Heartless (8 page)

He inclined his head.
“The Beggar's Opera,”
he said. “A very successful work by the late Mr. John Gay.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I have heard of it.”

He made her one of his deepest bows. “Until tomorrow evening, then, madam,” he said. “The hours between now and then will crawl by.”

He left her standing in the hall, smiling. What the devil was happening to him? he wondered.
The hours between now and then will crawl by.
He was accustomed to uttering such gallantries to women who clearly knew that he was trying to maneuver them into a liaison. They were not the sort of words he was in the habit of speaking to innocent young ladies of quality whom he could neither wish nor hope to bed this side of a wedding ceremony.

And yet he had spoken the words to Lady Anna Marlowe— one scant hour after he had cautioned himself to be very careful.

And what had prompted him to say he planned to take his mother and Doris to the theater? Some responsibility for the latter he might reluctantly acknowledge, but he desired no social intercourse with his family. He had planned to go to the theater himself since
The Beggar's Opera
was a play he wished to see and since the subscription on his family box at the theater had been kept up even after George's death. But he had not planned to take a party there. Thank the Lord that at least he had thought to include the sister and Lady Sterne in the invitation.

He supposed that he should call on his mother again to issue the invitation.

Damnation, he thought. His mother, in particular, was someone with whom he did not really wish to renew relations. He had not forgiven her and doubted that he ever would or could. And during his own brief visit to her and the meeting at last evening's ball she had shown no sign of wishing forgiveness. Perhaps she still believed he had tried to kill George. Damnation. He wished he had stayed in Paris and consigned them all to hell.

He turned his steps in the direction of his ducal town house.

•   •   •

Anna
sat with Agnes and Lady Sterne in the Duke of Harndon's box at the Covent Garden theater the following evening and gazed about her in wonder and awe. Her desire to see London, to attend balls and concerts there, to sit in a theater and watch a play or listen to an opera, had been so suppressed in her during her youth and the early years of her adulthood that she had been scarcely aware of them before coming here. It had all, she supposed, seemed to be such an impossibility.

She was here, she told herself. She was really here. And it was all more wonderful than anything she might have imagined. She had given up all caution during the past few days. It was silly, she had persuaded herself, to stop herself from enjoying these two months only because she knew they must come to an end. She was going to enjoy them and she was going to enjoy the company of the duke and flirt with him, too, for as long as he gave her the opportunity. Once she had returned home, she would never see him again. It would not matter what sort of an impression she left behind with him.

She looked over her shoulder to where he was standing, greeting Lord Quinn and a tall, handsome young man, who had just entered the box together. The duke was wearing a gold coat tonight and a scarlet waistcoat. He was wearing his cosmetics again, something he had not done on their walk yesterday. She wondered how long his hair was inside the black silk bag. She wondered what color it was in its natural state, beneath the carefully applied white powder.

The handsome young man was Lord Ashley Kendrick, the Duke of Harndon's younger brother. He smiled at her and bowed deeply when he was presented. He shared his brother's charm, Anna thought, though he smiled more easily than the duke. Apart from that they were unalike. He greeted Lady Sterne and took a seat beside Agnes, who looked painfully shy, Anna thought, despite his charm.

The duke's mother and his sister, who had come with the two gentlemen, would arrive any moment. They had stopped outside in the corridor to exchange a few words with a friend, Lord Quinn explained as he sat beside Lady Sterne.

She and her family and he and his. It was very significant, Lady Sterne had commented when she knew of the invitation. She had smiled and nodded knowingly. And it was extremely satisfactory. It was what she had hoped for from the first. The Duke of Harndon was, of course, Lord Quinn's nephew, and very wealthy with vast estates, Bowden Abbey in Hampshire being the principal one. And he was going to present her to his mother. Very promising indeed.

Anna had felt instant alarm. And yet there was no need to do so, she had told herself. It was ridiculous. He had danced with her and taken supper with her at Lady Diddering's ball. He had walked with her during an afternoon in St. James's Park. And he was escorting her to the theater—with her sister and her godmother. There was hardly cause for alarm there even though the other members of his party belonged to his family. After all, he must be the most eligible gentleman in London. He was also the most fashionable and one of the most handsome. It would be absurd to imagine that he was even beginning to think of her in terms of courtship. She would not become alarmed and run from him out of any such fanciful imaginings.

And then the door of the box opened again and two ladies stepped inside. Anna rose to her feet and curtsied as she was presented to the Dowager Duchess of Harndon, an elegant, regal lady who was still handsome, and to Lady Doris Kendrick, a thin-faced, pretty girl with a petulant mouth—or what Anna, who had three younger sisters, thought was probably a petulant mouth.

The dowager acknowledged Lady Sterne's presence and Agnes's with a slight inclination of the head before looking closely at Anna and nodding graciously. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Anna,” she said. “You are the sister of the young Earl of Royce?”

Anna inclined her head.

“I am sorry for the double bereavement you suffered quite recently,” her grace said. “You must be enjoying your visit to town now that your official term of mourning is over.”

Lady Doris seated herself to one side of Anna and smiled at her. “I wondered if it was you,” she said. “I saw Luke dance with you at Lady Diddering's ball and I thought how lovely your gown was. I wondered if 'twas you he was escorting here tonight. 'Tis wonderful to have him back home from Paris, Lady Anna. You cannot imagine. I was but a young child when he went away ten years ago.” She leaned a little closer and spoke more quietly. “Papa was very strict and George—my oldest brother who was duke for three years—was aloof. And now Luke has the title. I have been hoping beyond hope that he would come home to stay. We have all been hoping it.”

He had been in Paris for ten years and had not returned home even on the death of his father or that of his brother? Or since then until now? He had not seen his young sister for ten years? It seemed strange to Anna. Had his life been so devoted to frivolity that he had no use for his family or home? Or for his responsibilities as the Duke of Harndon? She could not imagine anyone so frivolous or so heartless that he could turn his back on his family.

But he was with them now.

“Perhaps,” Lady Doris whispered, “you can keep him in England and bring him home to Bowden Abbey, Lady Anna.”

Anna was relieved of the necessity of answering by one more arrival, that of a slightly portly, florid, flustered young man, who looked as much out of place in this London theater as Anna and Agnes had looked just a couple of weeks before. He was presented as Baron Severidge, who lived close to Bowden Abbey. He acknowledged his new acquaintances with a quick bobbing of the head and plopped himself down on the chair next to Agnes that Lord Ashley had briefly vacated. Anna felt uncharitably annoyed for her sister's sake.

But she soon forgot all else when she became aware of a stirring of heightened interest in the theater. The play was about to begin. The Duke of Harndon seated himself on her other side. Anna turned her head to smile at him and then concentrated her attention on the stage.

The music and the action enthralled her. For an hour or more she saw and heard nothing else. She forgot about herself and about her surroundings. She had never experienced anything so wonderful in all her life. But finally the need to share her wonder caused her to turn her head in the duke's direction.

He was leaning back in his chair watching her, not the stage. She looked into his face a little uncertainly. He was holding his fan, closed, in his lap. He lifted it and ran the tip of it lightly along her hand, which was resting on the velvet edge of the box, from her wrist to the end of her middle finger. He did not take his eyes from hers. He did not smile.

It felt as if some deep intimacy had passed between them. If she had to get to her feet at this moment, Anna thought as she turned her eyes but not her attention back to the stage, she would not be able to do it.

For the rest of the evening, she was aware of him seated close beside her with every single fiber in her body.

Anna sat beside the duke and opposite her sister and godmother in the darkened carriage on the return journey, her heightened awareness of him making the space seem smaller and almost suffocating. He did not touch her though she could feel his body heat with the arm closest to him.

“You enjoyed the play?” he asked her.

She turned a dazzling smile on him though she could barely see him in the darkness. “Oh, yes,” she said. “It was wonderful. Even more wonderful than I imagined it would be. Did you not think so?”

Her godmother, Anna noted, was talking rather animatedly to Agnes. Anna suspected that Lady Sterne was tactfully trying to give her some semblance of privacy.

“I enjoyed the
evening
,
”
the duke said quietly, emphasizing the last word. “I am afraid my mind was distracted from the play.”

“Oh,” she said. The word came out as a breathless little sigh.

He said nothing, but held her eyes for a few moments before she smiled at him again and turned her attention to the seat opposite.

When they arrived at Lady Sterne's house, the Duke of Harndon stepped inside with them. But he set a staying hand on Anna's arm as her sister and godmother proceeded upstairs. He waited until they had reached the top of the staircase.

“I would ask leave, madam,” he said, “to call on you tomorrow morning to discuss a matter of some importance with you.”

Tomorrow morning? A matter of some importance? Anna's heart began to beat uncomfortably and her mind began to race too fast for rational thought.

“Yes, of course, your grace,” she said. She sounded, she thought, as if she had just run a mile against a stiff wind.

There was a further short silence.

“You are of age, madam?” he asked.

“Yes.” Her eyes widened. “I am five-and-twenty, your grace. I am perhaps older than you expected.” Suddenly she was desperate to make herself seem quite unattractive to him. Perhaps she had misunderstood him. Surely she had. But why had he asked if she was of age?

“I would not, then,” he said, “have to talk with your brother in advance of discussing any matter with you?”

She stared at him wide-eyed. “No,” she said, her voice a whisper.

And then Lady Sterne reappeared on the stairs to invite the duke to come up for refreshments. He refused politely, bowed to both of them, and took his leave.

“Faith, child,” Lady Sterne said, coming the rest of the way down, linking her arm through Anna's and leading her back in the direction of the stairs, “you look a handsome couple. And I declare, he had eyes for no one but you all evening. I believe 'tis not being overfanciful to expect a declaration before summer.”

“Aunt Marjorie!” Anna exclaimed in dismay. Though in truth—why was he going to call tomorrow?

“Agnes is waiting in the drawing room,” Lady Sterne said, leading her goddaughter up the stairs. “We will all three plan the wedding over tea before retiring for the night.” She laughed merrily.

Anna, entering the drawing room with her, wished more than anything that she could go directly to her room and lock her doors, even against her mind. She felt slightly sick to the stomach.

L
UKE
had the distinct feeling that he had started something he could not stop and that he had started it from a wholly mad impulse without giving it due thought—or any thought at all. He ate his way doggedly through breakfast, though he felt as much like eating as he would feel like jumping into a pit filled with vipers.

He thought carefully back over what he had said last night. Had there been any ambiguity in his meaning? Anything that would enable him to withdraw honorably? Could he perhaps make it seem that he had merely intended to ask her to walk with him again? Or drive with him?

The answer to all his questions was a decisive no. He had said he would call on her this morning. The afternoon was the more normal time for social calls. And he had said he had a matter of some importance to discuss with her. A walk? Hardly. He had asked if she was of age. And then—Luke grimaced and gave up the effort to finish eating the final slice of toast—he had said that he need not, then, consult her brother before discussing the important matter with her.

No, indeed. The lady would have to be an imbecile not to have understood his meaning, and he suspected that Lady Anna Marlowe was not that even if she did not have any great depth of character.

He had done it, then. Having spent ten years building a life for himself in which he was independent and a law unto himself, he had capitulated within three days—
three days!
—under the burdens of ducal and family responsibilities. He did not want any of them. He wanted to go back to Paris and resume the way of life which had suited him for many years. He wanted to forget England and his family. He wanted George alive again and the father of ten healthy sons. He wanted to be simply Lord Lucas Kendrick again.

But one could not always have what one wanted. He could not go back. Worse, he could only step forward now in the direction he had set for himself last night with an impulsiveness that had been foreign to him since his boyhood. And yet not so impulsive after all, perhaps. Events had been pushing him toward it since before his return and certainly since then.

He could only wish that he could go upstairs now to dress and proceed on his way to Lady Sterne's with all haste. He wanted the matter over and done with now that he had made it inevitable. But one could not call on a lady this early in the morning. He did not know how he was to fill in the hour or so until he could decently go.

But the problem was solved for him by the announcement that his brother had called and was begging the favor of a word with him. Luke got gratefully to his feet and tossed his napkin onto the table.

“Ah, Ashley,” he said, strolling into the hall, where his brother was standing, examining a sculpted Venus, whose flowing and transparent draperies were so molded to her body by an unfelt breeze that she might as well have been naked. “Come into the library and tell me to what I owe the honor.”

Lord Ashley Kendrick grinned at him and strode toward the room indicated. “I was not sure you would be up at this hour, Luke,” he said. “Egad, but that is the devil of a fine morning gown you are wearing. 'Tis almost as bright a red as the coat you wore to the Diddering ball.”

“Have a seat.” Luke indicated a chair beside the fireplace and took the one across from it. His brother, he noted, tall and slender and handsome, wore his fashionable clothes with a somewhat careless air. A typical Englishman.

“That was the devil of a fine play at Covent Garden last evening,” Ashley said. “Fine music too.”

“I thought so,” Luke agreed. “But then, I do not believe I have ever seen a poor production of that particular play.”

“Zounds, no,” Ashley said. “And Lady Anna Marlowe is the devil of a fine lady. Doris said so on the way home and Mama agreed. I believe she has hopes.” He flashed his brother a charming and mischievous smile. “Hopes of your becoming respectable at last, Luke.”

“Indeed?” Luke said softly, raising his eyebrows. He had been watching his brother's hands opening and closing on the arms of his chair. There was a general air of tension about him despite the bright geniality. “But you did not call here to discuss the play or to compliment me on my taste in women, my dear. What is on your mind?”

Ashley grinned again. “Nothing of any great import,” he said. “Colby has been overstepping his bounds.”

“My steward?” Luke said. “What has he done that affects you?”

“He has returned all my bills to me in a neat bundle, that is what,” Ashley said. “Pox on it, Luke, can you imagine the insolence of the man? Said I had overspent this quarter's allowance again and he could not pay 'em without your permission—for which I was to ask, not he.”

Luke held out one hand, at which his brother stared blankly.

“The bills?” Luke said.

Ashley flushed. “I did not bring them,” he said. “All you have to do, Luke, if you will, is instruct Colby to pay 'em and not be such an ass in the future.”

“Bills of what nature?” Luke asked.

“Coats, waistcoats, shoes, canes, hats—how the devil should I know what they are for?” Ashley said perhaps a little too casually. “Be a good fellow, Luke. I never wished harm on George, I swear, but there was one thing I was glad of when he passed on and that was that you were then head of the family. You were always easygoing. I remember how you used to have the patience to play with me and with Doris too when we were children even though you were years older than us.”

“And any other debts?” Luke asked, refusing to be diverted. “Gaming debts, for example?”

Ashley's flush returned. “As I live,” he said, “you are trying to get me to bare my soul, Luke. I suppose there are some. A fellow wins and a fellow loses. It is in the nature of gaming.”

“When one consistently loses more than one wins,” Luke said, “perhaps it is in the nature of the player, my dear.”

“Pox on it,” Ashley said, shifting position uncomfortably in his chair, “must you call me ‘my dear' in that soft voice, Luke, as if I was a girl? Are you saying I am not a good player?”

“I made a statement,” Luke said, “not an accusation.”

“Egad, you are not going to cut up funny, are you?” his brother asked, frowning. “You do not know what it is, Luke, to have to live on a pitiful allowance when there are appearances to keep up. You spend a fortune on clothes—I've seen some of 'em. I don't need any expert to tell me they are Paris's finest. Do you want your brother to look like a pauper?”

Luke took a snuffbox from the pocket of his gown and proceeded to take some snuff. He looked inquiringly at his brother and offered the box, but Ashley shook his head.

“Perhaps you forget,” Luke said, “that until two years ago I was also a younger brother, Ashley.”

“You have expensive tastes,” Ashley said. “I will wager Colby never refused to settle any of your bills.”

Luke looked at him steadily from beneath lowered eyelids. “No, he did not,” he said. “None of my bills were ever sent to Colby—or to Father or George. My allowance was stopped the quarter after I left home.”

His brother gaped at him.

“You will send me your bills later today,” Luke said. “I will pay them, but I will see them first. I will also make enquiries about the nature and amount of your allowance and increase it if I deem an increase to be called for. Beginning next quarter I will expect you to live on it.”

“Live on it?” Ashley had turned quite pale. “Impossible, Luke. I would have to live at home.”

Luke raised his eyebrows.

Ashley got to his feet. “Word travels,” he said. “We have heard all sorts of things about you over the years, Luke—about your prominence at the French court, about your duels, about your fine women. I believed it all except for one thing. Word has had it that you are a heartless man, that you have feelings for nothing beyond your own pleasures. I always refused to believe that. I remembered the older brother who used to play with me and whom I used to worship. Deuce take it, I am not sure that brother is still alive.”

“He is not,” Luke said softly. “He died a violent death ten years ago. George was the only survivor of that particular duel.”

Ashley strode across the room to the door. But he stopped with his hand on the knob and looked at the back of his brother's head. “I'll send the bills,” he said. There was a short silence. His voice was stiff when he spoke again. “I thank you for taking care of them.”

Luke heard the door open and close again. Ah. He set his head back against the high back of his chair and closed his eyes. He had just made an enemy and in the worst possible way. He had humiliated his brother. Ashley had already been embarrassed at having to come to him, begging to have his unpaid bills settled. And instead of waving a careless hand and saying that yes, of course he would send the required note to Colby, and then changing the subject, he had reached out a hand to take the bills he had known Ashley would not have brought with him.

Why had he done it? To try to teach his brother some sense of responsibility? To try to punish him because he, Luke, had not had a chance in his twenty-third year to be the pampered, irresponsible younger brother?

He could recall those times Ashley had referred to. He had been very much the older brother, at home far more often than George. The younger ones had always adored him, much as he had adored George. And he had responded to them in kind, giving them his time and his patience and his affection. The tall young man he had just allowed to leave, angry and shamed, was that same eager boy he had climbed trees with and taught to swim and taken fishing.

A long, long time ago. A lifetime ago.

The point was he had forgotten how to love. More than that, he had taught himself not to love, not to lay himself open to hurt and humiliation and betrayal. He had been happy for almost ten years—as happy as one could be when the dimension of love had been cut from one's life.

And yet now, having hurt and humiliated his brother, he felt almost guilty. But there was no need. A man had no business living beyond his means and then expecting someone else to foot the bills without question—even when the paying would not put even the smallest of dents in that someone's fortune.

Ashley had something of life to learn, and the sooner he learned it the better for him. The better he would be able to survive in a hard world. Sentiment had been all very well between a child and a youth. There was no room for sentiment between adults.

No, he need not feel guilty for the way he had handled this particular situation, Luke decided.

And then he sat up abruptly and got to his feet. He had something else to think about this morning. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was high time he got dressed and was on his way to Lady Sterne's.

At least Ashley's visit had served one purpose, he thought as he climbed the stairs after giving directions that his valet was to be sent up to his dressing room promptly. It had taken his mind off what was perhaps to be the most fateful hour of his life.

He would not think about it, he decided. He would merely think about his appearance. Something a little more formal than usual for morning wear but not vulgarly ostentatious for the time of day.

He longed suddenly for Paris and the pleasurable routine of his days there. Ashley's visit and his own handling of the situation had depressed him more than he cared to admit.

•   •   •

Anna
was sitting in the morning room with Lady Sterne. They were working on their embroidery and talking about the social events that were coming up in the next week. Most notable was another ball—Lord and Lady Castle's—this evening. Agnes was out shopping with one of her new friends and the girl's mama.

“Perhaps Agnes will meet someone at the ball more to her taste than anyone she has met so far,” Anna said. “Several gentleman have looked as if they might be interested, given a little encouragement. But Agnes has not given any. I did think last evening that perhaps Lord Ashley Kendrick . . . But when he got up for a moment, Lord Severidge took his place beside Agnes. I felt quite provoked, though the poor man appeared perfectly civil.”

“One must remember that Agnes is only eighteen years of age,” Lady Sterne reminded her. “But she is a sensible girl nonetheless. She is one little lady, I vow, who will not grab the first opportunity for matrimony that presents itself unless the gentleman is to her liking. You must not be anxious on her account, Anna. She will do very nicely, given time.”

“Oh, but I am anxious,” Anna said with a sigh. “Victor is so very young himself and about to marry. He will not wish to be encumbered with two unmarried sisters and the duty of finding them husbands—not that Emily is of marriageable age yet and not that it is likely that anyone will be willing to marry her despite her great sweetness. Not at least without a large dowry, which she just does not have.”