That Scandalous Summer (28 page)

“They become you,” he said. He visibly swallowed. “The earrings.”

She managed a faint smile. He looked ridiculously out of place in her dressing room. In another mood, she might have appreciated how the light through the lace curtains limned his tall, broad-shouldered body.

He was clutching his hat so tightly that the brim was bending.

The realization touched off a strange welling in her breast—regret mixed with . . . other things, undeserved and unwelcome. Sympathy.

And longing.

“You want to help me find a husband,” she said.

Was that a flash of pain she saw in his face? No. She must be imagining it. His jaw squared. “Yes,” he said.

The syllable was adamant. He had no doubts. “Then don’t look at me like that,” she said.

He laughed softly and turned to the window. A muscle
flexed in his jaw. Then he faced her again. “I could say the same to you.”

“But that would be unwise,” she said. “For as I told you, you were only an afternoon’s distraction.”

“Indeed.” He took a deep breath, then his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. Devastating smile. It caught at her heart like a hook. “A very pleasant distraction, but a fleeting one.”

A pang ran through her, which she ignored. They were striking a bargain here, in coded language. “Nearly forgotten by now,” she said, to test him.

“Circumstances being what they are,” he agreed.

Very well, they would be civilized about this. She would not throw him out; he would not make a scene. She closed the earring case, running her fingers along the velvet nap. “Circumstances can be so annoying. Always popping up. But I suppose they can be managed civilly. Between friends.”

They looked at each other another moment in the mirror. Then, on a deep breath, she rose and turned toward him. He was a full head taller, but from this distance, standing did give her some advantage. She felt firmer on her feet, and firmer yet when she did not have to look at her own reflection and see what was revealed there. “Your brother will find out you’re here,” she said. “The Hawthornes posted a dozen letters this morning.”

He sighed. “I’d foreseen that. But it’s time I came out of hiding. I received a letter he’d written . . . it seems my brother has decided to increase the stakes in this ridiculous game. Or perhaps I’m wrong to call it a game, for he . . .” He shook his head, and she felt a weird shock to see him look so openly troubled.

My brother raised me.
Suddenly she remembered him telling her so, that long-ago day when they had visited the Browards’, before Mary’s baby had come. Some ancient scandal had surrounded his father, the late Duke of Marwick . . . a very public, very unhappy divorce. It came to her now, sending another shock through her.
My brother raised me.
Why, he’d told her more that day than she had known to listen for.

She gritted her teeth. Civility was one thing. Compassion was going
much
too far. “I know very little of your brother,” she said. “But he does not strike me as forgiving.”

“Be that as it may,” he said, “I cannot afford to hide any longer.” He hesitated. “In fact . . . in that regard, perhaps you might help me.”

“Oh?” She couldn’t think of how.

“Mrs. Hull seems a respectable sort,” he began, and everything in her tightened as though in preparation for a blow. “Do I have that right? No rumors circulating about her that I’ve yet to hear?”

No. No, no
 . . . “No,” she said with great difficulty. “I suppose she hasn’t spent enough time with me yet.”

His slight smile was his only acknowledgment of that barb—which, belatedly, horrified her. She would not betray herself that way. Never would she make herself the target of her own unkind witticisms. “Then she’s precisely what I require,” he said. “Some pretty pretext to keep my brother appeased. I will make a point of paying particular attention to her. Perhaps even drop a few unguarded compliments to her in the Hawthornes’ presence. Word should travel quickly.”

“No need for that.” She felt removed from herself, suddenly, speaking by some script designed to keep
conversation flowing when she’d much rather be alone, alone in some dark, shuttered room.
Jane Hull.
“I can write letters, too. I have a very full roster of gossiping friends. Shall I say you’ve stated your intentions, or shall I paint your interest to be of the fledgling variety?”

“Somewhere in between,” he said after a moment. He nodded. “Yes—say that I’ve spoken highly of her, and made discreet inquiries about her prospects. Does that sound right?”

“Yes, very believable.” This conversation needed to end.
Now
. Yet her mouth kept moving. “You think your brother would approve of a widow, then?”

He paused before replying, as though widowhood—the mere fact of ill luck—might indeed cast a black mark on a lady. “I should think her previous marriage would not disqualify her,” he said. “At the least, he’ll not be able to object straightaway. And that’s the main thing—to keep him occupied.”

“Right.” She felt light-headed. Where was her anger? She should be angry. “Well, then . . . I should go down to breakfast, I think.”

“Of course. Now that the bargain has been struck.” He came toward her, holding out his hand, and for a second she was too much a coward to take it.

But she forced a smile onto her lips and shook his hand, his callused palm pressing against hers all too briefly before he retrieved it.

Yes. She could do this. She
would
do this. There was no choice in it.

He smiled back at her. “And so we will be friends again,” he said. “Comrades with a common cause.”

“To our joint victory, then,” she said, and gestured him out the door.

•   •   •

Since mysticism was best experienced after dark, Liza had instructed the spiritualists to remain concealed throughout the day. To keep her guests amused, she had scheduled a variety of entertainments: lawn tennis, bowling, and shooting at clay birds; a picnic luncheon by May Lake . . . nothing too original, but the company made all the difference.

As it transpired, the company was game for anything so long as champagne was provided. Nigel and Katherine (who, experience told Liza, would drink until she slurred her words; nap until sober; and then reappear for another drink) began the fun by challenging Jane and Tilney to a game of tennis. Already Katherine’s steps were slightly unsteady, which made the game quite entertaining to watch—to say nothing of her terrible, or perhaps very
accurate,
aim. Three times in the first five minutes, Jane was forced to duck to avoid a black eye.

Down the field, far enough not to disturb the tennis match, Lady Forbes and Lord Hollister practiced their gunmanship, aiming their shotguns at the clay pheasants shot up from behind a small fence erected for the occasion. The regular punctuation of explosions added to the festive flavor, as did the growing evidence that between the two shooters, Lady Forbes possessed the superior aim.

The archery butts drew no interest. The remainder of the guests—apart from the Sanburnes, who were once again suspiciously
absent
—loitered beneath striped awnings beside the tennis court, sipping drinks and nibbling on dishes of fresh strawberries and clotted cream. Conversation flowed agreeably. Everybody who had seen
The Mikado
deemed it perfectly splendid. The recent appointment of Cecil as prime minister occasioned a heated debate over Irish Home Rule that Liza put to an end by calling for a toast to good company. The weather was marvelous. Nobody thought it would rain tomorrow.

Slowly she worked her way toward Weston, who had broken off during the Home Rule debate to converse privately with Michael. Her stomach felt strangely fluttery as she made her approach. The two men were of a height, but next to Weston’s brawn, Michael’s lean strength put her in mind of a greyhound.

Many women preferred bulk. She supposed it might be like oysters: one must learn to acquire the taste.

He glanced at her briefly as she joined them. The faint curve of his lips seemed somehow conspiratorial. And then, to prove it, he
winked.

She was betting a great deal on the sincerity of his offer, because he could as easily sabotage as aid her.

She knocked aside the fluttering ribbons that trimmed her hat to show Weston her kindest smile. “Important talk?” If they were still on the Irish question, she was going to intervene.

“No other kind,” said Weston.

“I suppose that depends on one’s perspective,” said Michael. “We were discussing horseflesh. Weston has recently been in the market.” As the breeze ruffled his glossy brown hair, he tilted his head slightly, probably to shift the stray wisps from his eyes.

That mannerism struck her suddenly as painfully familiar. A lover would appreciate it for the excuse it provided to brush his hair away with her hand. She knew how his hair would feel, soft and smooth, warmed by the sun . . .

She curled her itching fingers into her palm. “But I love horses,” she said brightly. “Have you found one to purchase?”

“There’s a very promising stud I’ve my eye on,” said Weston. “Dam Pandora, sire Apollonius.”

“Ah!” She could speak to this. “The same Apollonius who won the Queen Anne Stakes four years ago?”

Weston’s visible surprise gratified her. “Why, yes, the very same. Do you follow racing, then?”

“Yes, I—” But a look at Michael made her hesitate. He was shaking his head slightly. “That is, of course I read the papers.” Until recently, she’d made a great sport of wagering, too. “That’s bound to be a very profitable foal.”

Michael, who had retreated a subtle pace from Weston’s view, now winced.

“No doubt,” said Weston. “Of course, I consider racing more an art than an industry.”

She bit her cheek.
Bat your lashes,
Michael had instructed her on the way down the stairs.
Imagine yourself fresh from your mother’s leading strings, wide-eyed and eager and naïve.

She’d snorted at his advice. Everyone knew Weston was somewhat tightly buttoned, but she could imagine no model more unlikely to snag a man’s interest.

Nevertheless . . . it was true that profit did not make a genteel motive. Very sweetly, she said, “Oh, I quite agree, Lord Weston. In fact, my admiration for horseflesh is deplorably shallow. It’s as simple as . . . some of them are very
pretty
.”

As easy as that, Weston was smiling again. “Ah, yes. Ladies and their ponies.”

Ponies? “Ladies and their ponies,” she agreed. What on earth? She had not sat on a pony since her sixth birthday.

“I have a niece who demanded a snow-white mare, the better to pretend it was a unicorn.” Weston’s smile was softening, growing fond. “Insists on collecting every equine dolly she comes across. A great stable she has, all of them no taller than two feet high!”

She joined in with his laugh, though she did not, in truth, find it a particularly flattering comparison.

On the other hand, he was thinking of children in connection to her! And that could be nothing but encouraging. “Yes,” she said, “how perfectly adorable ponies are!”

Weston cast a look over the parkland. “Prime country for hunting, here. I suppose you chase the foxes now and then?”

She stole a questioning glance at Michael, whose impassive expression now afforded her no clues. Surely Weston did not consider it unfeminine to hunt? That would make him the oddest Englishman she ever knew.

Oh, this was rubbish. She was not going to second-guess
everything
she said. Michael was not so credible a witness as
that.
“I have been known to hunt,” she said. “I confess, more for the chase than the kill.”

Weston chuckled and shot a wry look toward Michael. Abruptly she became aware of the double meaning in her statement. Such a remark might also come from the mouth of a committed bachelor . . . or a merry widow.

But Weston, thankfully, did not remark on the unintended humor. “Have you scheduled a hunt for us, then?”

She had not. She truly did not like the slaughter of foxes.

Inspiration struck. “No, I haven’t, for foxes are too,
too adorable to kill,” she said. “Nearly as adorable as horses! And—they put me in mind of dogs,” she added quickly, for Weston was blinking as though amazed. Drat it—foxes
were
darling. And if he did not like dogs, he was a Frenchman in disguise. “Puppies!” she said. “I do so love
puppies
!”

Weston shrugged. “A pity, of course, that they do tend to grow up. Shed hair all over the place. But foxes, you know, are vermin.”

“Weston always has three or four behemoths in his drawing room,” said Michael. “Monstrous ugly dogs. I don’t think he ever combs them.”

She nodded politely, willing her smile—and her outfit, a cream lawn suit with cunning pink trimming—to veritably
scream
her girlish charm. “I adore all kinds of animals,” she said. “Anything . . . fluffy.”

Good God.
She felt her smile waver toward a grimace.

Weston was studying her, his expression one of benign amusement. “Is that so? Can it be that our famous Mrs. Chudderley, toast of all the town, was also once a girl who dreamed of unicorns?”

Was that a veiled joke about her virginity? She blinked innocently. “What girl does not long for a unicorn, sir? Why, perhaps I still want one!”

His brief laugh smacked of surprise. “Goodness! That’s a—well, I must say, Mrs. Chudderley, I never imagined that you might be . . .”

She waited for him to finish that sentence—which, in all fairness, might as easily turn into an insult as a compliment. But he trailed off, turning toward Michael as though in search of aid. Michael stepped forward immediately.

“Mrs. Chudderley is many things,” Michael said as
his eyes met hers, “all of which surpass a mere mortal’s ability to imagine.”

Look away,
she told herself.
Now.
But she was as helpless as a snake before its charmer. His eyes were the most extraordinary, heart-piercing blue. And he was making no move to look away, either.