Elizabeth Bennet's Deception: A Pride and Prejudice Vagary (18 page)

Angelica thought of her devilish dreams. A man of passion and compassion would do well for her.

“I require a man of vision, like my father,” she said in earnest.

* * *

The slow carriage procession drove Angelica nearly to Bedlam, but she kept the smile upon her lips. She agreed to the craziness of the “Marriage Mart,” as her Uncle Lancelot termed it, but she preferred to be anywhere else. The baron’s gig crawled along behind a Stanhope. Every few feet, the man would slow the carriage to acknowledge another member of th
e
beau mond
e
before introducing her to his acquaintances. Th
e
to
n
practiced their pompousness with prescribed efficiency, and Angelica found it blatantly boring. With amusement, she wondered wha
t
her devi
l
would say to such pretentiousness. Mayhap he would use it as a prime argument in defense of passion ruling the world. Not that Angelica knew anything of passion. In fact, she had never known even the most faithful of kisses.

“Woolgathering, Miss Lovelace?” a brittle voice broke through her thoughts.

Angelica flushed as she looked up into the countenance of a frowning earl.

“I beg your pardon, Lord Townsend, I was simply enjoying the park’s splendor on a spring day.”

“You should always carry a parasol, Miss Lovelace,” Lady Townsend warned. “We would not wish to see you become too brown from the sun.”

Angelica doubted the woman’s sincerity: She was certain th
e
to
n
would celebrate any flaw Angel sported. She despised the British standard for unblemished skin. White pasty skin. Virginal white gowns. Proper manners, which hid prejudice and censure. A bland lifestyle wrapped in formality. She missed her American friends and her home in the picturesque Virginia mountains. Missed riding break neck across her father’s land.

“I am grateful for the suggestion, Ma’am, and honored by your attention.”

The carriage nudged forward, and she prepared to greet the baron’s next acquaintance.

“What a crazy tradition!” she observed. “Would it not be wonderful to give the horses their heads?”

“A proper gentleman would never place his cattle in danger,” Arden said in chastisement.

Angelica stiffened. His tone increased her often-quick ire: The baron’s first thought was of his team. Should he not think of the park goers or her position in the high backed gig if safety knew his true concern?

“I never suggested you turn your team free; I simply made the observation it would be a pleasant experience to feel the wind upon one’s cheeks.”

“Acting such would age a woman,” he said with another scowl.

Angelica considered arguing, but she stifled her words. It was useless to think she might find a mate who spoke to her soul. She apologized. This was her first outing with Arden, and she would not leave the man with a poor impression of her manners. She ignored his declaration, and instead focused on the families enjoying the park
.
I wish for family
,
she thought
.
Children and a husband, who knows pleasure in me in my devotion. A marriage where love rules our reaso
n
.

In resignation of what may never be, Angel turned her head and watched a tall figure toss a ball to a boy hefting a cricket bat. Even from a distance, she could tell he cut a fine figure. It was brazen of her to study one man when riding out with another; yet, she could not turn her gaze. Without realizing the reason, she extended her gloved hand in his direction, as if she wished to turn him toward her so she might look upon his features. It was the oddest of sensation; Angel swallowed hard against the rising constriction in her chest.

* * *

Huntington McLaughlin, Marquess of Malvern, ignored the continual line of carriages tooling its way along the lane leading to and from the Serpentine, as well as the Society mamas, who attempted to catch his attention. He never understood th
e
ton’
s
desire to be on display. In fact, Hunt could not recall the last time he suffered a drive through the park during the fashionable hour. Today, he brought Logan and Lucas, his sister’s twins, to the park, but earlier, he spent hours pacifying his father’s high dudgeon regarding Hunt’s refusal of Lord Sandahl’s virginal daughter, Lady Mathild.

“I want nothing of an innocent,” he declared.

If his father forced him to marry, Hunt would consider a widow, but no green girl straight from the schoolroom: He wished for a woman to place her love for him above all others–a woman who shared his passions for life and adventure and learning.  

“What is amiss, Uncle Hunt?” Logan called as he took a few practice swings. Hunt escorted his nephews to the park to remove them from Henrietta’s way. His twin sister was heavy with another child, and with Viscount Stoke away on governmental business, Malvern promised to see to the twins’ safeties, while permitting the boys to expend some of their unbridled energy.

“Nothing,” he mumbled, but he brought his forearm across his eyes to block the sun. Despite standing in an open field and surrounded by many of Society’s best, his loins tightened. From the long equipage line, he watched a slow moving carriage turning toward Rotten Row. A golden-haired beauty clung to the gig’s side, the wisps of her hair alive with light, and she turned in the seat to stare at him
.
Too youn
g
, his mind argued, but his body reacted nonetheless. He hardened, and although he knew it a foolish act for the distance between them too far apart to distinguish each other’s features, he lowered his arm so she might look upon him. “Bloody hell,” he mumbled as the gig moved away.

“Come on, Uncle Hunt,” Lucas encouraged.

He withdrew his eyes from the departing carriage, but not before he spotted what he thought was the woman reaching out to him. It was like nothing he ever experienced, and the movement set his body on alert.

“Right away,” he said with little conviction. With the girl no longer in sight, Hunt turned to the seven-year-olds. “Are you prepared?” He tossed the ball in the air to catch it again.

“It will be a fiver,” Logan bragged.

Hunt laughed as his nephew puffed out chest.

“No boasting until after you produce.” Yet, while he tossed the ball to Lucas, Hunt thought only of the pleasure of greeting the unknown girl with an embrace she would never forget.

* * *

“Are you frightened to toss the ball to me?” She pranced around in a circle.

He smiled in deviousness.

“Your confidence exceeds your ability.”

His words taunted her, but she knew he would treat her gently. So, when he wound up as if to burn her with his bowler, Angel anticipated the easy loft. He did not disappoint her. The ball sailed within her reach, and Angelica smacked it with the bat, sending it buzzing past his ear.

With a burst of pure joy, she ran to touch the post with her bat as he scrambled for the ball to tag her out. As they both raced toward the home post, he caught her about the waist and swung her around in a circle.

“No fair!” she protested between gasps of delight.

He placed her before him.

“I have no sense of fair play where you are concerned.” His thumb caressed her bottom lip. “You are mine,” he whispered. “You deserve to be more than a mere baroness.”

* * *

Angelica assumed her seat beside the baron in the Arden family box. After last night’s dream, she considered canceling her evening plans. Never before had her secret lover made such a bold statement, and it shook Angel’s composure. Realizing the unfairness to Arden, as well as to her father, Angelica met her obligations; yet, the dream remained clearly in her memory. She reminded her weary heart she promised her extended family to deal honorably with her suitors, and so she smiled at the man of whom she already tired.

“Have you attended the theatre previously, Miss Lovelace?” Lady Wickersham asked as she waited for her husband to assist her with her wrap.

“Quite often, Your Ladyship.”

“I am certain it could not be of the same quality,” the baron’s sister declared. The Wickershams had commented on the lack of proper roads, religion, and refinement in the Americas. “How often must you have encountered a savage!” The woman exclaimed from nowhere. “Daily, I imagine.”

“Never once,” Angelica corrected, but the trio ignored her protests. Their snickers spoke volumes as to their honest opinion of the Lovelace fortune, and Angel bit the inside of her jaw to prevent the retort resting upon her lips.

“Have you traveled to the Americas, my lord?” she asked the newly minted Viscount Wickersham.

“Heavens, no!” he snapped. “Why would I care to place myself in such a hostile society?”

She wondered if Lord Wickersham held any notice of how patronizing he sounded. With hope, Angelica sought the baron’s attention to intercede, but her supposed suitor turned his notice to the lower levels. Angel followed his gaze. The baron’s eyes fell upon a dark-haired buxom beauty. Immediately, Angelica recalled observing the same woman near the park’s gate yesterday afternoon. The woman dropped a curtsy as the baron’s gig exited the park
.
Coincidence?

Suddenly, it became quite clear what bothered her about yesterday’s excursion. Other than when he introduced her to his brief acquaintances, Arden never spoke to her except to instruct or to criticize. In the ninety minutes’ outing, he generally ignored her. And the same occurred thus far this evening. He disregarded her in the carriage, spending his time discussing politics with his brother in marriage. Did he despise being around her? He required her dowry, but the baron seemed under the delusion he owed her nothing in return. She had shared her expectations with him, but Arden gave her request no care.

Irritated by his attitude, she whispered in the baron’s ear.

“Do you find the lady interesting, Sir?”

Arden turned his head to glare at her.

“We are not yet betrothed, Miss Lovelace, but you show tendencies for jealousy,” he hissed. “Should I be flattered?”

“You should be courting my favor; it is my hand you seek,” she returned. Angelica refused to look away. If Arden thought to have a biddable wife, he should look elsewhere.

Arden’s cheeks flushed.

“I will treat you with respect, Miss Lovelace, but I will not dance attendance on your every whim.”

“I see,” she said guardedly. With great care, she turned to the stage and began silently to count to one hundred. The pause would provide her time to make a decision. At length, turning to her party, Angelica set her mouth in a straight line. “If you will excuse me, Arden, I shall step to the ladies’ retiring room.”

“Shall I accompany you, Miss Lovelace?” Lady Wickersham asked as she adjusted her seat to address the stage.

Angelica kept her voice calm.

“That shan’t be necessary, Viscountess. I have noted a smudge on my gown, which I should address. Enjoy the opening aria.”

The baron did not even honor her by rising when Angelica exited his box. Angel had never experienced such decided censure
.
When had Arden’s intent changed? Had he meant to teach me a lesson prior to my accepting his plight? If so, the baron erred
.
Reaching the main entrance, she motioned to a footman.

“Might you assist me?”

“Certainly, Miss.”

“I am not feeling well. Would you hail a respectable hack to see me to St. James Street?”

The man bowed.

“Immediately, Miss.” He turned toward the nearest exit. Within moments, he reappeared. “Your ride awaits, Miss.” He escorted her to the carriage.

She slipped a coin into his hand.

“One more task,” she whispered. “Please inform Lady Wickersham I developed a headache. Her Ladyship keeps her brother Baron Arden company.”

“As you wish, Miss.” With that, he steadied her step into the public coach.

As the hack rolled from the curb, Angelica looked back to determine if Arden followed. Instead, on the corner stoop, she espied the same gentleman who played cricket in the park the previous day. She recognized him from his stance and by the way her breathing hitched tighter. He assisted a very enciente woman, who clung to his arm
.
Two sons and another on the wa
y
. With a deep sigh of regret at her loss, she refocused her attentions on London’s busy streets. She was without a suitor once again. Baron Arden would be furious: She had ended their courtship with a dramatic period.

* * *

Hunt turned his head to survey the traffic, but his gaze locked on the hackney and the woman climbing into it. His arm tensed
.
It is sh
e
, he thought.

“Someone you know?” His sister asked as her gaze followed his.

“No,” he murmured.

Henrietta tightened her hold on his arm.