Edith Layton (5 page)

“But then, I have no patience,” she admitted. “It’s a terrible fault, and well I know it,” she went on chattily, turning to face him because now the sun was to the
side, and he was concentrating too hard on driving to see how hard she was concentrating on him. “You know? I always wondered why impatience wasn’t one of the seven deadly sins, because it’s clear it leads to all the others, or at least it always has in my case.”

“A
ll
the others?” Damon asked in shock, only half-joking.

“Oh, no! What must you think of me? I haven’t committed all the seven deadly sins. That’s not what I meant.” Gilly thought about what she’d said, and then because it was irresistible, added with a glint in her eye, “Not
all
by any means…just…most!” She gurgled with laughter before dissolving into something very much like giggles. Just in time, because now they were on the main drive through the park, and so were many of the most fashionable people in London.

Their carriage had to crawl because of the congestion. There were fine private coaches, phaetons, and other elegant rigs touring through the park today. The other carriages rolled by slowly, their occupants nodding to each other as they passed, or to the groups of horsemen also riding along the paths. There was no way to stop and really chat, only a chance to see and be seen.

“It’s slow going,” Damon commented, lowering his hands so the reins rested on his knee, “but a healthier way to catch up on gossip and be in fashion than suffering at a ball. At least there’s fresh air. All right, no need to drive now, we just follow. Let the play begin!”

He turned to her. “Now, give me a glowing smile. No. That looks like you’ve got a cramp. Now you look like you want to remove my scalp, and I didn’t come
home to England for that treat. Now you look insulted. My dear beloved long-lost love, didn’t you ever act in a Christmas pantomime? Or tell a fairy story to a child? Just start acting. You can do it. Look into my eyes and imagine I’m the best thing you’ve ever seen. Think of me as a tasty ice, a cake, a biscuit—Ah, good. You’re hungry.”

She couldn’t help it, he was outrageous. She laughed aloud. It was a rich, full-bodied sound and made heads turn. Damon noted it and smiled. “Good. Romeo and Juliet in the park, act one, scene one.”

They inched along the road, joking, laughing, looking like a young couple enjoying each other’s company. They were. But there were huge differences between like and love and lust. Those who had a reason to look hard at them saw the couple didn’t exchange long heated glances, or color up as they gazed into each other’s eyes, or fidget and look down when one stared too long at the other. Those who knew desire didn’t see it. Damon knew, but suppressed it. Gilly knew, but didn’t feel it, or at least, not the kind she knew best.

A lone horseman came up alongside their carriage. The gentleman removed his hat and held it over his heart as he gazed at Gilly. “My dear Miss Giles, allow me to offer my best wishes,” he said with an obviously insincere smile. “There must be dozens of broken hearts in London today. You deceived us all. Congratulations Mr…. Ryder, is it? You’ve caught the toast of London. And done it all from a distance, at that. My hat’s off to you.”

But it looked like he wanted his head off, for all his
smiles, Damon thought. Smiling himself, he said, “Damon Ryder, at your service, sir. And you are…?”

“Wycoff,” the horseman said, inclining his head in a brief bow, “an old friend of Miss Giles.”

“Obviously,” Damon drawled, his tone of voice giving the word
old
two meanings as his gaze ranged up and down the other man. Though slender and fit, he was obviously middle-aged. The older man stiffened; the sudden coolness in his eyes showed he knew exactly what Damon meant.

“Thank you, my lord,” Gilly spoke up, feeling the tension between the two. “I’m sorry we couldn’t stay longer at the ball last night to receive the good wishes of you and your lady. But I see your lady isn’t with you this morning either.”

Lord Wycoff bowed his head again, this time acknowledging a hit. He was married in the way of some of London’s most fashionable gentlemen, in name only. Gilly had let her new fiancé know that immediately, and had reminded him of it at the same time. Lord Wycoff’s eyes sparkled with amusement and obvious approval. She was as straightforward as any man he knew. It was only one of the reasons she fascinated him so.

“Much too early for my lady to be up and about, or so I’m told,” Wycoff said calmly. “I’m sure she’ll regret not seeing you today, but doubtless we’ll soon meet again. London’s a very small place for such as we, after all. Servant,” he said. He clapped his hat back on, bobbed a slight bow, turned his horse, and rode away.

“He acts like a disappointed suitor,” Damon remarked, watching him leave.

“Well, I suppose in a way, he is,” Gilly said, hating the heat she felt rising in her cheeks. “He isn’t very married, after all. And he has his hopes. Well, he as much as told you so just now, didn’t he? That’s what I like about him. He’s honest enough, in his way. I don’t like his morals. But they’re not my concern. I do like him otherwise,” she said, her chin rising. “I mean, to joke and talk with. Because he’s clever. But he never oversteps himself if you don’t want to play a deeper game. And be sure, I let him know I didn’t.”

“Hence, his disappointment? Oh, I see.”

Gilly lowered her eyes. She didn’t know how he managed to make his disapproval felt without one accusation or harsh word. Or how he made her feel so guilty for no reason, either.

“Well, but most London parties and balls are dull, and he amuses me. Oh, blast,” she went on as his bland expression didn’t change. “The thing is, we live deep in the countryside. We’re only here now because my Lord Sinclair had business in town and he and his lady hadn’t been in London for years. They decided to take me along because I suppose they wanted to make a push to get me popped off. There aren’t that many eligible men in our district. I have no name or estate, so they can’t arrange a suitable match. I think they brought me here to see what they could see in the future for me. I’m twenty now. That’s not very old, but let three or four more years roll by…well, they worry. They always try to do the best for me—no matter what I say. But aside from the theater, which I love, and the museums and such, there isn’t much here for me.
Especially
at the kind of party where we met.”

“Not much here for you?” Damon echoed in astonishment. “With all the bachelors in London?”

“No, not much at all. Except for the likes of Dearborne and Wycoff. Or knights in shining armor, like you. Confess,” she said impishly, “the gents you asked about me last night praised my face and form all right, I suppose. But then they said I was ineligible, right? Well, by their standards, that’s true. So, being gentlemen, they can’t raise my expectations by spending time with me. Being admired from afar is dull stuff and so are most parties I go to. The unmarried girls don’t want to sit with someone who isn’t the thing. The married ones wonder why I want to hang about with them. The companions are too afraid to squeak, and the mamas have each other to gossip with. So, a fellow like Wycoff livens up things for me, is all I meant to say.”

“He’d liven things more if your name was linked to his more often,” Damon mused. “Now. Back to being adored and adoring, if you please. But do you think you could take a minute to tell me more about yourself? Without skimping on the sighing and mooning over the complete magnificence of me, of course. You live in the countryside. Where? What do you do when you’re there? What do you want to do? What’s your favorite food? What perfume are you wearing? But first,” he said, suddenly serious, “I have to tell you one very important thing because I find I absolutely must, and bedamned the consequences!”

“What?” she asked, half afraid to hear it.

“Did anyone ever mention that the sunlight turns your eyes to gleaming gold?” he said in a rush. He raised his hands in surrender. “I had to say it, it was
overwhelming me. I knew you don’t like flattery. But this was an emergency. I ask you to bear with me when I’m overcome like that,” he said gravely. “Suppressing compliments is very bad for my health. Makes me break out in spots, and then see them before my eyes. All that pressure builds up, you see.”

The fashionable of London noted they’d never seen Miss Giles in better spirits; she was laughing so hard, it brought tears to her eyes. And her fiancé was grinning in sheer delight at the sight.

They drove the main path and eventually emerged from the park. He took her for ices at Gunters, the most fashionable place for it. They sat in the window, where anyone might see she had no chaperone. It was something only an engaged couple could do without scandal. He said it helped firm their arrangement in everyone’s eyes. Then he drove her back. They laughed, talked, and measured each other so much that by the time they returned to the Sinclairs’ townhouse, they were both pleased with the progress they’d made convincing everyone they were lovers reunited.

“The opera tonight, then,” Damon said as he left her.

“Tonight,” Gilly said happily.

“We’ll have a wonderful time,” he promised. He gazed at her for one long last time and nodded, looking smug. He wasn’t just thinking about their appointment. He tipped his hat, and drove off, humming to himself.

Gilly watched Damon and his carriage go round the corner and was surprised to discover herself regretting it.

“You know, it does feel as though I’ve known him for a long time,” she confided to the viscountess a short while later. “I suppose it’s because he’s so good with people. He is, you know. That’s how he made his fortune.”

“And will make yours!” Bridget, Viscountess Sinclair, said gleefully. They sat in her bedchamber as she fed her infant daughter. She refused a wetnurse for the baby. She hired a nurse for her and a nanny for her son so she wouldn’t scandalize her husband’s friends, but preferred to pass her time with the children herself. Lady Sinclair was a noblewoman, but she didn’t behave like one in private. That was only one of the reasons her elegant husband adored her even more than he had when they’d wed.

“Make
my
fortune? Not hardly!” Gilly yipped as she plopped down full-length on the bed. She leaned on her elbows and grinned at the baby. “He’s above my touch, my lady, and we both know it.”

“He has no title,” the viscountess said.

“What’s in a name?” Gilly asked saucily. “He’s handsome as he can hold together, smart and very, very rich. He can have anyone in London. He’s nice, too. Imagine! Risking marriage with a stranger just to save her good name.”

“But knowing you—and knowing you two spoke together alone before he did make that offer—I think he knew it wasn’t much of a risk. We’re not pushing you, Gilly,” Bridget said seriously, shifting the baby away from her breast, putting her up on her shoulder, and patting her back. “You know that. But you did say
you might like to marry one day. That’s why we thought this trip would be good for you. And so it was. Who could be better for you than a fellow like Ryder? Clever, and so handsome. You know Ewen has my heart entirely, but even I looked at him twice.”

Gilly reached out and gently stroked the silken fuzz on the baby’s head. “Marry?” she said softly. “Aye, so I will, I think. So I must if only so I can get one of these…. But Damon Ryder? Please. He deserves much more, and he’ll come to know it in time. I wouldn’t want to be Mistress Ryder when he does. No,” she said, flopping back on the bed, staring up at the ornate ceiling, “Mr. Matthew Harding or Mr. Fleming. They’re more in my style.”

Now it was the viscountess’s turn to yip. “
Harding
? But he’s twice your age! A widower, and only a gentleman farmer.”

“But a proven breeder,” Gilly said mischievously. “He’s already got three kiddies, hasn’t he? And a neat little farm at that.”

“And Fleming!” the other woman said heatedly, patting the baby’s back with a fluttering hand. “Yes, he’s got a nice house and a snug living, but he’s bookish and a bore and still his mama’s pet, for all he’s a grown man. And a vicar? For
you
, Gilly?”

“For me. Because he needs a wife. As does Harding,” Gilly said softly, “and neither will ask much of me.”

“Gilly, you
want
a husband who asks much of you. And you need much more of him than a roof over your head and a baby at your breast.”

“No, I don’t, my lady. The truth is I do not.”

The viscountess’s lovely face grew sad. She rubbed
her cheek against her baby’s downy head. “I’ll never tell you what to do, my dear,” she whispered, “because I never had to lead your life. But I will tell you that there’s nothing like love, and that if you find it, it will heal as well as nourish you.”

“I’ll love my babies, if I’m lucky enough to have them,” Gilly said briskly, sitting up.

But her friend and mentor didn’t laugh. Instead she gazed at her thoughtfully. “You feel you can never love a man, Gilly?”

A brief look of sorrow came into Gilly’s eyes, and she shrugged. “I feel it isn’t likely, but I don’t let it bother me so it shouldn’t bother you. Enough talk about men and marriage. We’re going to the theater tonight. Let’s discuss more important things. Like gowns and gloves.”

They both laughed.

And so the viscountess never knew that Gilly’s fleeting sorrow was because she’d thought of the man she did love. The one man she could never have, except in her wildest dreams—the ones she always tried to forget when she awoke. Because though he was available, he wasn’t for her, and life had taught her how to put futile longing away and get on with other things. She’d never had gotten as far as she already had otherwise. That was far enough to see the necessity of making a marriage for herself without love.

Damon Ryder was too nice a man to offer false coin. And she had nothing else to offer any man but one—and that one would never know of it so long as she lived. That, she vowed. And she always kept her word.

“P
ink
,” Gilly said with loathing.

“A
pricot
,” Bridget, Viscountess Sinclair, corrected her.

She and her maid stood watching the younger girl staring at herself in the long looking glass in her room. They were admiring her new gown. It was beautifully cut, simple and elegant, high at the waist, low at the neck, with long sleeves and slim, shimmering side panels of apple green. The gown drifted over Gilly’s slender form, showing off her small high breasts, caressing every curve, making her skin look luminous in the reflected glow of the apricot silk. Her hair was drawn up, bound with a ribbon and allowed to tumble down in random slips that resembled flaxen silk. Gilly was disgusted.

“Oh, Gilly.” Bridget sighed. “You can’t automatically rule out a color that does so much for you just because you think it’s too…”

“Girlish, missish, insipid,” Gilly sneered.

“Feminine,” Bridget said flatly. “Well, so it is, and so you are, and you must overcome your prejudice against delicate trappings. You’ve come so far. But for you not to see that it’s perfect for your coloring! Please wear it tonight…unless it makes you feel uncomfortable, of course. Because I’ve found that feeling well-dressed is the greatest cosmetic, and if you feel insipid, trust me, you will be. I once wore a gown Ewen thought looked fine, but I thought it made me look stout and wouldn’t budge from behind a potted palm all night, no matter what he said. It’s what’s in the mind’s eye that counts, and
how
I wish you could see yourself in my eyes, because you look lovely in it.”

“Oh, bother,” Gilly said gracelessly, turning from the mirror. “If you think so, I’ll wear it. Your eye’s better than mine when it comes to fripperies. Had I my own way though, I’d dress more like your lord than you.” She gave the viscountess a crooked grin. “Well, admit it, my lady, men have the best of it in fashion as well as everything else, don’t they? Just look at the men in London! Some dandies wear puce and canary and fret over every stitch in their waistcoats, true. But a
real
man don’t care so long as it fits and is clean. If he’s a gentleman, add the fact that he wants them to know it costs the earth. But that’s it. If females could only wear pantaloons and jackets, too.”

The viscountess and the maid wore matching expressions of dismay. Gilly laughed. “Don’t look so
horrified! Just think about it. Skirts are ridiculous. If they’re long, they sweep the floor and collect dust. If they’re short, you may be sure you’d be clapped into Bedlam for wearing them—unless you’re a man, and then you’re a Scot, and that’s different and not something I understand. Apart from Scots, the Romans were the last men to be comfortable in them. Still, it’s warmer in Rome, isn’t it? But pantaloons and boots? Very sensible, and comfortable in most weather.

“Men don’t expose their chests to every breeze,” she added, glowering down at the exposed tops of her white breasts. “This gown isn’t cut to cover me decently. If I tug it up, it will make me look a dowd—I know, I know, don’t tell me again. But I don’t have to approve it, do I? A gentleman doesn’t have to bare his chest to attract attention, does he? Huh!

“Look at what we have to wear!” Gilly picked up her skirt, frowned, and let it flutter down again. “No more weight than a handkerchief, thin enough to court pleurisy if the wind changes, transparent enough to shock a sultan if you don’t wear an underdress, and nothing to hide a bulge anywhere. Only the dowagers can afford not to care. Younger females have to watch what they eat or they’ll look like you did the day before little Margaret was born,” she told Bridget with a fierce frown. “It’s so easy to resemble an overstuffed sofa when you’re wearing next to nothing at all.”

“As if you had to worry about that!” Bridget scoffed.

“But men never do,” Gilly protested. “A fat woman is a joke, but a fat fellow’s considered ‘well-breached’ or ‘successful.’ They can eat like hogs and if their clothes don’t fit, they don’t mourn. Those that do can strap
themselves into corsets until they creak, and look respectable no matter what their size.”

“That’s not true,” Bridget said. “A man’s admired if he has a good form and you know it. Their limbs are more on display than ours are. A good leg and a broad pair of shoulders has turned many a girl’s eyes
and
heart.”

“Aye!” the maid, carried away, put in fervently. “Some of the finest gents pad out their shoulders and some even stuff their pantaloons to fill out their calves! S’truth! They pop in bags of sawdust or bits of wood carved to look like muscles, so they won’t look like they’re standing on a pair of noodles. Or so they say in the servant’s hall,” she added, and fell still, blushing.

“I wish you’d tell me which ones do it!” Gilly said, fascinated. “Or what else they pad, for that matter!”

“G
illy!
” Bridget squeaked.

The maid ducked her head. But her mistress urged her to speak. “Yes, which ones do add a little something? I mean,” Bridget added, looking self-conscious, “it would only be fair to Miss Gilly to say, Annie. She has to pick a husband from them, after all.”

The maid lifted her head, confused. “But she’s already nabbed the best of ’em! Mister Ryder, why, he’s the best-looking thing come to town in many a year. Not a pad on him, nor do he need any, no, not nowhere, nor is there another young gent in town who’s got a patch on his looks, and so say all.”

“Oh. Yes,” Bridget said guiltily, remembering the falsity of the engagement. “Just so.”

“What my lady means is we’d like to know anyway,”
Gilly said quickly. “Well, who wouldn’t? Come on, Annie. Who? And what is he padding?”

But the maid only blushed redder. Gilly laughed and said lightly, “Well, I suppose I’ll have to find out for myself!”

Which set them all to blushing and laughing.

Gilly gave herself a last glance. “At least the thing has a green overskirt,” she muttered. “All right. I’m ready to face the audience at the theater now. Since I’ve got engaged to Damon Ryder I’ve been goggled at by everyone. I suppose there will be as many eyes on us as on Mr. Keane tonight. So be it. I’m ready.” She plucked up a shawl and marched to her door, ready to go to the theater and be gaped at.

But she didn’t expect Damon to be the one who stared.

“Lord!” he finally said, when he realized he’d stopped talking to the viscount and instead had been standing stock still looking at Gilly as she descended the stair. “You take my breath away, Miss Giles.”

“Yes, well, I do clean up a treat,” Gilly said gruffly.

“
Gilly
,” Ewen Sinclair said with a shake of his head and a reluctant grin.

Damon laughed. She really did dislike compliments. He had forgotten. He’d have to try harder to remember. He knew she’d dislike an adoring beau as well. Odd that she disdained what most young women enjoyed. But so she was singular, and so she was fascinating. He tried to play her game so he could win his own.

“A pity we’ll have to sit in the dark most of the time,” was all he finally said. When he saw the slight sneer on her lovely face, which showed she anticipated another
compliment, he only added, “We’ll have to wait for intermissions to make our point. So when the lamps are lit, remember to dote on me, if you please. May I have a sample of some superior doting? No!” He laughed. “That’s superior bellyache.” He turned to Bridget, imploring, “Now, I ask you, my lady. Is that the look of love?”

Bridget turned to her husband to see his reaction to the question. But before he could speak, Damon did. “Yes,
exactly
like that,” he breathed, watching the viscountess. “Miss Giles, just look at your lady’s face and you’ll know exactly the look to imitate.”

“I am not such a good actress,” Gilly snapped.

“Oh. So you want the world to think we cooked up the whole thing to avoid scandal?” Damon asked placidly.

The viscount and his lady exchanged a quick glance, stifling their grins at the look on Gilly’s face.

“Of course not. Oh, bother!” Gilly said crossly. “I’ll slaver all over you if you like. But
not
until we have an audience.”

“Behold me wild with anticipation,” Damon said.

“He may well do,” the viscount whispered in his wife’s ear, as he tenderly enfolded her in her cloak in the hallway.

“Oh, Ewen, I pray so!” she whispered back.

“Do you want to stay for the farce? Or do you think we’ve seen enough of that tonight?” Damon asked Gilly, laughter in his voice.

“You’d think they’d pay
some
attention to the play,” Gilly grumbled, looking down from their high box at
the audience milling below. “I mean, it’s one thing to gape at everyone else at intermission, like now. I suppose it’s even fun. Oh—there’s Lord Wycoff again. Standing there talking with that Turner woman as though they’d just met? Rash of him, I must say!”

“You take special note of his activities?” Damon asked mildly, but his eyes were fixed on Gilly, not the lord in the crowded box across from them.

“Yes. How can I not? He smiles and bows whenever he sees me,” Gilly answered absently, still avidly studying the audience. But then she frowned. She turned to Damon. “It’s fine for everyone to gossip together now. But they talk all through the play,” she complained. “The audience is only still when Mr. Keane’s speaking. No wonder the actors have to shout! They have to make themselves heard, if only to each other. It would be lovely to hear an actor actually speaking as though he was just talking to another character, instead of bellowing at him,” she added wistfully. “I’m sure that’s not what Shakespeare meant them to do.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Damon said, laughter in his voice. “From what I’ve read his audiences were even louder. They ate and drank and brawled, flirted and gossiped, not to mention hawking oranges and prostitu—er, other things during the plays then.”

Her eyes widened. “The lightskirts did their business
inside
the theaters then?”

Damon bit back his smile. “So they did, but say I told you and I’ll strangle you—Gads! Gilly, how do you get me to say one wrong thing in order to correct another?”

She grinned. She liked him best when he forgot he was dealing with a female and talked to her straight from his shoulder. It made her feel easy with him. Sometimes when he looked at her she could see desire lurking in the back of those beautiful eyes of his and it made her uncomfortable. Yet that wasn’t as bad as the times when she saw his expression soften, becoming tender as he gazed at her. That troubled her.

But so did her own reaction to him these days. She genuinely liked him. It had been two weeks since their false engagement had been announced, and now she’d discovered that without being aware of it, she’d begun to enjoy their charade and looked forward to seeing him. It didn’t matter if she was going to accompany him to a party or the theater or just going for a walk with him. He made each occasion a delight. He always entertained her, whether he was talking about something they’d just seen or telling her of his travels.

He was a good storyteller. He never told the same one twice, and never forgot to gauge her mood so he could change the subject along with her changing responses. He got a joke when he was told one, and saw more humor in everyday life than she’d ever done. And she could enjoy his company with a light heart, because he never tried to presume on their arrangement, not once since that first night when he’d kissed her. He sometimes looked as though he might…but he never did.

Once he’d left off flattering her she’d dropped her guard against him altogether. And so it was peculiar, she thought uneasily, that after having trusted him, she began to distrust herself. She gazed at him now, so
correct in his black and white evening clothes, so attractive as he grinned back at her. She’d felt the warmth of him at her side all through the play, the clean scent of his soap and linen and self, the solid presence of him there. His personality was so vital, he could project it even when he didn’t speak.

“You’re sure you don’t want to go for a stroll?” he asked her now, seeing how she gazed at him with a troubled expression.

They were alone in their box. The viscount and his lady had gone out to mingle with the other theatergoers in what many of them felt was the most important part of an evening of playgoing.

She shook her head. “No, thank you very much. The way people stare and watch my lips as if they expected me to say something they could rush out and quote to the world? Huh! I’m not such a wit as that. They make me feel like they’re trying to trap me into saying something indiscreet or scandalous.”

“They are,” Damon said placidly. “That’s the whole point of this kind of evening out on the town.”

“Well, I doubt that’s how it is in the clubs and gaming hells, taverns and bawd—um, I mean, the places you gentlemen frequent!”

“Thank you,” Damon said, “for editing your views on how I spend my evenings. But you’re wrong. Gossip is king in London. It’s exactly the same in those places you almost mentioned. Not that I know them much better than you do. I’ve only been back a little more than a month and you’ve claimed half of it, you know.”

She looked stricken. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized. Our fiction is really cutting into your pleasure, isn’t it?”

“My dear Miss Giles,” Damon said, reaching out and taking her hand, “I don’t regret a minute I’ve spent with you—and no, don’t bristle. I’m not pouring the butter boat over you. I mean it. If you take it as a compliment, I’m sorry. But it’s only truth. Would you rather I lied?”

She shook her head again. She was doing it a lot this evening, she thought, that must be why she felt so light-headed. “So. Tell me,” she said in a struggle to recover her equilibrium. “Do they chatter through plays in America as well?”

“Oh, no,” he said serenely. But Gilly wasn’t as calm, because Damon didn’t release her hand. He absently stroked his thumb over the smooth back of it as he spoke, as though he’d forgotten he still held. it. She’d taken off her gloves, and he seldom wore his. I
t’s only a light touch, and only a hand, you goose
, she scolded herself, wondering why she felt her breath shorten and her whole being focus on such a simple thing.