The King of Threadneedle Street (20 page)

The carriage was underway before she collected herself. She began to apologize to Philip, who interrupted, “Please, Miss Villier. There is no need. I expected precisely what took place. It is I who should apologize.”

“What ever for?” she asked, incredulous.

“I had no right to behave as though I have a claim on you. I am merely your escort for the evening.”

“No, you behaved perfectly. You defused the situation. I was not at my best, I regret.”

“I will not comment on Lord Preston’s behavior,” he said, jaw clenched.

Alysia was too conflicted to address it. The confrontation with Andrew left her feeling drained; she moved so she could lean on Philip’s shoulder. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Thank you.” After passing a few streets she added, “Let us go home tomorrow. I am through with London.”

****

Alysia lay in bed, staring in the dark and trying to make sense of the zoo that had been Lord Courtenay’s party.

It seemed Andrew still fought a battle that was already lost. Accustomed to getting his own way, Andrew was also tender-hearted and loyal to a fault. As she drifted to sleep, she remembered the first time his obsessive nature had frightened her. She would never forget it, the hunting expedition gone wrong.

She had tried to catch up to the dogs, following their agitated bellowing, when she heard the report of rifle fire. She rode on to see who had caught the fox. She found Andrew before the others did, and an unpleasant sight.

Andrew knelt on the ground with his head hung low. He had discarded his rifle nearby. She approached and saw Charlotte, his oldest mastiff, lying dead in a puddle of blood. Daisy arrived next and circled the fallen dog, whimpering. Alysia left her horse to graze with Andrew’s and knelt beside him. He wept into his hands. She could see he had hit Charlotte squarely in the chest — had missed the fox and shot his dog instead.

One by one Andrew’s friends made their way to the scene and she waved them away, asking them to regroup at the lodge. Once she and Andrew were alone, she tried to console him. “I am sorry, but it was an accident, Drew. You didn’t mean to do it.” She was only fifteen and not sure of what to say.

“Stop that! I
should
feel rotten.” He dropped his head onto Charlotte’s lifeless neck. “
I hate myself!
”

She remembered watching, helpless as Andrew cursed and wept and shouted at himself. He hurled rocks and sticks in fits of temper. The other mastiffs bellowing and howling over Charlotte made Andrew feel even worse. It was some time before she convinced him to go back to the house. She led both of their horses, because Andrew insisted on carrying Charlotte in his arms — no small feat. Although Andrew was tall and strong at age eighteen, Charlotte the mastiff weighed ten or eleven stone, and they were a few miles from home.

He confessed to his father what he had done, then buried the dog under a tree near the family mausoleum. He was taciturn all that day and fell asleep in her lap in the library that evening, still covered in blood, not having spoken another word. She found him in the field first thing the next morning, engrossed in target practice with his rifle.

When he stopped to reload she suggested, “Andrew, I know you feel remorseful, but you mustn’t be so hard on yourself.”

He snorted in dissent.

“And we really shouldn’t have been hunting with mastiffs. They are not hounds and don’t know to keep out of the way.”

He sneered, but she knew it wasn’t at her. “No, Lisa. I will never again cause suffering because I lack skill and judgment.” He took aim and fired. “Never again.”

He practiced with the rifle day after day until he hit dead center with every shot, then at greater distances, and finally on horseback. He wasn’t satisfied until becoming an expert marksman in every possible scenario.

Some days he shot several hundred rounds and didn’t return to the house until his face was dusted black with powder and his shoulder splotched with bruises. Lady Courtenay despaired over his blackened and callused hands, but he ignored her. It took weeks before Alysia coaxed him out of his grim self-loathing.

That same obsessive passion made him successful at whatever he set his mind to.

She considered herself warned.

Chapter Thirteen

Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

Much Ado About Nothing,
William Shakespeare

Summer of 1872, Rougemont Park in Devonshire, England

Lord Courtenay visited Rougemont. He wanted to check on Christian, no doubt. He likely wanted to keep Alysia under his thumb as well. He conversed with Lord Devon after dinner, and the two old friends were being quite candid. They obviously had no idea Alysia could hear them. She held baby Jacob, who had fallen asleep. She had laid her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes for feeling drowsy, but she wasn’t sleeping. She kept her breath slow and relaxed her face while she listened from across the room.

“That is true, Wil, but it seems the same sort of trouble is brewing for you as well.” She knew Lord Courtenay meant Philip’s attentions to her. She held his son at the moment, aptly illustrating the marquess’ argument.

Lord Devon answered, “I am sympathetic of the trouble that results from marrying for anything other than love.”

Lord Courtenay defended, “I was not much older than Andrew when I married. I did what was demanded of me by my elders. I did my duty.”

“Then perhaps you might admire Preston’s fortitude. Happily married, one assumes he would ultimately avoid the problems you face.”

“But she is the daughter of a courtesan!”

Lord Devon countered stiffly, “Careful, Courtenay. So is my wife, strictly speaking, and you were eager to support me. Why not do it for your son?”

“Sophia is a peeress, an heiress, and properly brought up,” Lord Courtenay argued.

“Violet Villier was a countess, and Alysia has you to thank for her proper upbringing. Her fortune shouldn’t matter, but I understand it is more than adequate.”

“But Sophia’s father was a viscount—”

“Sophia’s father was deposed as a traitor and murderer. I don’t see how that is better than an unknown father, Courtenay.” Lord Devon’s voice sharpened, and she worried the two old friends would fall out over her. It was a sensitive topic now that Lady Devon was concerned.

Lord Devon continued, “I prefer to judge by one’s character. Alysia is a delight, and I would gladly give my blessing if she wanted Philip.”

Alysia nearly seized with shock for his boldness. Lord Courtenay scoffed.

“The world is changing, Courtenay. By degrees tradition gives way to democracy and capitalism. The empire as we knew it is gone.”

She heard a thud; Lord Courtenay must have struck the arm of his chair. “I cannot toss my legacy to the wind.”

“Andrew will do as he pleases.”

“True. I was too indulgent. The damage is done.”

“I get the impression she is capable of keeping him out of trouble. And think of your grandchildren, Courtenay.”

Just then Philip approached to take the baby, and he apologized when he thought he woke Alysia. She made a show of blinking, trying to look disoriented and groggy. She knew she was being watched while Philip helped her up and escorted her from the room. She was still reeling from hearing Lord Devon speak so kindly of her.

****

Alysia and Madeline sat on the bed in Madeline’s room with baby Jacob lying between them. They had been trying to get him to sleep for half an hour. He watched their conversation back and forth and quit fussing, so they turned their talk into a fantastical bedtime story. The only tales Alysia knew well were from Greek and Roman mythology, and Madeline didn’t know any bedtime stories either.

Alysia set up a pastoral scene on Olympus with Zeus and Hera, with Hermes arriving to deliver an urgent message.

“Which was really a potion, and it turned all the gods on Olympus into babies,” Madeline interjected.

Jacob watched, entertained. They wove their strange story for baby Jacob, and finally his eyes dropped closed and his lips parted in a tiny O-shape.

Madeline glanced at the doorway and narrowed her eyes. “Philip! How long have you been spying on us?”

He flashed a smile, the charming dimpled one. “Since baby Zeus sucked on his thumb and got a shock from the lightning bolt.” He chuckled, looking sheepish.

Alysia stood and gathered Jacob in his blankets, bundling him. She looked down and tried to recover from her embarrassment. Philip caught her behaving foolishly so often… “I suppose you have come to fetch him.” She started to pass Jacob to Philip, but the baby stirred and whimpered, his head searching for a place to rest. “Perhaps I should take him to the nursery.”

“Would you, please?” Philip whispered as the baby burrowed his face contentedly into Alysia’s bosom and settled back asleep.

Madeline looked back and forth between Alysia and Philip as though on the verge of panic. “I will come too—”

“Not this time, my sweet. But thank you.” Even in hushed tones there was a note of finality in Philip’s voice which Madeline obeyed. Alysia smiled apologetically at her, assuring her she planned no mischief with her brother.

Wordlessly, Philip walked with her up the stairs, careful not to make noise with his boots. He waited while she rocked the baby until he was so deeply asleep he didn’t know she laid him in the crib. She stepped back and found Philip close behind her. She had backed right into his chest. He steadied her at the waist then dropped his hands.

She turned to meet his gaze but couldn’t decipher his expression. They stood too closely; she should step away. Acting on impulse, she playfully rubbed the shallow cleft of his chin with one finger. “Your boy looks just like you. All Cavendish, right down to the dimples.” She smiled, and he smiled back with his own famous, endearing pair of Cavendish dimples.

He stood only half a head taller than she, but his broad shoulders and proud straight posture made him formidable. Mindlessly she reached to brush away a dark curl from his forehead. He closed his eyes at her touch, so she grazed her fingertips down his face. Moving slowly, he took her hand and turned it over once, then pressed it to his heart. Gently he drew her into an embrace and kissed her temple before resting his face in her hair. He accepted her affection without escalating it, giving her time to think it through while he no doubt did the same.

Could she be in love with Philip?

He would be the sort of husband a lady happily grew old with. If she had Philip, she would be spared the life of a courtesan. She already adored his family. If he was as devoted to his wife as he was to his sisters, it spoke well of his character. And how rare to find a man who inspired feelings of both affection and attraction…

But would she make
him
happy? Experimentally she moved her hand to the back of his neck and tousled his hair with her fingernails. She pulled his collar loose to reach more of his neck, and he stiffened. Did he think she meant to undress him? Andrew was always eager to open his collar and shed his necktie. He seemed insatiable, as though he wished she would touch him more. To stop before crossing the line was always an act of restraint for him.

How long until I quit comparing Philip to Andrew?
It was neither fair nor useful. High time she grew up and moved on. She certainly wouldn’t find another man half so wonderful as Philip, so perhaps she should take a chance with him.

Then it was time to try her so-called wiles on him. She turned her face to rest on his neck and smiled so he would feel her lips moving on his skin. She moved her hand to tousle the hair near his ear, taking care to stoke his earlobe as she did it. His arms tightened across her back, meaning she was neither unwelcome nor ineffectual. She drew a deep breath, letting her chest press against his.

He finally responded with shallow strokes across her shoulders then down her to her waist, his fingers tracing the curve of her back, like one would pet a horse, she thought. Andrew was like an overgrown cat; he liked kneading and caressing, and prompted her with what he wanted—
Stop it! Concentrate on Philip.

She answered him in kind, stroking her fingertips from his temple to the nape of his neck, following the lines of bone and muscle, showing that she admired his strong, masculine form. His evening whiskers were coarser than Andrew’s. She grazed her fingers along his jaw, acquainting herself with the foreign sensation.

He hadn’t spoken a word since they had left Madeline’s room. She felt his pulse thundering under her hand, but it could very well be from anxiety and not arousal. She had never tried to seduce a man on purpose before. It didn’t seem quite sincere to act out of calculation, but how else was it to be done? Should she not try to please him?

She rested her hands on his shoulders and leaned back to look at him. He smiled, appearing both amused and enigmatic. Hands resting on her waist, he mimicked her pensive expression. She cocked her head and raised a brow, unsure of what to do next.

Finally he chuckled, a soft, delighted rumbling sound. He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Are you trying to seduce me, Miss Villier?”

“Why? Is it not working?” She had such serious thoughts only moments ago, but now she and Philip were teasing.

“Of course it is. I have been yours for the taking for some time now,” he admitted with a shy smile. “It seems a sudden decision for you, that is all.”

“I like you, Philip Cavendish. You are easy to admire.”

“There are many forms of admiration, Miss Villier. I might as easily admire a fine stallion, a tightly rigged ship, or a lovely face.” He placed a warm, strong hand on her cheek.

He seemed to have more to say but went still. He often spoke with one corner of his mouth pulled up in a near-smile, and she had been observing it. His lips were full and shaped sensuously, while the rest of him was dashing and lively. Andrew’s mouth was artistically perfect — pouty and classical and supple, and she knew how he moved when he kissed. Philip, on the other hand, was a mystery.