A Season for Love (16 page)

“
Keeping well out of my
way.”

“
Yes, I imagine that is so,” Jen
agreed, eyeing her husband with some trepidation. “Caroline says
she is a great success with Laurence, since she is a familiar face
from Little Stoughton.”

Abruptly, the Duke of Longville swung his
stallion away. Jenny suspected the snort she heard did not come
from his horse.

The day was perfect, as cloudless as could be
expected in a country noted for its rain. The temperature was mild.
By the time the cavalcade had negotiated the supposed dangers of
the city streets and was well out in the country, passing by a
series of imposing residences built along the Thames, even the Duke
of Longville began to succumb to the beauty of the day. In the past
few weeks his life had been so transformed he could scarcely credit
it. Only a scant few months ago he had been alone, thinking his
life complete, satisfied with his nearly solitary existence;
seemingly content with the challenge of helping govern a country in
a time of crisis. He had had friends; a few, like Frayne, good
friends. But he had no wife, no children, only a series of
mistresses whose interest was more fixed on baubles than on any
care for what might lurk beneath the titled façade of the Duke of
Longville.

And now . . . Marcus came close to a grin. He
had a wife who was turning out to be more than he had ever hoped
for, three children, a brother-in-law . . . and more
responsibilities than even a duke might expect. Each day seemed to
bring sharp demands from Wellington for more men and more supplies,
interspersed by complaints about dealing with an Allied Army
composed of a dozen nations and independent principalities. And,
above all else, he must face the fact that his son, his heir, might
be in danger. Most certainly, the boy was the subject of scurrilous
gossip—and yet here they were, traipsing about the countryside.

He was Marcus Carlington, Duke of Longville,
and he could do anything he demmed well pleased. He would protect
his own. The children deserved normal lives. His wife deserved a
normal life. God knows Jen had had little enough of that while
following the drum. Therefore, after considerable and—ah—most
interesting persuasion on the part of the duchess, they were off to
Richmond Park, as if they hadn’t a care in the world. The duke ran
his eye over the outriders, their shotguns, the pistols bulging in
their pockets. He nodded his approval. They had safely negotiated
their way out of London. The duke allowed his lips to curl into a
benign smile. Very well . . . time to enjoy the day.

Lord Frayne swung his curricle into a great
arc outlining the area for the picnic, the riders, the barouche,
and the landau pulling up behind him. The heavily loaded wagons had
fallen behind. A giggle rose on the pristine country air as Mr.
Trimby-Ashford swung Lady Harriet from the barouche. Sir Chetwin,
not to be outdone, quickly dismounted, performing the same service
for Miss Emily Bettencourt, who blushed furiously.

For the first time the Duchess of Longville
realized she was chaperon for the three young ladies, including
Caroline. Merciful heavens, her head had been filled with thoughts
of a long lovely day in Marcus’s company, and she was expected to
keep track of three lively young couples.

Unfair!

“
Until the supplies arrive,” her
brother announced, “perhaps we might stroll along the path toward
the woods, while enjoying the view of the river.”

Woods
. Jen
blanched. Three sets of young people strolling off, out of
sight.

“
Jen?” She discovered her husband,
dismounted, beside her, holding up his arms to help her from her
saddle. How utterly delightful. He had done that at Totten Court,
but they had not ridden together since. Being treated as if she
actually needed help in dismounting was a memory of those halcyon
days of courtship Jenny particularly cherished. She slid down into
her husband’s waiting arms, thoroughly enjoying the extra moment he
took before freeing her.

She cast an anxious glance at the three
couples strolling toward a small herd of red deer grazing
peacefully at the edge of the forest. The children, shouting and
laughing, would have outdistanced them except for the gentle
admonishments of Miss Tompkins. Nell Brindley was heard to state
that cities was grand, but she’d right forgot how good real country
looked.

“
Don’t be foolish, Jen,” Longville told
his wife, not missing her anxious frown. “This is your day as well
as theirs. I doubt any young chit will be ravished on your
watch.”

“
Marcus!”

“
Do you honestly believe your brother
would invite escorts who were less than gentlemen?” the duke
teased.

“
You know as well as I that gentlemen
tend to lose their heads at the slightest provocation.”

“
Then you have invited young ladies who
are—ah—provocative?” he purred.

“
One of them is your own daughter!” Jen
shot back.

“
Decidedly provocative,” the duke
mused. “I fear Frayne is lost.”

Jen stood very still, nodding absently
as a groom stepped up to lead her mount away. “Do you think so?”
she asked in a small voice. “They seem such a strange match. Tony
so much a figure of the
ton
and Caroline so suspicious of it.”

“
They will be good for each other, I
think. I hope,” the duke added softly. “But, come, my dear, this is
our day as well. Ah . . . here come the wagons. Would you prefer to
walk or settle onto a blanket and watch others exert themselves
while we sample a rare bottle of wine? I chose a special vintage
just for us,” he confided, bringing his lips close to his duchess’s
ear.

Jen quivered. There was no question of
walking; her legs had turned to jelly. A wave of the duke’s hand, a
blanket appeared as if my magic. The duchess, leaning her back
against a giant oak, accepted a glass of wine in a crystal goblet
and gave herself up to enjoying her husband’s company. After all,
Miss Tompkins, two children, and Nell Brindley ought to be enough
deterrent to any untoward behavior in the woods of Richmond
Park.

As the picnic cavalcade lumbered off down the
dusty road leading back to the heart of the city, Lady Caroline
turned to her companion with an unreserved smile of approval. “A
splendid picnic,” she approved. “Laurence and Susan ran themselves
quite into the ground. And trestle tables for the food. Who could
have imagined such luxury? Truly, Tony, it was quite
wonderful.”

“’
Twas nothing,” the viscount demurred.
“I turned to m’mother and m’sister and let their respective cooks
slip into a frenzy of picnic rivalry.”

“
Oh!” Caroline gasped. “Should you not
have invited your mother?”

“
I did. She declared her years of
eating
al fresco
long since
over.”

Caroline chuckled, eyeing, with considerable
thoughtfulness, the perfect London gentleman sitting beside her. “I
have begun to understand you better,” she informed him. “Anthony
Norville, the quintessential gentleman. You never betray the
slightest effort, and yet, quite miraculously, things are
accomplished around you. Somehow Laurence, Susan, Miss Tompkins,
and I saw the beasts at the Tower, the spectacle at Astley’s, the
wonders of St. Paul’s, the docking of a great ship come all the way
from India—”

The viscount discounted her praise with a
negligible wave of his hand, but his face lit with a slow smile.
“It is easy to amuse children,” he murmured.

“
I
was amused,
Tony, and I am not a child.”

His deep blue eyes swept over her, obviously
taking in every inch from her charming chip straw hat to her
biscuit-colored half-boots, his eyes lingering over the honey gold
curls framing her piquant face and straying to the bodice of her
azure muslin, whose high waistline, held tight beneath her breasts
by a teal blue ribbon, did little to conceal a figure that was far
from childish. “Ah, no, you certainly are not,” the viscount
agreed.

Abruptly, he snapped the reins, setting the
chestnuts in motion. “I believe,” he said in quite a different
tone, “the others are far enough ahead that we will not have to eat
their dust.”

Disconcerted and more than ready to take her
cue from the viscount’s tone, Caroline searched frantically for
another topic of conversation. But her head was awhirl, a crimson
blush still reddening her cheeks. This, undoubtedly, was why young
ladies were supposed to be chaperoned at all times. But her
step-mother had had eyes for no one but her papa. It was possible
others had discreetly averted their eyes, but Caroline had not. The
duke and the duchess had even fed each other grapes, as if they
were attending a Roman orgy. Not, of course, that she was quite
certain what an orgy was, but at that moment Caroline’s own food
had soured in her stomach. Yet the day was so beautiful, the
children having such a fine time, the food and the wine and the
company—if one did not count the duchess, of course—so truly
glorious that she had allowed herself to forget her grievances.
Indeed, she had to admit she had totally forgotten them by the time
she turned to Tony with unalloyed praise of the picnic.

And now, because the viscount felt obligated
to be the last person to leave, the one responsible for making sure
no guest, no servant, no box, or stray chicken bone was left
behind, she was alone, completely alone with him, in the vast acres
of Richmond Park. Caroline was quite certain that if the duchess
had realized what was happening, she would not have allowed it.
Even the viscount’s groom had mysteriously disappeared.

They were moving very slowly, the chestnuts
walking instead of trotting. Very odd for such a high-couraged
pair. “Are we not dropping too far behind?” Caroline asked.

“
Believe me, you do not wish to arrive
in London coated with dust. Or do you think I don’t know the way
back to town?”

“
I think the duke and the duchess may
not be best pleased,” Caroline declared with a sniff.

“
Ah-h, then I am accused of nefarious
schemes?”

“
Of course not,” Caroline huffed,
suddenly aware of just how much she had revealed by indicating she
did not look on the viscount as a safely avuncular
companion.

“
Then
you
were considering nefarious schemes?” Tony
suggested, still keeping his horses at a walk.

“
Pray do not be absurd.”

The viscount heaved an elaborate sigh. “Then
you do not consider me the least bit dangerous?”

“
I know you do not wish to meet papa
over pistols at dawn,” Caroline retorted.

“
Indeed not,” the viscount agreed with
great sincerity. He dropped his hands, and the chestnuts broke into
a brisk trot.

After perhaps ten minutes of silence,
Caroline managed to get her chaotic thoughts into line with proper
social conversation. “Did you notice that somehow Mr.
Trimby-Ashford managed to whisk Miss Bettencourt away from Sir
Chetwin?” she said. “Truthfully, I had not thought he had it in
him.”

“
Peyton has remarkably good taste. I
confess I found Lady Harriet a bit . . .”

“
Forward?” Caroline
supplied.

“
A flirt,” Tony agreed. “Much more in
Chet’s line than Peyton’s.”

“
I understand Miss Bettencourt has very
little dowry,” Caroline mused. “Will that matter?”

“
It was a picnic, Caroline,” Tony
snapped. “Nothing but a picnic. Pray do not make a match out of one
afternoon at Richmond Park.”

“
I beg your pardon.” Caroline’s tone
was intended to freeze his bones. Men were quite abominable. She
had only been attempting to make conversation. Rather than think
about being alone with him on the long road back to
London.

But, of course, that didn’t happen. Two of
the armed outriders came charging back in a cloud of dust,
announcing that the duke had sent them to ensure the safety of the
tail end of their procession. Very few words were exchanged between
Viscount Frayne and Lady Caroline on the remaining miles back to
town.

~ * ~

“
Caroline, please attempt to look
interested, even if you are not,” the Duchess of Longville said
with a sigh as they exited their carriage in front of
Almack’s.

Truthfully, Lady Caroline Carlington
was scowling because she did not wish anyone to know how fiercely
she was willing away the butterflies cavorting in her stomach. An
unexpected and unwanted reaction to this pinnacle of the
ton
that placed her, willy-nilly, on
the same level with all the other silly young things displaying
themselves on the marriage mart. She was
not
hunting a husband. Husbands brought nothing
but grief. Countless times her mama had told her so. Yet here she
was, escorted by a father who looked as inexorable as he was
austerely handsome and distinguished. He did not even seem to mind
the patronesses’ inflexible rules that dictated he must wear knee
breeches and carry a tricorne beneath his arm in the fashion of the
previous century.

Caroline swept another glance at her
father as he waved the ladies ahead of him toward the entrance to
Almack’s. No . . . even in knee breeches, the Duke of Longville was
no eighteenth century gentleman. No long colorful velvet or satin
coat graced his broad shoulders. Her father’s jacket was of black
superfine wool, waist-length in front, dropping to squared tails in
the back. His waistcoat gleamed with silver thread woven into the
white brocade and punctuated by a short row of intricately entwined
silver buttons. A single perfect diamond sparkled in his equally
perfect cravat, tied in a
Trone
d’amour
.