The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance (61 page)

It reminded her of something Camden would do. Tell her to wait a moment and then two hours would pass.

She hissed out a breath. Didn’t Edwin realize that by engaging Westbrook, he was only going to further complicate her life? She flicked open her fan and waved it frantically back and forth before her heated face.

A superficial laugh — one she’d never heard in all her five and twenty years — escaped Edwin in response to something Westbrook said.

Gwendolyn blinked, freezing the tip of her fan below her nose. She lowered her chin slightly and continued to observe her brother’s unusual antics. Edwin’s chestnut hair fell farther out of place with each exaggerated, eager nod.

Oh, no. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say Edwin was trying to impress Westbrook in an effort to gain an introduction to the man’s ever-so-popular younger sister. Dear Lord, this did not bode well for her. At all. She did not want or need Westbrook for an in-law.

Someone leaned towards her, bringing the refreshing scent of citrus into the frowsty air. “Gwendolyn,” her mother chimed. “You look incredibly annoyed.”

“I am incredibly annoyed.” Gwendolyn snapped her fan shut and released it, letting it dangle again from her wrist. She spun towards her mother. “Where have you been?”

Despite the heat that was causing everyone’s rouge to fade, Lady Stanton’s own remained flawless. Like the rest of her. Even with those greying tresses, her pretty, oval face held a fresh youthfulness from which no amount of grey could detract. Now why couldn’t Westbrook obsess over someone like her mother who had been widowed these past six years? The woman needed attention far more than she did.

Gwendolyn leaned towards her mother. “Edwin is entertaining Westbrook. I demand you do something. He is your son and therefore
your
responsibility. Not mine.”

Lady Stanton’s green eyes flicked over towards Edwin and Lord Westbrook, then back to her. She shook her head and ushered Gwendolyn away from the two, her emerald satin and lace gown brushing against her own.

Once they were a few steps away, her mother flicked open her own silk fan, hiding her lips from those around them, and whispered, “You do realize Westbrook is waiting for you and Redford to divorce, yes?”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “As if I would ever—”

“What is more,” her mother added in an even more hushed tone, now appearing concerned, “Redford may be planning on it.”

Gwendolyn stared at her, her breath hitching. “Whatever do you mean? Camden and I aren’t—”

“Apparently, upon hearing all the gossip, Redford went to Westbrook and demanded proof of your involvement with him, lest he call the man out for slander. Two days later, Westbrook provided him with proof.”

Gwendolyn choked. “What proof? I never—”

Her mother grabbed her arm and shielded both of their faces with her fan. “Westbrook bribed one of your servants and acquired one of your silk stockings, then delivered it to Redford. Therein providing proof.”

Gwendolyn gasped, her eyes widening in disbelief. She grabbed both of her mother’s gloved hands and squeezed them in a frantic effort to balance herself and her thoughts. “How do you know all of this?”

Lady Stanton fluttered her fan for a moment and eyed her sheepishly. “With Redford moving out, I was worried about you living alone. So I … paid your butler and housekeeper additional funds to watch over you a bit more carefully.”

Gwendolyn felt her throat tightening as she glanced back towards Lord Westbrook who was still enthusiastically conversing with her brother. “Keep me from slitting his throat from ear to ear,” she rasped. “Why is he doing this to me? I never once—”

“Calm yourself,” Lady Stanton hissed, snapping her fan shut. “And more importantly, keep your voice to a whisper. Now, let us fetch you a glass of wine and take you home. In the morning, we will try to settle this misunderstanding as best we can.”

Gwendolyn drew in a steady breath, trying to calm herself. She let the breath out, nodding. “I believe I will require more than one glass of wine. I will require four or five. Maybe even six.”

“Whatever amount will keep you calm. Now come along.” Lady Stanton tucked her hand into the crook of Gwendolyn’s arm and whisked her away in the opposite direction.

“Mother!”
Edwin called out after them. He scrambled around Lord Westbrook and held up a gloved hand above the heads of other passing couples. “You cannot whisk her away as of yet. I need her.”

“Ignore him,” Gwendolyn hissed, rushing them forwards. “He only ever acknowledges me when an opportunity for a female introduction arises and, frankly, I feel like an underpaid chaperone.”

“You needn’t worry about him,” her mother insisted. “I will put an end to his preening. That boy has been far too preoccupied with his own life to notice anyone else’s.”

“It must be contagious.”

Together, they bumped their way through the crush of people and didn’t slow their pace until they were on the other side of the ballroom.

Gwendolyn heaved out a sigh and glanced at her mother. “I don’t understand why you keep encouraging his need for matrimony. Edwin is only twenty.”

Her mother patted Gwendolyn’s forearm. “You cannot fault him, dear. He’s always been a romantic. You know that.”

Lady Stanton suddenly yanked them both to a halt, turning them in the direction of an older gent. “My Lord!” her mother exclaimed. “Oh, thank heavens. Such divine timing I have never known.”

Lady Stanton scurried them both over to a grey-haired gent whose ivory waistcoat couldn’t hide an oversized belly that protruded from his dark evening coat.

Gwendolyn’s heart momentarily skipped at the realization of who he was. Camden’s uncle. Lord Truesdale. Why, she hadn’t even heard his name announced.

“My dear Lady Stanton.” Lord Truesdale took her mother’s free hand and bowed ardently over it. “I demand we find a less crowded room. My carriage or yours?” He waggled his thick, grey brows and grinned crookedly, still holding on to Lady Stanton’s gloved hand.

Her mother released a girlish laugh and coyly withdrew her hand not only from him, but also from Gwendolyn’s own arm. “Do tame yourself,” she shrilled. “We are family.”

Lord Truesdale continued to blatantly grin at her, not in the least bit fazed. “Must you remind me?”

The two openly laughed.

It was like listening to debutantes prattle. Only far worse. When the opportunity of silence presented itself, Gwendolyn decided to interject. “Forgive me, My Lord, but is Camden coming? Do you even know?” There was no sense in pretending she had come for anything
but
Camden.

Lord Truesdale turned his stout body towards her, those brown eyes instantly cooling. “The boy has never been one for confrontations. You know that.” He stiffly grasped Gwendolyn’s hand, kissed the top of her gloved knuckles and paused, staring her down. “Camden is beside himself. As am I.”

She choked, her grasp on his hand tightening. “
I
am beside myself. It is a farce, My Lord. A lie. All of it. My mother can attest.”

Lord Truesdale tugged her in closer with the jerk of her hand, forcing her to stare straight into his stern, round face. “It had better be a lie. Now cease all of this nonsense, move back in with the boy and see to your duty by siring an heir. My nephew has waited long enough, has he not?”

Gwendolyn swallowed back the biting sensation of tears burning her eyes and yanked her shaky hand out of his. She had miscarried far too many times — seven, to be exact — for there to be any humour in his words. “Did your nephew not explain my situation? Or do you find yourself thoroughly amusing?”

Her mother touched her arm, silently pleading she refrain from saying anything more.

Lord Truesdale blinked, then set his hands behind his back and abruptly turned towards her mother. “Whatever the situation may be, I intend to embark upon an intervention by putting an end to these blasphemous rumours.” He scanned his surroundings. “And I hope all of London is listening. Because I am a man of my word.”

Gwendolyn’s heart skipped at the unexpected gesture. After all, the man had never been enthusiastic about her and Camden’s marriage, being the dedicated bachelor that he was. The man much preferred courtesans over a respectable woman. “You intend on assisting? Why? You never approved of our marriage.”

He glared at her. “Camden has been contemplating everything but suicide. What else would you have me do?”

Oh, poor Camden. She couldn’t imagine what he must be thinking or feeling. They had promised to be faithful during their time apart and now this …

From behind them, someone cleared their throat. “Pardon the interruption,” Edwin drawled. “But I require the company of my sister for an introduction.”

Gwendolyn refrained from groaning, but opted to heave out an exasperated sigh instead. She supposed if she couldn’t be a good wife, she might as well be a good sister. She reluctantly curtseyed to Lord Truesdale. “Please inform Camden I am still devoted to him and him alone. Despite everything.”

Lord Truesdale leaned in. “I will call on you tomorrow afternoon. I have an idea as to what should be done.”

Though she dreaded his idea of “what should be done”, she supposed any assistance in this matter would be helpful. “You will find me at home, My Lord,” she insisted, more than ready not only to face Camden, but to reclaim him and in turn become the wife he deserved.

A firm hand grabbed Gwendolyn’s upper arm from behind and yanked her off to the side. She stumbled, glaring at her brother. “Edwin, what are you—”

Her brother stalked past her and moved towards Camden’s uncle. “Tell that nephew of yours I have a pair of fists waiting for him at Jackson’s,” he snapped, not at all bothering to lower his voice. “What breed of man abandons his own wife?”

Gwendolyn’s eyes widened as she smacked her brother’s shoulder with her fan. “Whatever are you doing?” she hissed, glancing around at those who were beginning to stare. “He didn’t abandon me. It was a mutual separation.”

Edwin spun towards her and glared down at her with blazing green eyes. “I am merely overseeing your honour. Someone has to. Now come along. There are a few marvellous women I’ve yet to meet.” He grabbed her arm and tugged her rudely in the opposite direction.

She rolled her eyes and scrambled to keep up with him. “Marvellous? So far, every woman you’ve insisted on meeting has been about as entertaining as a brick.”

He glanced back at her and continued to lead her through the crowds. “I’ll have you know that bricks make good, solid foundations upon which to build.”

It was pointless trying to stick a fork into his brain about anything. She sighed and allowed him to drag her left and right, and then right and left, for the rest of the evening for the sake of his happiness. Of course, she made a point to avoid Westbrook at every turn. After all, she didn’t want to be rude and spray the man’s blood everywhere when she attacked him.

Camden Richard Dearborn, the fourth Marquis of Redford, had never once in the course of his thirty years overindulged in enough cognac, port or brandy to render himself senseless and useless.

Until tonight.

Of course, drowning the last of his rational mind was the only way he could gull himself into facing his own wife — who already appeared to be an hour late. Damn her. As always, time meant nothing to her. And apparently, neither did he.

Camden shifted against the sofa cushion and tried to focus on tightening his bare fingers against the glass of port. It was a miracle he hadn’t spilled the damn thing. Or dropped it.

He glanced across the length of the candlelit parlour towards the entryway and staggered on to heavy-booted feet. He brought more port to his lips and though he swallowed, he could no longer taste the tangy sweetness coating his tongue.

The very thought of his own Gwendolyn touching another man made him want to smash his glass against his own head. Never did he think she of all people would do such a thing.

It was obvious he stood apart in his way of thinking that all a man truly needed out of life was a faithful wife, four children and a dog. For what every man in London
really
wanted these days was multiple lovers and other people’s wives. Including his own! And whatever children were born were simply the results of overspent passions, not love and family planning. As for the dog? The poor dog was left to wander the streets alone. Completely forgotten. Man’s best friend no more.

With each droning minute that passed in silence, Camden couldn’t help but feel increasingly pathetic about waiting around for a wife who apparently was not coming. That alone bespoke of guilt. She couldn’t even face him.

Regardless, he was not leaving until she arrived. He wanted a damn explanation as to how her silk stocking had gotten into Westbrook’s hands. And if that explanation wasn’t good enough, by God, he was getting a divorce and moving to France.

“Uncle!”
Camden leaned forwards impatiently, swaying for a brief moment against his own movement, and glanced towards the entryway his uncle had disappeared into. “Is my wife coming or not? Where the bloody hell is she?”

After a few moments of silence, there was an echoing of boots. His uncle reappeared with … what appeared to be two black strips of cloth in his hands. The old man strode towards him. “She just arrived. Apparently, she couldn’t decide on which gown to wear.”

That most certainly was Gwendolyn. He was of the mind that a woman should only be allowed one gown. That way, there’d be no more indecision.

His uncle paused before him.

Camden watched as his uncle casually draped one of the black velvet sashes over the chair, then snapped the other strip of black velvet taut between his hands. “Lean forwards.”