Edith Layton (22 page)

“But I just offered you my hand again,” William protested. “It’s why I came here. It’s why I tossed aside everything and followed you on the first fair tide. Mother thought I was mad. I was only angry—with you, and Wycoff. Yes, I heard gossip, but I don’t credit a word of it. You’re no lightskirts, Lucy, you’d never take a man to bed without wedlock. And don’t I know it!” he muttered. “But I think you’ll warm nicely with a ring on your finger. Good females are like that, and you are one. Leave Jamie to his father’s destiny. Make yours with me.” He smiled, pleased with what he said, and how he’d said it.

“It’s a thing I must think on,” Lucy said, her head aching.

“What is there to think about? You took him to England to meet his father’s family. He did. They’ve embraced him. Now it’s time to mend your own life.”

But I could only do that with another man
, the thought sprang to her mind,
and he doesn’t know what’s happened yet
. “I still have to think,” she said quickly. “Jamie’s still a boy. We have a bond. If he’s to be the baron’s heir, he will be whether he’s here or there—or anywhere. Please leave now. I do appreciate the honor of your offer. But I can’t think of one thing until I resolve the other.”

“I’ll go, but I need an answer soon,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ve only a little more business to take care of. Then I want to go home. I’ll be a wealthier man when I do, Lucy. I’ll be a more eligible one, too. I can’t wait for you forever. London’s filled with spinsters. In fact, I’ve also come to ask if you’d like to accompany me to a ball. Yes. I’ve been invited, through a man of business I met. Tomorrow night. At the Lord Swanson’s.” He puffed out his chest. “I understand it’s a very fine, exclusive affair.”

Lucy bit back laughter, remembering Gilly’s words. Exclusive, indeed. Exclusively for any man who could climb into suitable clothes and court one of Swanson’s many daughters.

“I’ll be there,” she said. “I’ve already promised myself to go with my friends, the Ryders.”

He hesitated, waiting for her to ask him along. When she said nothing, he took her hand. She straightened her back so he wouldn’t get the notion of taking anything else in hand. He bowed and left her. But not without saying one more thing.

“I’ll need an answer soon, my girl. You’ve got first call on me, because I asked you first. But I’m not the type to wear the willow, and I warn you, don’t be angry—I’ll be looking around, in case your answer is no.”

Fair enough
, Lucy thought. She wished she had any kind of answer. She knew who she had questions for, though. But she couldn’t see him for another night. By then she’d likely have a dozen more. She badly needed his advice and his counsel. Almost as much as she needed to be held close in his arms, feeling that nothing and no one could hurt her there. Nothing and no one—but him. That realization made her head ache even more.

W
ycoff always took care to dress correctly, but tonight he’d primped like a boy going to his first social call. He stared at himself in the mirror, and scowled.

“What is amiss?” Perkins asked.

Wycoff understood his puzzlement. There was nothing wrong with his appearance. His cravat was faultlessly tied in a waterfall style; it looked graceful, crisp and white. His light hair was brushed back until it shone. He wore a new gold waistcoat, spotless linen, finely knit gray breeches, his dark blue jacket fitted without a wrinkle. In fact the only wrinkles were on his forehead as he looked at his reflection.

“
I
am amiss, or was,” Wycoff said, and turned away from himself. “And well they all know it. I’ve
spent too many days—though it feels like months—sipping weak tea and kissing too many wrinkled cheeks, acting like a damned gigolo. At least they have a warmer reward for their efforts. All so I can be acceptable again. Yet, should another of my former—interests—take it into her cold heart to tell Mrs. Stone the intimate particulars of my past association with her, and it’s all for nothing. She has the taste to be repelled by their admissions. God! What good is a good reputation, if it’s based on a lie? For so it is, Perkins, and we both know it. I was an adulterer. I reveled in it. Whatever I choose to be now, that is what I was.”

“A good reputation is its own reward, my lord,” Perkins said primly.

Wycoff cast him an ironic look. “Indeed. Have you found it so? I confess, I couldn’t know. Hand me my hat, I’m off to battle again. She’ll be there tonight. So wish me luck. I wish Crispin was still here—God! Hiding behind a boy’s back! What next, I wonder?”

“Next? Triumph, my lord.”

That earned Perkins another look. This one so withering it made him turn his gaze away.

The Viscount Wycoff seemed loose-limbed and at ease as he went up the short stair to the Swanson townhouse. He had experience appearing to be what he was not. He held his head high, though the back of his neck prickled. He could almost feel the stares as he was recognized, waiting his turn to go in. The street was filled with carriages discharging other
guests. He bowed to some, nodded to others. He gave his card to the butler when he was admitted and stood waiting like an actor in the wings for his introduction. He felt like one. He had a new role to play. A reformed man, a decent one, with decent intentions. It was true. But still it felt strange. There’d been too many nights like this when he’d been on the prowl. He couldn’t forget it. Could they? Could she?

“Lord Hathaway Wycoff, the Viscount Wycoff,” the butler announced.

Wycoff raised his head higher and strolled into the room.

The first person he saw was Lady Turner. She looked at him with dawning glee. He felt his stomach tighten. All his work for nothing? The goodwill of a thousand dowagers of immaculate reputation could be canceled out by one malicious former lover. But he was prepared tonight. He bowed to her and walked in the opposite direction, seeking someone, anyone. He couldn’t be seen chatting with her. Again, he repented his past, not only because of what he’d done but how he’d done it. Other married men of his class had been even more promiscuous. Some regularly bought street women, some went to brothels, using women as frequently as they did salts, and for the same reasons. As an excuse for their health. As a pastime. As a habit.

He had had affairs. His liaisons were famous and could be documented. They were with women of his own kind, those he thought he could talk with as
well as find pleasure with. Tonight, again, he cursed the bizarre, fastidious turn of his nature that had so often prevented him from anonymous couplings all those years. He’d looked for a semblance of love. He’d found infamy and disgrace.

He saw the tall, distinctive profile of the Earl of Drummond across the room. It was too crowded for him to make his way across the room with any speed. Drum looked over the heads of the throng and shrugged to signal his helplessness. Guests stood literally cheek by jowl, waiting for the music to start so the doors to the ballroom could open and give them at least room to move their elbows. The Swansons gave balls for the masses. Still, all but the highest sticklers came. As some wit once quipped, the Swansons’ parties were like carriage accidents—hard to avoid, impossible to look away from, but if you came out alive, the only thing to discuss the next day.

If Drummond was there, Wycoff thought, then his red-headed friend Rafe must be nearby—there he was, in earnest conversation with that dark haired beauty Lady Annabelle. If Rafe was talking to her, the world ceased to exist for him. Wycoff looked around the packed salon, trying to hide his exasperation and growing anxiety. He had to find someone reputable, blameless, to talk with, and quickly. Or else they’d think he was stalking again. Or waiting for one of his former lovers to approach. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lady Turner nearing.

He turned his head, seeking sanctuary. The
dowagers he’d been courting these past weeks didn’t come to the Swansons’ foolish, lavish entertainments. Gilly would be here, but later. Damon didn’t want to expose her to the worst of this crush in her condition.

But who else could he pass the time with now? He didn’t know many other gentlemen, except in passing. Men of his reputation didn’t. Then, too, he’d been out of the country over a year, and since then only in the company of a few old friends and acquaintances, his son, and then the meticulous, proper ladies and gentlemen of society who would let him near. Now he saw none of them.

“You’re late,” a querulous voice said behind him. “I was told you arrived fashionably late, but this is absurd. When do these people open their ballroom? Or their windows? It’s small wonder I’ve been so happy in my seclusion.”

Wycoff spun on his heel. “
Father?
” he breathed in honest astonishment.

“Anyone would think I was the ghost of Hamlet’s father, the way you stare. You said you wanted to be launched into correct society again. I referred you to your irreproachable Great Aunt Chloe. She kept me apprised of your progress. I found it interesting, if not proceeding swiftly enough. I’ve come to see for myself, and lend assistance, if you wish. My name still means something, I believe.”

“Of a certainty, I wish, sir,” Wycoff said.

“Well then, where is she?”

“She?” Wycoff answered carefully.

“You know who I mean,” his father snapped. “The reason for this entire effort. The reason I came down from the country to have myself pressed in this juggernaut of fashionable flesh for you.”

“Are you feeling well?” Wycoff asked quickly, remembering how seldom his father traveled, seeing again how old he’d become.

“Well enough. I stay away from London for my mind’s sake, not my body’s,” the older man said, but seemed pleased by the question.

“Is Mama here?”

His father looked tired again “No, of course not. She sends her fondest regards. Now. Where’s the young woman who is inspiration for this campaign?”

“I don’t know,” Wycoff admitted, “I haven’t seen…” He fell still as he looked toward the door.

She’d just come in, and stood on the top stair scanning the crowd. She wore a long-sleeved teal-colored gown, some silken thing shot through with silvery highlights that shimmered in the candlelight. It fitted gracefully to her form. Her hair was dressed high, with a blue ribbon to match her eyes. He couldn’t see into those dark blue eyes from where he stood, but her cheeks were pink when her gaze finally found him.

His father looked at her, then at him. “Well, well,” he said softly, under his breath. “This is very well, indeed. For all she’s lovely, she’s not in the first stare of fashion, nor her first youth. But you seem to be having trouble breathing.”

“She’s in the first stare of everything with me,” Wycoff said tersely. “As I said, I can’t tell you why, chapter and verse. But so it is. She’s gallant and clever, and good. I feel right in her presence, at home for the first time in a very long time. Most of all, her very being makes me happy, Father. But I can’t tell you if she’ll make me happy, as we say when a woman agrees to marry a man. Her husband left her a bitter legacy. She’s cautious and careful, because once in her youth she was not, and lived to regret it.”

“That’s good. I’d dislike having another paragon in my family,” his father said. “Your mother is that. I don’t believe we need yet another. Introduce us, please.”

Wycoff did, and watched her eyes widen in surprise and dawning pleasure as she realized who he was introducing her to. His father claimed her hand for the first country dance. Wycoff stood at the sidelines and watched the pair. As did almost everyone else in the room, when they weren’t stealing glances at him. He pretended he didn’t see it. He was very good at that.

He didn’t seek her out for the next dance, though her head turned to him when it began. He let Drummond and Dalton and other gentlemen take their turns, while every impulse begged him to let himself capture her for the waltz, the minuet, the quadrille. But he’d resolved not to make his move until he could court her like a reputable and respected man. Then, and only then, she might trust him. He could only win that confidence by showing her his trust
worthiness. Since she didn’t trust her own judgment he had to show her others found him so. It was a prize worth waiting for.

He was watching to see who would partner her next when he saw who stepped out of the crowd and bowed over her hand. He tensed, not quite believing his eyes. His nostrils pinched as she gave her hand to William Bellows and let him lead her into the waltz. She smiled up into William’s face. William put his thick-fingered hand on her back. Wycoff remember the exact shape and contour of that silken back, and his own hand closed to a tight fist. He saw William’s smug expression.

The man had come all the way from America? Had she asked him to
? Wycoff turned around, blindly seeking something else to look at. Anything else, till his heart beat at its usual pace again and he recovered his wits. He found himself staring into a familiar face. A beautiful one, wearing a curling, sensual smile.

“She’s well enough looking,” Lady Turner remarked, looking out at the dance floor before her bright eyes slewed back to his. “And well occupied too, I see. A handsome fellow. If you like the robust type. Some obviously do. I like a bit more refinement, myself. They’re saying he’s an old…friend from her past. Speaking of which, would you care to dance? Audacious of me, I know. But I was ever the impetuous creature. You liked that about me, among other things. Come, one dance.” She pouted. “For old times’ sake? Because whatever they’re saying
about your reformation,” she added, laying a little hand lightly on his chest, as though brushing something from his lapel, “
I
think there was nothing wrong with your form—in any construction of the word—in the first place. Come, why not?”

He stared down at that lovely, smiling, knowing face, remembering all the things she knew too well. And told too readily.

“
…Why not
?” he echoed. He didn’t make a move to take her into his arms. “My dear,” he said, his eyes now sparkling, too, “let me count the ways.”

She gaped at him. So did many others.

Others watched Wycoff and Lady Turner surreptitiously, and were pleased. The Swansons’ do’s were always good for fresh gossip, and this one was no exception. Tonight much of the chatter was about Wycoff.

“He
has
changed,” a young blade murmured to another as they stood over the punch bowl. “Did you see that? Turned on his heel and left that Turner woman looking like she could chew nails. Rebuffed her as though she were a faded drab with the clap.”

“She probably is, by now,” his friend yawned.

“Just look at him,” one lady murmured to another behind her fan. “Still dashing and devilish handsome, as always, that wretch. How does the man do it? He was just as fascinating ten years ago. I was fascinating then, too, but already wed. So was he, much difference it made to him then. But look at him now. Free as a bird, at last. But behaving as properly as a vicar looking for a living.”

“Lud!” her friend sighed, “Yes. Just look at him. Almost makes one wish he had not reformed, does it not?”

“Wicked thing,” her friend giggled.

“Not so wicked as he
once
was—alas.”

None of them had seen Wycoff’s reclusive father so sociable in decades. None of them could remember seeing Wycoff so charming to people they knew he detested, either.

“I don’t know who he’s turning over that new leaf for,” one matron sighed, “but oh! He makes one long to be under it.”

Wycoff danced. He danced with Gilly, and laughed with her. When he returned her to her husband, he found Drum waiting for him at the sidelines, with an influential lady. Wycoff expected her to say something cutting, and walk away. He prepared himself. She was flighty, a rattle, as free with her tongue as she was exacting in her manners. But still, she was a social lioness.

“You know Lady Jersey, don’t you, Wycoff?” Drummond asked.

Wycoff bowed over her hand. “Indeed. How are you, my lady?” he asked, bracing himself for her snub.

“I was telling Sally that you’ve learned some new steps in America,” Drummond drawled.

“And how I love to dance,” she said, looking at him expectantly.

Wycoff was shocked, the more so when a small
nod from Drummond signaled he might actually ask the lady to dance.

“They say you’re making a new man of yourself,” she said as he led her into a waltz. “What
shall
we do? We did so enjoy gossiping about the old, naughty one, you know.”

He came to know it. His small, select army brought him partners whenever the music changed. He danced with the formidable Mrs. Cooke, a dragon of a woman, close friend to the Countess Lieven, an even greater stickler. And then danced with the Countess Lieven herself.

They weren’t at Almack’s, the fashionable social club she and Lady Jersey controlled to some degree. Even with their approval, he knew he’d never be permitted there, or at least not for a hundred years. There were too many dewy young women on display in that holy of holies for the likes of a man of his stamp, however reformed he was said to be. But he was obviously accepted here, tonight. Which signaled that his daughter would be accepted there. A second wife, too, perhaps, one day. He didn’t worry about that day now. He was doing this for a tomorrow when he’d be free to openly take Lucy Stone to dinner, in company. And take her to much more when they were alone.