The Golden Season (14 page)

“It is not that I have learned to dislike sailing as much as I have remembered that I love something more. Here.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a simple fob with a locket attached to the end. He flipped the lid open and held it up for her to examine. Inside was a tiny exquisite etching of a handsome manor home set on a prow of land overlooking a suggested sea. “This is Josten Hall.”

“It’s lovely.”

“Yes,” he said and snapped the locket shut. “Many of my men carried on their person the likeness of wives or mothers to inspire and comfort them. I have always carried this.”

“I see. You have come home,” she said quietly. “That is what you remembered you loved.”

“Yes,” he said. “I am home.”

“And now you are prepared to enjoy the family and home you missed while you were fighting Napoleon,” she suggested.

“In part.”

She tipped her head. “What is the other part?”

“I am also looking for a wife.”

Lydia stared, unsure she’d heard him right. Gentlemen might say such things to family members or intimates, but they did not make such intentions public, especially not to a viable prospect. But maybe he didn’t consider her a viable prospect? Oh! She didn’t know what to say, how to react.

“Ah! Oh,” she gabbled.

Heaven took pity, for the skies chose that moment to open up and let loose rain, saving her from making more insensible sounds. The captain shrugged out of his coat and held it above her, shielding her.

She blinked up at him, rain tangling in her lashes. Droplets clung to his gold-streaked hair and ran in little rivulets down his cheeks and neck. His cinnamon-colored waistcoat was already darkened on his shoulders and the loose, flowing sleeves of his cambric shirt were damped through, the thin material molding to the big bunching muscles of his biceps as he held the coat over her head. She looked away, flustered by the sight of him.

“Come. You’ll get chilled,” he said.

Together they dashed back to the terrace, where the footmen were already raising marquees of oiled canvas over the heads of the guests. Lady Pickler had planned a luncheon al fresco and a luncheon al fresco she would have. They hurried beneath the awning at the foot of the stairs and he lowered his jacket and shrugged back into his coat. What a pity, she thought, to cover such broad shoulders and well-developed arms, and was promptly shocked at herself.

“Thank you. I’ll be fine now. My companion has a shawl,” she said.

“Allow me to fetch it for you,” he said.

Lydia looked about and saw that Emily, too, had fled the rain and found a chair at one of tables just below the stairs under the marquee. Lydia was amused to see that she shared it with an old town tabby, the autocratic dowager Countess of Cavell and her much bedizened spinster daughter, Nessie, invited by virtue of having an eligible son.

“She’s sitting at the table over there. She’s the comfortable-looking one with red curls.”

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he said and left.

Lydia climbed the stairs, aware of the foolish smile hovering over her lips. At the top, she stopped and looked around, determined not to set her heart or her ambitions too early. She donned a serious mien and scanned the rest of the company, looking for husband candidates, and then nearly laughed at this ineffective attempt at self-deception.

There was simply no one here who could match Captain Lockton. All he needed was to be rich, and Eleanor, who knew everything and everyone, had already confirmed that he was. She sighed, feeling lighthearted and brimming with goodwill. She spotted Jenny Pickler and her amity overflowed.

She would befriend Jenny Pickler and make the girl a toast.

With this generous plan in mind, she headed toward where Jenny stood next to her mother, who stood deep in conversation with one of her more unpleasant cronies. All three women were huddled together, turned away and thus unaware of Lydia’s approach.

“. . . enough is enough. If she does, I shall not hold my tongue. We indulged her whims far too long. An idiosyncrasy,
she
might term it, and thumbs her nose at us while doing so, knowing no one will dispute her, but forthwith, mark my words, I shall call it what it is: theft.”

Lydia stopped short, stunned, then quickly turned and walked away as Lady Pickler and her companion moved slowly toward the stairs leading down from the terrace to the tables below.

Good God. Lady Pickler had been talking about Emily and her intentions were distressingly clear. As soon as Lady Pickler had heard Lydia was in the market for a husband, she must have panicked regarding this competition in her home field. Now she was seeking some excuse to eliminate Lydia not only from her future guest list but from as many guest lists as she could influence.

But she couldn’t challenge Lydia’s place as the darling of Society without grounds to do so. She suspected Lydia would never be so foolish as to give her that excuse. Lydia might not overstep the bounds of what was acceptable and what was not, but Emily . . . dear heaven, Emily did so on a regular basis.

Lady Pickler saw the means to rid her daughter of a potential rival by discrediting and humiliating Emily. And damn the woman, she could.

Lady Pickler supposed Lydia would not let Emily be humiliated and she was correct, even if Lady Pickler’s supposition stemmed not from the observation of Lydia’s affection for Emily—affection for a companion being inconceivable to someone like Lady Pickler—but rather from Lady Pickler’s belief that Lydia would share by transference any indignity visited on Emily.

Last year, why even last month, Lydia would have damned the woman and the consequences. But now she did not dare alienate Lady Pickler or, more to the point, her friends, the Almack patronesses. A gentleman would not propose to a woman who came already excluded from the upper branches of Society.

There is nothing for it; Emily must not pilfer anything today
.

And that meant they must leave without allowing her any opportunity to do so. The sooner the better. Though over the last few years Emily had gained increasingly more control over her compulsion to “take souvenirs,” ever since Lydia had informed her of her financial situation, the older woman had been unsettled and restive, symptoms that always presaged a fall from grace.

Certainly, Lydia would be disappointed to leave. But there would be other parties. Other places in which she was bound to meet Captain Lockton. More people than not were willing to turn a blind eye to Emily’s unusual habits. She would find Eleanor and then they would collect Emily and make their farewells—

She froze, her eyes widening.

Below her, she saw Emily reach out and slowly inch her hand toward a lace kerchief lying on the tabletop near her. Then, looking around with a bright, innocent expression, Emily flicked it blithely to the ground. Her foot shot out from beneath her hem, covering the lacy scrap, and she began dragging it toward her.

It was a trifling thing, Lydia thought desperately. Just one of a collection of gewgaws and fal-lals cluttering the table. Perhaps it wouldn’t be missed. No one had seen Emily’s little maneuver.

No one, that is, except Lady Pickler.

Lydia realized it the second she caught sight of the old harridan, righteous glee suffusing her face. Her treble chin fair trembled with her effort not to screech an accusation across the distance separating her from the table Emily shared with the dowager and her daughter. Lydia had no doubt her voice would be loud and carrying when she did confront Emily.

And Emily would die of mortification.

Lydia looked around wildly. She had to find Eleanor. They needed to get Emily out of here as soon as possible, with as little scene as could be managed. She could not bear to think of the effect censorious eyes would have on Emily.

Lady Pickler was advancing with the grim inevitability of a tidal surge. Some intuition must have alerted Emily to her imminent threat, for she reached down and snatched up her prize. Her gaze was wild with dawning horror at what she had done. Springing to her feet, she darted into the crowd, Lady Pickler hard on her heels, and Lydia could do nothing to help her.

“Mrs. Cod.” Lady Pickler’s voice rang out in stentorian decibels as she plowed forth. Around her, her guests cut off their conversations in midsentence, heads swiveling, sensing a scandal in the making.

“
Mrs. Cod
!”

Her voice only lashed Emily to greater speed. Like a rabbit flushed from its warren, she bolted, at the last minute turning to look back at her pursuer and so running straight into—

Captain Lockton.

A slighter man would have been knocked down, but the tall, muscular captain easily absorbed the impact. Emily stopped with her hands braced against his chest, the telltale kerchief still clutched in her fist between them.

He glanced down at it, up at Lady Pickler, and with a slight smile stepped back and deftly plucked the incriminating handkerchief from Emily’s hand. Casually, he tucked it into his cuff. “Why, thank you, Mrs. Cod,” he said in a clear, pleasant voice. “I was wondering where I had misplaced my kerchief.”

“
Your
kerchief, Captain Lockton?” Lady Pickler asked incredulously upon making his side.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, donning an expression of chagrin. “I know it seems absurd. I confess it is. But I do love a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Adds a bit of frivolity to all the somber colors we men are obliged to wear.”

“That looks very much like Miss Cavell’s kerchief,” Lady Pickler said, not to be robbed of her prey.

“Does it?” the captain asked mildly. “Well, we can’t have this sort of misunderstanding.” He edged around his hostess and headed directly to the table where Miss Cavell and her mother sat riveted. He made an elegant leg and rose, smiling brilliantly at Miss Cavell.

He might as well have just hit the poor woman over the head with a club, Lydia thought. For she warranted that from the moment Captain Lockton flashed his dimple at her, Miss Cavell had no idea what she was saying or to what she was agreeing.
Nor
did she care. Likely, Miss Cavell would have concurred her mother had two heads had the captain suggested it.

All he needed to do was brandish the kerchief, sweep it before her bedazzled eyes, return it to his cuff, and say, “This could not be
your
handkerchief, could it, Miss Cavell?”

“Hm? Mine?”

“It’s not, is it?”

“No. No, sir. That’s not mine.”

“Of course it is,” Lady Pickler said. “I saw her—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Betty,” the Dowager Cavell interrupted querulously, eying the tall, handsome young man smiling so warmly at the daughter who’d not enjoyed such smiles in years. “Why ever would my Nessie be carrying about something that is so plainly a gentleman’s accoutrement?” She gazed up at Captain Lockton with unvarnished admiration.

Slowly, Lydia released the breath she’d held, and the muscles that had been rigid with tension, relaxed. She started forward, then stopped. The situation was well in hand. Instead, she fell back a step, watching, her brow furrowing at what she saw because it was so rare.

There were other gentlemen who would have come to Emily’s rescue. But they would have done so to promote themselves in the eyes of their peers or to get the best of Lady Pickler, who delighted in malice or even simply to curry favor with Lydia. But there was nothing triumphant or gloating in the glance Captain Lockton gave Lady Pickler. His intention had been to protect Emily, not defeat Lady Pickler. He derived no satisfaction from scoring points against the older woman.

Such pettiness would be alien to him.

He was the consummate gentleman, Lydia thought as she watched Lady Pickler floundering for an appropriate response. He was poised, protective, honorable. Even noble. Was there anything less than admirable about him?

Ultimately, Lady Pickler managed to essay a tight smile and choke down her acrimony. Snapping her fingers angrily at her footman, she barked orders that two more chairs be brought to the table so she and the captain could join the dowager, Miss Cavell and, of course, Mrs. Cod.

She’d been left with no choice. The only alternative was to make herself look foolish and churlish while embarrassing the dowager and her daughter. And the dowager’s unmarried son, an earl.

Lydia empathized. She had no choice either. As soon as he’d claimed the silly lace kerchief for his own, she’d fallen headlong in love with Captain Lockton.

Ned did not pay a call on Lady Lydia the next day or any other day the following week. It was not for a lack of impetus and certainly not for a lack of interest. It was because he was a man who valued reason above emotion, who preferred to understand a thing before he acted upon it, and above all, who was not guided by impulse. So he purposely stepped back from his initial fascination with the lovely heiress.

Such a strong and visceral attraction was unusual and he distrusted it. From childhood he’d been predisposed to reflection and thoughtfulness. Years of navigating the stormy emotional seas at Josten Hall and later ones spent on a warship had honed this trait into what was to become the bedrock of his character, extraordinary self-possession and restraint. Not that he was incapable of decisive and immediate action when necessary. In the heat of battle he had often been called upon to make spur-of-the-moment decisions. But he hated doing so, always aware that a rash decision could cost his men’s lives.

There were other reasons, too, that kept him from joining the ranks of admirers Borton assured him filled Lady Lydia’s drawing room each day, primarily the depth of the field.

He’d seen the list of failed suitors in Boodle’s betting book. He understood quite well that his chances of securing the hand of London’s most celebrated beauty were well nigh nil. Obviously, Lady Lydia was either content with her current situation or she was most exacting about the type of man who would convince her to quit her spinsterhood. Ned was not confident he was that man.