A Lady of Esteem (2 page)

Anthony rested his head against the back of the seat in his carriage. Arriving three days early had thrown his house into turmoil, but if he’d stayed at his country estate any longer, he’d have talked himself out of coming at all. The friends who had convinced him it was time to reestablish his place in London society had returned to Town almost two weeks ago, leaving him brooding back in Hertfordshire.

To spare the sanity of his cook, he was dining with those same friends this evening.

Maybe they could help him forget the enigma he’d found cleaning his study. He’d become entranced the moment he saw her perched on the ladder, humming as she ran the cloth over the books and shelves. Her giggle of happiness as she kicked off the bookshelf and sent the ladder careening down the wall had fascinated him to the point that he forgot to move out of the way before the ladder connected with his boot.

Then she’d landed in his arms.

Two years ago the situation would have delighted him. He’d have flirted instead of remaining a good distance away from her after she was back on her feet. Those old instincts had been difficult to fight during the encounter.

Difficult enough to keep him from pursuing her.

Difficult enough he should avoid her. He was attempting to prove to himself and God that he was indeed the new creation the Bible said he was. Obsessing about a woman he’d met only hours before seemed too much like the old creation for his peace of mind.

Not that she fit his old ideal. With dark hair pulled back into a serviceable bun—devoid of a single face-framing ringlet—an unadorned mud-colored dress, and well-worn boots, she’d been a head-to-toe column of nondescript brown. Pretty but not classically beautiful, and without a hint of anything fashionable about her appearance.

He’d never seen someone so happy to be where they were, though. Her joy in the midst of the degrading act of cleaning was like nothing he’d ever seen.

Being attracted to goodness and joy was a sign he was changing for the better, wasn’t it? It didn’t hurt that goodness and joy was wrapped in the body of a woodland fairy.

The carriage stopped in front of the London home of his good friend, Griffith, Duke of Riverton. More proof that he wasn’t the same man.

Up until two years ago, Griffith had been nothing but an aristocratic neighbor. He’d never set foot in the man’s home for a gathering of anything less than one hundred people, even though their country estates sat within five miles of each other. Now Griffith and his siblings were the closest thing Anthony had to family.

The butler showed him to the drawing room, and Anthony grinned as he spotted Miranda, the elder of Griffith’s younger sisters. “You provide a splendid welcome to Town.”

Miranda returned Anthony’s grin as she crossed the drawing room, her green eyes brimming with humor. “I shall accept the compliment, despite the lack of competition. Tell me again after the masses have a chance to greet you. I give it two days at most until they all come ’round for one reason or another.”

“I haven’t officially told anyone I’m back in London.”

Anthony would have sworn it was impossible to snort in a ladylike manner, but Miranda managed to accomplish it. “That won’t matter.”

He couldn’t stop a groan of discomfiture, though it lacked Miranda’s refinement. He reached past the decanter of brandy to grab the lemonade. “I only want a chance to settle in without being pestered. It sounds unbearably egotistical, but I do believe my arrival in town is going to make me the prey instead of the hunter.”

The very thought was enough to make Anthony long for his country estate once more. As he poured the lemonade he noted Trent, Griffith’s younger brother, sitting in a chair by the fire. “Are Griffith and Georgina joining us this evening?”

“Griffith departed Town earlier this morning. He wants to get through some pressing ducal business at a few of his estates before the heart of the season.” Miranda cut her eyes toward her brother. “Trent is irritated. Griffith promised to help escort me this year, and Trent claims big brother is shirking his duties. I adore being a burden.”

Anthony counted himself grateful that he wasn’t on the receiving end of Miranda’s glare.

Trent coughed as he stood and tugged at his cravat. “Yes, well, Georgina should be along at any moment. Next to her I look positively cheerful. She is irked at us for not allowing her to participate in society yet.”

“She was soothed considerably when I informed her she could join us for dinner this evening.” Miranda turned her pinning gaze from her brother to her guest. “I believe she has a
tendre
for you, Anthony.”

“All the smart women do.” Anthony favored Miranda with his most charming grin. “I have been biding my time until you come to your senses and fall at my feet as well.” He raised his glass in her direction.

Miranda grimaced. “That would be like marrying my brother.”

Trent tried to hide his wide grin. “I doubt there’ll be room for her once you make your first social appearance, Anthony.”

Miranda cast a sideways glance at her brother. “Honestly, Trent, he hasn’t set foot in the city for two years. You have to take into account that many of his acquaintances might have forgotten him.”

Anthony coughed, trying to remind the siblings that he was in the room.

Trent gripped Miranda’s shoulder and looked at the floor, slowly shaking his head. “My dear, dear sister, this man is a legend.” He raised his head and pointed his glass in Anthony’s direction, a crooked smile on his lips. “He told me himself.”

Anthony’s neck got hot. If he was going to blush for the first time in years, shouldn’t it be about something much more risqué than that offhand comment?

“Yes, yes.” Miranda waved her hand through the air. “The enormously popular bachelor possessing both title and fortune, notorious for racing, women, and various other pleasurable pursuits. While rare, men of that ilk are not impossible to find.”

“What do you know of his ‘pleasurable pursuits’?” Trent’s gaze jerked to Miranda, his face bearing the stern cast of big brother instead of charming gentleman. Their green eyes, so similar to each other in shade and shape, locked across the room. His narrowed as an impish smile formed on his sister’s face.

Anthony shifted, trying to avoid a deeper blush. He didn’t like Miranda knowing anything about his former pleasurable pursuits either.

“Only whispers, I assure you. Women love to gossip when they visit, but no one tells unmarried ladies any details. They only share enough to scare all the decent young ladies away.”

As the dreaded heat crawled farther up Anthony’s neck and onto his ears, Trent’s deep laughter filled the room. He laughed so hard he had to bend over and take huge gulping breaths of air in order to catch his breath back.

“Miranda, Tony is a marquis, and a rich one at that. He could have a string of debauched virgins—”

“Trent!”

“—and a passel of illegitimate children trailing behind him and still have his pick of any unattached woman in town.”

“I suppose.” Miranda hid her smile behind her glass. “Imagine if they knew he had the ability to climb apple trees while completely foxed.”

Trent toasted him once more. “Not to mention his skill at remaining in said tree after passing out.”

Anthony could have done without the reminder of his final drunken stupor, despite its fascinating and embarrassing conclusion in an apple orchard. It was, however, the event that brought Griffith into his life, changing it forever, so he couldn’t completely detest the experience. At least the memory was sobering enough to cool the flush from his skin.

Miranda looked Anthony in the eye. “As long as you steer clear of any scandal, we should be able to find you that rare jewel who will overlook your past and see the changed man you have become.”

What was he supposed to say to that? “Um, thank you?”

“Don’t forget to watch for a jewel of your own, dear sister. I don’t relish carting you around again next season.”

Trent was saved becoming the victim of fratricide by the entrance of a vibrant young woman with masses of blond curls and laughing green eyes. Georgina danced into the drawing room, an engaging smile decorating her face. “At last, I have arrived. So good of you to wait for me.”

Anthony stood as the spritely female dipped low in a curtsy of greeting.

She then twirled to Anthony’s side. “If only you would consent to wait for me, my lord. My overbearing family will let me out of the schoolroom next season, and we can dance away in wedded bliss.”

Anthony laughed and kissed the outstretched fingers, thankful for a less serious conversation. “Alas, fair maiden, I fear I am not worthy of your dancing slippers. I shall have to comfort myself with someone within the reach of these lowly arms.”

“Oh pish!” Georgina, swatted Anthony on the shoulder. “You shall be the catch of the season. I wish I could watch all of London fall at your feet when they discover you are seeking a bride.” Her sigh threatened to extinguish the candles across the room.

Picturing the beauties of London at his feet brought the morning’s mishap to mind. “Miranda, do you know of a rather short brunette miss named Amelia?”

The footman entered to announce dinner.

“I am afraid you will have to be more specific, Anthony,” Miranda murmured dryly as she rose to take Anthony’s arm.

“I found a young woman dressed considerably better than your average maid dusting my study when I arrived today.”

Trent laughed. “Was it a marriage-minded miss trying to get your attention?”

“If it was she did a terrible job of it.” Georgina placed her hand on Trent’s arm. “He can’t call on her if he doesn’t know her full name.”

“I am sorry, but I cannot think of any women who would be dusting your study, Anthony,” Miranda said as they passed the wide-eyed footman.

Anthony sighed. “Be a diamond and keep an ear out for me, would you? I would like to know who she is.”

She had to be vacant in the attic to even consider the request. Amelia choked down her bite of toast as she tried to come to terms with Mrs. Harris’s request. “You want me to
what
?”

The loving housekeeper was the closest thing to a mother Amelia had experienced. Amelia would have done anything for the woman who’d done her best to show Amelia around London when the viscount had sent her here almost ten years ago.

Anything, that is, except return to the marquis’ house.

Mrs. Harris plunked a bottle on the scarred worktable. “Take this tonic to Emma. You said she was still feeling poorly yesterday.”

The bottle tilted as one side settled into a thick groove on the table.

Amelia had never thought much about the many dings and dents of the old table. She’d sat here for breakfast every morning and had eaten dinner at the table as well until Miss Ryan, her governess and companion, had declared it unfit for her station. Then they’d all moved to the dining room for the evening meal.

All it did was create more work in Amelia’s eyes, but it made the servants feel as if they were doing something right so she never complained.

“Do you really think she needs it?” Amelia asked.

“Do you think that dragon of a housekeeper will keep her around if she misses any more work?”

Amelia ran her fingers over the rough surface until they wrapped around the smooth glass bottle. “Perhaps Lydia could take it,” she asked hopefully, referring to the parlor maid with a mop of blond corkscrews popping out around the edges of her mob cap. “Or perhaps Fenton?”

Even before Mrs. Harris could spear her with a quizzical stare, Amelia knew her suggestions were nonsensical. As the lady of the house, such as it was, she was the one who should visit their friends and see to their care when needed. Sending the maid or the butler, who each had a full day’s work to do, would be impersonal and strange.

If only she could claim other lady-of-the-house duties such as dinner parties and afternoon social calls. But when one only knew
the servants of London’s elite and not the lords and ladies themselves, a social presence was hard to come by.

“Is there something you aren’t telling me?” Mrs. Harris placed a fist on one skinny hip and looked at Amelia with the same glare that had gotten her to confess to eating all the gingerbread cookies her first Christmas in London.

The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed. “You look guilty. Like the time you snuck young Celia Scott into the dressmaker’s shop every night for two weeks as if she was the shoemaker’s elf.”

“She got the job, didn’t she?”

“At the expense of every candle in this house. I thought I was going mad when I couldn’t find any.” Mrs. Harris crossed her arms but didn’t relax her accusatory glare. “What have you gotten yourself into now?”

If Amelia’s choices were to deliver the tonic or tell the tale of the marquis, there was no need for debate. She clutched the bottle to her chest. “Not a thing. It’s probably the busyness of the season getting to me. All the extra noise and traffic.” Amelia popped up from her stool. “I’ll take it now. As you said, she can’t afford to miss another day.” But even as she buttoned her spencer jacket and slapped a bonnet on her head, Amelia tried to come up with a reason to avoid going.

As she walked down the street, her mind swirled with all the reasons returning to the scene of her humiliation was a bad idea.

Once she’d cut through a back alley, the top of the marquis’ house could be seen over the roof of his mews. The unfamiliar stench of horses and leather tickled her nose, reminding her how different his life was than hers. It was surprisingly encouraging.

He would likely still be abed. If he had risen early, he’d be off at his club or one of those other places men of leisure spent their time. He wouldn’t be home, and he certainly wouldn’t be in the kitchens. She’d be in and out without any additional embarrassing encounters.

By the time she was creeping through the enormous hedges toward the kitchen entrance of the marquis’ Grosvenor Street home, her mental assurances had almost convinced her heart to resume its normal beat. A masculine chuckle caused it to stop altogether.

Amelia’s feet grew roots. It couldn’t be
him
.

She squatted low to see beneath the hedge. He lay on a blanket, a tray with a half-full pitcher of lemonade a few feet away and a large pile of cards on the ground next to him. He picked up a card. His
low groan reached her ears before he tossed the card over his head and into the grass beyond. What could he be doing?

He sighed. “Lady Charles is hosting a soiree, hmm?” The white card hit the grass behind him. “I wonder if she stopped serving raw meat to her guests yet.” He shuddered and moved on to the next card.

“A ball given by the Countess of Brigston. A crowd of that size would allow me to greet people quickly.” A card went into the stack nearest his hip.

“Perhaps it’s better to start small, though. I liked Harry Wittcomb well enough at school. A dinner party at his home could be enjoyable.” The card went toward the pile at his knee.

She should move. This was the man’s private garden. He had every right to expect that his verbal musings were falling on no ears but his own.

But what kind of man had a picnic in his own garden and threw invitations willy-nilly about the yard?

For goodness’ sake, Amelia. It doesn’t matter if
the man is a paragon of virtue; he deserves his
privacy.

But this behavior was too intriguing for her to leave.

Anthony picked up the next in the seemingly endless stack of invitations. Were all of these events occurring in the next few days?

He sighed and opened another invitation.

“A garden party. Dreadful bore those are, unless you know the other guests well. Who is Lady Galvine? I assume she is married to Lord Galvine but I’ve never heard of him either.”

Snickering at his own wit, Anthony tossed the parchment over his head.

He picked up the next one.

“What are you doing?” The irate voice of his valet, Harper, sounded from his right.

A quick glance around the clearing confirmed that Anthony was not the target of Harper’s verbal attack. Which begged the question of who was. Anthony rose and started running around the line of greenery.

Was Harper hurt? Was someone attacking him? Harper was a wiry little fellow, an odd choice for a valet, but the man could tie an impeccable cravat.

“Harper!” Anthony called out as he rounded the edge of the hedges. His foot slipped in the dirt, but he quickly steadied himself.

The last thing he expected to find was a woman snared in his valet’s glare. And not just any woman.

The familiar brown dress, the alarmed chocolate-colored eyes, the severe bun. His mystery woman had returned.

She squealed as recognition dawned in her eyes. Both of her hands flew up to her face, leaving only her big brown eyes showing. Her gaze connected with Anthony’s, and her eyes widened even more until a full rim of white surrounded the deep brown.

Harper’s hand wrapped around the woman’s upper arm. Her eyes cut to the valet. She whirled with such force that Harper was knocked sideways and required several steps to regain his balance.

Then she ran.

“Wait!” Anthony ran after her.

The woman darted a look over her shoulder. His call seemed to spur her to run harder. Anthony, however—in possession of much longer legs and not encumbered by skirts—was faster. He skidded to a halt, grabbing her shoulder and spinning her around.

Her gaze connected with his. Breath backed up in his lungs at the sadness mingled with fear he could read on her face. For the space of several heartbeats he stared into her big brown eyes, watching an emotion he couldn’t quite name build within them.

“Go to Lady Galvine’s,” she whispered in a rush. “She treats her servants well and has spent an entire year planning the party. Her only daughter is in love with the Earl of Lyndley’s eldest son and he with her, but they don’t think that the earl will let his son marry her. Lord Galvine is only a baron. If you announced your arrival in London at her party it would increase her consequence enough that Miss Kaitlyn might be allowed to marry the earl’s son.”

She pulled away and ran behind the mews.

He gave chase, but by the time he reached the alley, she was nowhere to be found. His mystery woman had escaped again.

“Why are we here?” Amelia frowned at the row of glinting shop windows marching down Bond Street. After her encounter with the marquis and his valet she’d wanted nothing more than to hide in her room and wallow in useless grumbles and futile daydreams.

Daydreams in which her encounter with the marquis had taken place in a respectable place, she’d known exactly what to say, and her dress had been something other than serviceable brown.

“You’ve been moping about the house for over a week, grumbling about hedges and cleaning cloths. You needed to get out. Besides, you need a new dress.” Miss Ryan, her governess turned companion, nodded to punctuate her statement, causing her black ringlets to bob against the sides of her bonnet.

Amelia blinked out of her reverie and looked down at her skirts. “There is nothing wrong with this dress.”

As long as one didn’t compare it to anything else walking down the street.

“Aside from the two layers of trim we’ve put on the bottom to hide the ragged edges, the pull in the back from where you mended a hole under the arm, and the fact that the waistline is three years out of date—no, there’s not a thing wrong with it,” agreed Miss Ryan.

Amelia didn’t want to accustom herself to upper-class finery only to have it ripped away from her when she reached one and twenty in a few short months. Who knew if the viscount would continue to support her? Or if he even remembered she existed?

“My dress is suitable for what I do. None of my friends care that I’ve had to repair a tattered hem or two.” Over the years she’d made lots of friends and she’d even invited them over to the house for tea occasionally. But they weren’t the type of friends to help a girl socially.

Miss Ryan shook her head. “You can’t marry if you limit your socializing to the servants. You’re a gentleman’s daughter.”

“I like the servants,” Amelia mumbled. They’d been the only ones willing to talk to her when she’d been dumped in London at the age of eleven.

“Servants don’t marry, dear.” Miss Ryan ran a comforting hand along Amelia’s arm.

“Neither do unknown wards of forgotten viscounts.” Amelia crossed her arms and dared the companion to contradict her statement.

“This is London. You never know what the good Lord will make happen. Perhaps with the right dress.” Miss Ryan smiled but didn’t meet Amelia’s gaze. “It changed Cinderella’s life, didn’t it?”

Before Amelia could ask where Miss Ryan was stashing a fairy godmother, she found herself grasped by the elbow and hauled into the shop.

Two elegant women sat in chairs near the window, sipping tea. Another cluster of three ladies looked at a book of fashion plates while two more perused a selection of fabric.

Amelia sputtered. “But this is Madame Bellieme’s. It probably costs money to simply breathe her air.”