The Primrose Path (19 page)

Had he really been worried for her safety? Angelina couldn’t tell, except for the little warm glow in the vicinity of her heart. “There is no need for your concern, my lord. I told you, the dogs won’t let anything happen to me.”

“What, is Ajax protection from a bullet? Do you think an assassin will be discouraged by wet shoes? It’s not safe, and I am tired of your arguing with wiser heads about situations you do not understand, and I am tired of you ‘my lording’ me all the time, Angelina Armstead. My name is Corin. Or Knowle.”

“Mercedes calls you Knolly.”

“Mademoiselle Lavalier has called me many things, but I didn’t think you wanted to be quite as familiar as Mercedes,” he said, knowing he’d get to see Lena’s blush start at the lace tucked into the bodice of her gown. “But I’m willing if you are, Angel.”

Instead of answering, Angelina turned away from Corin, to his disappointment, and threw a stick for Ajax. The big dog went bounding after the tree branch, then raced back, just as Angelina took a step forward. Ajax’s momentum carried him forward, right into Angelina, who would have gone flying, except that Corin’s strong arms were there to steady her.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she started to say, expecting him to release her and step back. He didn’t. Her bonnet had slid back on her head, held only by the ribbons around her neck. Staring down into her eyes, Corin untied the bow and let the straw hat fall to the ground. Then he raised one hand and, with butterfly gentleness, brushed back the curls that had tumbled onto her forehead.

“Oh.” That was all Angelina could think to say. Her wits had waltzed away while her pulse danced a Highland jig. He was going to kiss her, and she was going to let him.

Corin touched her hair again and her cheek, then he laid his fingers on her lips, her soft, pink, parted lips. He groaned, knowing he’d lost the battle of conscience without firing a shot. What conscience? What battle? “Ah, Angel.”

Finally he kissed her, holding her so close that his waistcoat buttons would leave an impression on her skin, but not as deep an impression as his lips made on her soul. He groaned again, or she did. They kissed until there was no ground beneath them, nor air between them. Lilacs and lips and lingering touches, that’s all there was, besides dogs barking.

Dogs barking? Oh, dear! Angelina pulled back, and Corin released her immediately.

“Lud,” he said. “I am sorry. Angel. That is, I’m not sorry, but I do apologize for breaking my promise to behave like a gentleman. Some gentleman I turned out to be, by Jupiter.”

Angelina was busy knotting her bonnet’s ribbons with trembling fingers. “But I let you, Corin. I suppose I’m not much of a lady, either.”

And Lady Hathaway was not much of a chaperon, waving gaily from the window when Angelina glanced back at the house. Countess Lillian had vowed to keep watch over Angelina Armstead just like a mother. Any mother with a pretty, dowerless daughter would have done the same.

Chapter Twenty-one

“One of my tenants mentioned losing his dog recently,” Corin said, trying to fill the silence as they walked back toward the cottage. “I thought I’d bring him one of yours, on approval, naturally.”

“Yes, that would be fine.”

“One of the outdoor dogs, to help on the farm.”

“Yes, of course.”

They were almost to the door where Lady Hathaway was waiting, the Pekingese in her arms. “And I do wish you’d listen to me about venturing afield by yourself.”

“Very well, I’ll think about what you said.”

If he’d known that a simple kiss could turn the persnickety female this amenable, Corin thought, he’d have kissed her before. No, dash it, he had kissed her before. He shouldn’t have then, and he shouldn’t have now, especially if a mere kiss was going to leave her speechless and shaken.

“Deuce take it, Angel, it was only a kiss.”

She nodded, but they both knew that an embrace so earthshaking, so profound, wasn’t a kiss, a simple kiss, a mere kiss. And they both knew nothing could come of it.

Corin had to marry well: a hostess, a polished ornament to his elegant life, a social equal to bear his sons. Angelina didn’t have to marry at all, but if she did wed, it would be to a simple gentleman of modest means who cared more for her than for titles and wealth and ambition. He’d be in touch with nature and the land, she reflected, and he wouldn’t need reminding that violets didn’t grow in some London market barrow. He certainly wouldn’t care so much about his silly old boots, she thought.

Lady Hathaway thought they were both gudgeons, but she greeted them warmly, then suggested that lemonade was just the thing after a walk in the garden. Angelina took the opportunity to escape to the kitchens, as they all knew she would, and Lady Hathaway took the opportunity to lecture his lordship, as they all knew he deserved.

The lady was too subtle to come out and call him a cad and a bounder. Corin thought later. She only mentioned what a fine lady Angel’s mother had been, what a fine lady Lady Sophie had been. And, oh, yes, how did he find his lady mother when he visited last? Lady Hathaway would be sure to write her dear friend Lady Knowle on the instant. If the countess had said “lady” once more, Corin feared he might forget he was a gentleman for the second time that afternoon.

He knew what was owed a gentlewoman, by Jupiter, but this was not the Dark Ages, when a stolen kiss required a declaration of marriage. Besides, they weren’t of the same worlds. They wouldn’t suit.

* * * *

They wouldn’t suit, Angelina thought. Even if she didn’t find the viscount prideful and pigheaded, she’d never let herself care for a so-called gentleman who went around kissing any available woman. Kissing was for married couples, affianced at least. If that was her puritanical upbringing speaking, it was saying the wiser thing.

Not that Angelina blamed Corin entirely. She admitted to finding Corin attractive, attractive enough that she hadn’t protested, hadn’t stopped the kiss. She’d stopped breathing, for goodness’ sake, much less stopped thinking. He certainly knew how to do the thing properly, likely from his years of practice.

No, Angelina would never let herself fall in love with a man who would only break her heart with his affairs and infidelities. And love, she firmly believed, was the only reason for marrying. Let Viscount Knowle and his high-born circle make alliances of advancement, coalitions of lands and fortunes, not marriages of hearts and minds. Let him and his friends make vows they intended to break. Let the blasted rake fetch his own cursed lemonade.

* * * *

The butler, not Angelina, brought the lemonade. Corin took a large swallow to soothe his dry throat, then gasped. Someone had forgotten to add the sugar; the kitchens also overlooked the rear gardens.

Angelina was obviously not returning, so Corin took his leave of Lady Hathaway, with a bad taste in both their mouths. He checked with Jed, the groom, before unpenning the sturdy black-and-white herd dog he’d seen in the side yard. The dog’s long coat was shiny, his eyes were bright with intelligence, his tail was a wagging plume, and his name was Buttons. What could be more innocuous than Buttons?

Jed didn’t answer, having been in the kitchen with Cook enjoying a glass of lemonade, one sweetened just right.

Corin saw the dog settled in the castle stables, away from his niece and nephew and his sister’s diatribes on his lack of familial devotion. He’d take Buttons to Ligett, the sheepherder, in the morning, notching a major victory, in his own eyes at least, toward getting another dog out of Primrose Cottage. Unfortunately for his success rate, both his chef’s dog, Molly, and the architect’s setter had been banished back to Angel’s place for the duration of Florrie’s visit to the castle, which was already too long.

“Ugh,” his loving sister said. “You stink of the stables, Knowle. Could you not have changed before entering a lady’s parlor with all your dirt?”

Corin sank into a chair after ringing for tea. “No, make that lemonade, with lots of sugar.” Then he looked at his sister, with her hair braided into some convoluted edifice atop her head, her hands so white they must never spend a night out of chicken-skin gloves, poor Talbot, and her rather long nose wrinkled in disgust. Angel had a sweet little nose, with the slightest tilt to it, and a band of freckles across the bridge. Then, too, he recalled her softness against his chest, her gently swelling curves that fit so well. He looked at his sister again. Poor, poor Talbot.

“And your boots!” Florrie squawked. “Doddsworth would never send you out like that. Whatever happened to you?”

“Doddsworth is gone, you do not want to know what happened to my boots, trust me, and this is still my parlor, isn’t it? I cannot be sure, with Talbot snoring in my library and one of your children creating mayhem in my billiards room, the other destroying the conservatory. I understand I have to replace my head gardener, in addition to my valet. Unless, perhaps, I have been deposed from the viscountcy while I was visiting my tenants.”

“Visiting your tenants? Since when do you take an interest in mangel-wurzels and milch cows? I saw you come back from Primrose Cottage and those women, Knolly. It simply won’t do, do you hear me?”

“I always hear you, Florrie. Your voice is as shrill as Mama’s. But you’re right, for once. I cannot keep visiting there; you’ll have to invite them to the castle for tea.”

“Are your attics to let, Knolly? Lord Wyte sent a messenger to inform us that he and his daughter will be arriving tomorrow afternoon.”

Somehow the news did not please Corin as much as he thought it should. “Very well, you can wait a day or two before inviting the ladies from Primrose Cottage. That way they can meet everyone at once.”

“Meet Midas Micah Wyte and his precious Melissa? Oh, all that lovely money will land in someone else’s bank account,” she wailed. “You know what a high stickler Wyte is since he returned from India. He’ll be outraged if you introduce his darling Melissa to actresses and upper servants. A ball or a large gathering is one thing, Knolly,” she pleaded, “where the Frenchwoman can be passed off as part of the entertainment and Lena will fade into the woodwork as usual, but tea? Here?”

He thought he’d like to see Angel here very well; he also thought he’d like to see Florrie’s face when she glimpsed their aunt’s former companion. Allergies to dogs were nothing compared to the apoplexy she’d suffer. “Where else would you serve tea but the parlor? Of course if you’d rather have them to dinner—”

“No! No dinner, no tea, or there will be no engagement! Wyte will be offended by the slightest hint of fastness, Knolly. You know what he’s like.”

“Do you know what Countess Hathaway is like, Florrie?”

“Why, of course. Everyone knows she’s a veritable dragon. One word from her and a debutante’s Season is rescheduled for Bath.”

“Exactly. Well, see that you don’t offend her, either, then, in case you’ll be bringing what’s-her-name to London for her come-out in the next ten years. Lady Hathaway is staying at Primrose Cottage.”

Florrie snatched up her brother’s glass of lemonade and drank it down in one swallow. “Countess Hathaway, here, oh my. Just imagine what she could do for Talbot’s career!”

Nothing could be done for Talbot’s government career except winning the lottery, Corin thought, but Lady Hathaway must be used to toads and mushrooms; she’d know how to depress his sister’s pretensions nicely.

Florrie was already thinking ahead to her seating arrangements. “If I ask the countess to dine, do you suppose I must invite her companion, too?”

“Angel? That is, Lena? Don’t you ever listen, Florrie? Lena is Lady Hathaway’s hostess, not her paid servant. The countess knew her mother.”

“Who ran off to Gretna in a scandalous misalliance. Be assured Lady Hathaway would not countenance such conduct. Why, they say that she never looked at another man, not once, despite Hathaway’s—Well, suffice it to say he was not the ideal husband. The countess is known to be even more high-principled now that she is widowed.”

“Nevertheless, she is a guest at the cottage, at Miss Armstead’s cottage.”

Florrie sat back. “Well, I can see you are singing a different tune. Miss Armstead’s cottage, is it?”

Corin simply nodded.

“With all those dogs? Oh, dear, and I was going to leave my card first thing in the morning. But you know how I am around that many animals.”

Not a pretty sight, he acknowledged. “Then I’ll carry your invitation for you. If you ask the ladies to make a morning call, you might even get lucky. Mrs. Gibb will be teaching, and Mercedes Lavalier never gets out of bed before noon.”

“The French high flier? Now I know you’re teasing, Knolly, and you are too old for this kind of prank, I swear. Lady Hathaway would never recognize the likes of your émigré jade.”

“Luckily the countess recognizes great talent. I believe Lady Hathaway is even now playing the pianoforte so  Mademoiselle Lavalier can rehearse. Perhaps you should practice your scales, too, Florrie. If I recall, you were as flat at the pianoforte as you were everywhere else.”

* * * *

Lady Hathaway and Mercedes Lavalier were indeed rehearsing, in between deciding the fate of the world and everyone in it, with Lord Knowle’s name at the top of the list. Mercedes thought Knolly could make her
bonne amie
happy; the countess thought he could make the dear girl a good husband, a very different proposition.

Angelina was at loose ends for a change, with two of her guests closeted in the music room and Elizabeth upstairs putting her daughter to bed. She would read aloud, Angelina knew, then sit for hours simply watching her little girl sleep. At length she’d come thank Angelina all over again, as if Robinet’s tentative smiles weren’t reward enough.

Angelina decided this was a good time to go over the household accounts. She might dislike the job, but she disliked her own thoughts more tonight.

At the castle, Florrie was in a flutter, driving herself and the Belgian chef to distraction over the menus for her tea party. Corin was of the opinion that, after insisting Henri send his dog away, Florrie would be lucky to get Molly’s leftover beef-broth, biscuits, and bones. But, of course Florrie did not ask Corin’s opinion. So what if he was the host? He was only her brother. He shrugged his broad shoulders. Chunks of raw meat would look lovely on the Wedgwood.