The Madcap (5 page)

A worrisome thought struck Marianne. “How did
you know? I don’t think I mentioned living in San Francisco last night.” She was sure she hadn’t. The polka
had been too fast. They hadn’t talked except on the way
back to her mother and that conversation had been
about his subterfuge to steal a dance.

The viscount gave her a charming, flirtatious smile.
“I could mysteriously say I have my sources and leave
you to wonder, but in actuality, I asked the Countess
of Camberly.”

Marianne hid her concern in another sniff of the bouquet. She wondered nervously what else the countess had imparted about her. Had the countess mentioned
the debacle in New York? She hoped not. She reasoned
that the woman wouldn’t have bothered to introduce
her friend to Marianne if the incident in New York mattered to her. Marianne hoped for the best. She shouldn’t
have been surprised that he’d sought out information
about her. She was fast learning that was the way of the
English ton. In San Francisco, people learned about
each other through conversation with one another and
were given a chance to prove themselves through their
actions, but people in London Society didn’t approach
anyone without first being reassured of the other’s status. One’s reputation was often previously established
before an introduction even took place. No one risked
meeting someone who might prove to be entirely unsuitable.

Marianne took a final smell of the flowers and gathered her wits. “I must get the flowers in water right
away. Will you excuse me? You can sit and become better acquainted with my mother.” Marianne moved to
go in search of a vase when the viscount raised his
eyebrows slightly in the direction of a footman, who
stepped forward instantly and offered his services.
“Miss, I’ll see to those for you”

Marianne blushed and relinquished the bouquet. “I
forget how it is here. Sometimes it seems so silly to
have someone do such a little thing one is capable of
doing themselves” Silently, she chided herself. What
a stupid thing to forget! He probably had a house full of servants. Now he’d think she was an uncultured
American. They had a staff of servants at home too, but
it didn’t preclude doing things for oneself.

“Come sit down, Lord Pennington.” Her mother gestured to the chairs gathered around the settee to cover
the awkward moment. “Will you take tea?”

“I’d be delighted.” He took a chair near the settee,
crossing his long legs with casual ease. “I confess that
I had ulterior motives for arriving so late in the afternoon, Mrs. Addison. I was hoping Miss Addison would
do me the pleasure of accompanying me on a drive
through the park”

“I’d love to” Marianne didn’t wait for her mother
to answer for her although the question had been directly asked of her.

Half an hour later, Marianne sat in the handsome
viscount’s curricle, with a straw hat trimmed with
cream veiling that matched her pale pink and cream
driving ensemble, perched atop her head, her maid
riding on the back platform as a discreet chaperone.

The viscount expertly tooled the curricle through
the Mayfair traffic to Hyde Park. Marianne didn’t mind
the slow pace. It gave her time to study the man who’d
spilled champagne on another as the price for a dance.
She’d half feared her memories of him from the prior
night were somewhat magnified but he was indeed as
handsome as she remembered, perhaps even more so.
His nut-dark hair shone in the dappled sunlight filtering through the park’s leafy trees. In profile, his nose stood in sharp relief against the planes of his face. His
jaw carried a certain strength to it, reminding her this
was the face of a man, not a fresh-shaven boy who
had yet to come into his prime. In comparison to the
other young men who’d called, the difference was
remarkable.

Everything he did bespoke an impressive aura of
confidence. He greeted people who passed them in
similar vehicles while he smartly steered his curricle
through tight spots on the path crowded with walkers,
riders and other drivers. It seemed he knew everyone.
They could hardly move twenty feet without encountering another of his many acquaintances. At each
encounter, he endeavored to introduce her as “Miss
Addison of San Francisco.”

It was quite overwhelming to be the center of so
much attention. The effect was not lost on her. She
knew enough to understand that association was of
the utmost importance in London. After today, the
two of them would be linked together in conversation.
People would say at tea tomorrow or at supper parties
tonight, “I saw Pennington in the park today. He was
driving with the Addison girl from San Francisco.” The
comment would inevitably be followed with another
commentary on whether or not such an activity passed
censure.

“Do you know everyone?” Marianne asked after yet
another greeting.

He turned toward her with a laugh. “I do. Don’t
you?” he joked.

Marianne shook her head. “I marvel at how anyone
can keep it all straight. The forms of address alone are
overwhelming. I can’t begin to fathom the intricacies
of dinner seating.”

He gave her a questioning look. “Don’t you seat
people by rank in America?”

Marianne wished she hadn’t brought it up. He was
staring at her with an incredulous look. “We do, but it’s
much simpler. Seating is all about money. Whoever has
the most sits at the top of the table and we work our
way down from there.”

She thought the viscount might be repulsed by the
gaucheness of the notion. But he merely laughed again
and said, “How very democratic.” He pulled the curricle onto the verge, away from the flow of traffic. “Would
you like to walk a little? There’s a duck pond not far
from here-and we’re not likely to be interrupted by all
the people I know,” he added with a grin, stepping to her
side of the carriage and swinging her down with ease.

“Now we have enough quiet for a real conversation,”
he said as he led her down to the pond and an empty
bench nearby. “Tell me about San Francisco, your
home, Miss Addison. All I know is what I’ve read about
it in Kipling’s article on it not long ago. It seems like a
most interesting town.”

It was all the encouragement Marianne needed to regale him with tales of her home, from the enormous
twenty-five-room mansion on Powell Street to the first
bread factory her father owned on DuPont Street.

“You sound as if you miss it,” the viscount said
sympathetically when she broke off her stories.

Marianne nodded. “I do. We’ve been gone for several months. There was the time spent traveling across
the United States, of course, and then we spent a few
months in Paris and went on to Italy briefly before we
came to London” All in an attempt to gain some Continental polish and practice. There’d been her clothes
to order from Worth, lessons in British comportment,
and her father’s new yacht to check on in Cherbourg.
One could not assail the bastion of London society
without practice and the right tools. Even then, Marianne had discovered that she wasn’t willing to remake
herself entirely simply to fit in.

She had the right tools: the Worth wardrobe, the
prestigious address on Portland Place, the invitations
into the desirable social sets. None of that could change
her, though, and she found that she didn’t want to be
changed. For instance, she liked getting a vase in which
to put her flowers. She doubted she’d ever get used to
someone doing those simple tasks for her.

The viscount began to ask another question. “Miss
Addison-”

Marianne shook her head. “Please, call me Marianne. Everyone at home does.” She didn’t care how
unorthodox or bold the request was.

“Then you must call me Alasdair, or Dair as my
close friends do” He smiled, his coffee-colored eyes
sparkling their approval. Marianne thought she could
stare at those warm, dark depths all day without boring
of it.

“Now, it’s your turn to tell me about you,” Marianne
said, turning the conversation. “What do you do when
you’re not in London?”

A shadow flickered across Alasdair’s face at the
question, and his eyes seemed to go flat and cold momentarily.

“I didn’t mean to pry. My apologies,” Marianne offered quickly. She looked away, giving her attention to
the activity on the pond. A little boy stood at the
water’s edge sailing a small toy boat on a string.

“No, it’s just that I’ve spent a large part of my time
recently trying to figure out the answer to your question. Who am I?” He broke off. “I’m sorry, that’s not
what you expected to hear. I haven’t made it easy for
you to make conversation. I am at fault.”

Marianne opened her mouth to reply, but just then
the little boy let out a loud cry of disappointment. His
boat had come loose from its string and capsized in
the pond not far from where they sat. He let out a wail.

Marianne looked around. The boat wasn’t more than
eight or nine steps from shore, too far for a little boy to
wade out but surely not too far for an adult. The boy’s
nanny was alternately consoling him and scolding him
for setting up such a racket. But beyond that, no one sitting on the benches or strolling nearby did anything.
Marianne’s heart went out to the boy who’d lost the
boat. If no one was going to come to his aid, then she
would.

“Oh dear,” Marianne said, reaching to undo her
shoes. “I suppose my stockings are done for.”

“Marianne, whatever are you doing?” Alasdair
queried in a confused whisper.

“I’m going in after the boat. I don’t think the pond
is all that deep at this point.” She gathered up her pale
pink skirts and made her way down to the shoreline
before Alasdair could dissuade her. She called a few
words of reassurance to the little boy who managed to
stop crying in order to watch her. She heard Alasdair’s
footsteps behind her. She supposed she’d shocked him.

Again.

She was apparently in the habit of doing that. But
going after the boat was the only real solution available. It took her only a few moments to retrieve the
boat. Alasdair was there at the water’s edge to help her
back up the bank to the bench, his hand warm and supportive on her arm.

Marianne thought she’d performed the task more
than admirably. She’d managed to ruin just her stockings. The pond had turned out to be quite shallow,
as she’d suspected, and her skirts were only the tiniest
bit damp. The look on the boy’s face when she returned the boat was recompense enough for the ruined
stockings.

She even managed the silliness of retreating behind
a tree to modestly remove the ruined hosiery before
putting her shoes back on. It was beyond her why she
couldn’t simply sit on the more-comfortable bench and
take off her stockings, or why she couldn’t have gone
into the pond barefoot to start with.

But by then the damage was done. It was too late to
avoid being the target of gossip. Obviously, Englishwomen didn’t make a habit of wading in Hyde Park or
rescuing toy boats. A hard stare from Alasdair in the
direction of the onlookers, however, sent them shuffling
on their way.

Her stockings successfully removed, Marianne
plopped back down on the bench next to Alasdair, who
stared at her with an indecipherable look on his face.
She worked the fastenings of her shoes, suddenly selfconscious of his attentions. Perhaps this was where he
politely offered to drive her home and then disappeared
from her life. Perhaps he was already regretting having
introduced her to so many people.

“What is it? You’re staring,” Marianne said at last,
unable to bear his scrutiny.

“My apologies.”

She looked up and saw the hint of a smile on his lips.
“Marianne, are you attending the Stamford ball tonight? If so, would you save me a waltz?”

Marianne cocked her head to the side, intent on not
giving in too easily, although relief coursed through her
in heady amounts. He wasn’t going to reject her out of hand. “I think that could be arranged without too much
effort”

Alasdair rose and offered her his arm. “Shall we
drive on, then? We’ve done our good deed for the day”

He was laughing with her, flirting with her again,
and Marianne gladly returned his banter. On the way
back to her home, they talked of her impressions of
London, Alasdair taking care to point out places of interest during the drive. Marianne had the easy feeling
that she’d known Alasdair for far longer than a day
and it felt positively marvelous.

“I’ve a confession to make,” Marianne said as they
drew to the curb in front of her home.

“Oh, a confession?” Alasdair raised his eyebrows in
shocked good humor. “More scandalous than rescuing
boats from duck ponds?” he teased.

Marianne pretended to consider it for a moment.
“Well, somewhere between duck ponds and spilling
champagne for a dance,” she answered back. “The truth
is, I’m glad you spilled champagne all over that Lord
Brantley. I didn’t like him. Something didn’t seem right
about him. I’d much rather dance with you anytime.”

Alasdair nodded. “It’s not for me to malign a fellow
peer without cause. However, you would do best to
stay away from Lord Brantley. He has certain habits I
am sure you would find distasteful, to say the least.”

Marianne laughed. “The English are unfailingly
polite even when describing a bad seed”

Alasdair came around to help her down. “I assure you, Marianne, that we too have tempers when provoked”

He walked her to the door and gallantly bent over
her hand. “Until tonight, Miss Addison.” He was suddenly all English formality again.

Marianne couldn’t resist one last tease before he left.
“Is this how you say you don’t disapprove of my having
fished a boat out of the drink?”

He looked at her, mastering a level of solemnity
with his gaze while his mouth twitched with a wry half
grin. “Yes, Marianne, I believe it is.”

London was infinitely more exciting with Marianne
Addison at his side, Alasdair reflected a week later. He
made it a point to dance with her every night and to
send her hand-picked flowers every day, including purple of Romagna when he could cajole it out of his
botanist friend. He’d come up with an endless amount
of excuses to be wherever she was in the afternoons;
not drives in the park, not Venetian breakfasts, not even
shopping trips were beyond the pale of his efforts.