A Season for Love (18 page)

The duchess favored her husband with a sudden
brilliant smile. His eyes gleamed in return, promising more than a
look when they returned to Longville House. By the time the last
notes of the waltz died away, Jen had been able to conquer the mist
that threatened to obscure her eyes. As the sets began to form for
a quadrille, the Duchess of Longville had herself in hand. She also
had one more tiny reason to hope that her husband did not find her
unattractive.

Before the picnic to Richmond Park, Lady
Caroline had been determined to be nothing more than polite to Miss
Emily Bettencourt. How could she possibly have anything in common
with a young woman who had followed an army while she herself had
been snug in a thatched cottage in Little Stoughton? They had, in
fact, about as many points of mutual reference as . . . as Caroline
had with her step-mother. Yet not once on that long day’s journey
to Richmond Park, nor during the waltzing parties the duchess had
held for Caroline, Emily, and a few other carefully chosen young
ladies, had Miss Bettencourt flaunted her wider knowledge of the
world nor put a foot wrong in following the dictates of society.
Emily Bettencourt could be described as moderate in all things. Of
medium height, with hair of medium brown and eyes an indeterminate
gray, she blended into any group of young ladies without standing
out. She was soft-spoken, her manners impeccable, and she seemed
genuinely grateful for the favor shown her by her father’s old
friend, now Duchess of Longville. Truly, Caroline found it very
difficult to dislike Emily Bettencourt.

The two girls were part of a crowd clustered
around the duke and duchess when Emily leaned close to Caroline’s
ear. “Do you know where the ladies’ retiring room is?” she
whispered. “I fear Mr. Trimby-Ashford stepped upon my flounce. I
have pins in my reticule, but . . .” Emily’s voice trailed off, she
bit her lip.

After a quick consultation with the
duchess, Caroline led Emily unerringly toward the proper
antechamber, finding herself absurdly proud of this minor ability
to negotiate the maze of London society better than her companion
who had once managed to negotiate the wilds of the Iberian
Peninsula, albeit at the tag end of an army. Unfortunately, an
array of dowagers and other elderly watchdogs of the
ton
’s strict rules and regulations,
were seated like a row of pouter pigeons just outside the door of
the ladies’ retiring room. Their voices, many of them raised
because the ladies could no longer hear how loud they had become,
followed the girls inside.

“
Wasn’t that Longville’s gel?” quavered
one.

“
Yes, and that upstart colonel’s
daughter with her,” another replied. “Can’t imagine why the duchess
took her up.”

“
What else can you expect?” sniffed a
third. “A family willing to accept a cuckoo in its nest will
tolerate anything.”

Caroline and Emily had planned to retreat to
the inner chamber of the retiring room in order to pin up Miss
Bettencourt’s torn gown, but the conversation in dowagers’ row
froze them in place. Eavesdroppers might not learn any good of
themselves, but it would have been inhuman not to listen to this
particular exchange.

Outside, a fourth, more moderate voice, spoke
up. “Pray be careful what you say. ’Tis said the boy is the duke’s
image.”

“
Fools see what they wish to see. I,
for one, do not plan to acknowledge him.”

“
You would be wise to rethink that
position,” counseled the voice of moderation. “Longville is a
powerful man.”

“
Who should have a legitimate heir,”
her opponent shot back.

“
Surely the sister knows her own
brother,” a new voice contributed.

“
The mother was very odd,” declared the
most vicious of the dowagers. “Who is to confirm the legitimacy of
either of them?”

Caroline felt Emily’s hand clutch hers.
Evidently, her step-mama’s protégé, forgetting her own insult, was
offering sympathy for the greater offense against Lady Caroline and
her family. “Perhaps we should go,” Emily offered, tugging gently
on her hand.

“
No.” Caroline’s feet remained
stubbornly planted to the carpet. “I wish to hear every last
word.”

“
Lady Caroline—” Emily
urged.

A voice rose above the others outside the
door. Strong, forceful . . . familiar. “The boy has his papa’s face
and his mama’s eyes. He is as legitimate as the day is long. If I
claim him as my grandchild, there can be no more discussion of the
matter,” pronounced the Dowager Duchess of Longville, who had
arrived in time to hear most of the remarks that had offended the
ears of her granddaughter and Miss Bettencourt.

Caroline, who had never thought to see
the day when she could feel an ounce of affection for the dowager
duchess, bowed her head in thanks, making a vow to call on her
grandmother this very week. She looked up to find Emily
Bettencourt’s modest good looks bathed in a smile of relief and . .
. something more. They had both been insulted, Caroline realized.
They each had backgrounds that were outside the
ton
’s usual acceptable boundaries. They were the
same age, each still lacking the town bronze necessary to survive a
London season. Of course, Emily was probably in search of a
husband, Caroline mused, grasping at some reason to continue her
indifference to the duchess’s young friend.

Caroline returned Emily’s smile, which had
become questioning. “Give me the pins,” she said, holding out her
hand. “Let us mend your gown so we can return to the ballroom and
dazzle all the gentlemen.”

Miss Bettencourt’s smile brightened into
radiance as she recognized what was undoubtedly a great concession
on the part of Lady Caroline. The two girls entered the inner
chamber of the retiring room, each aware of a new-found rapport
forged over the viciousness of London scandalmongers.

~ * ~

“
Uncle Tony!”

“
Unc’a Tony!”

Laurence, Marquess of Huntley, bounded down
the sweeping curve of the front staircase at Longville House. In
his wake, a small figure in a pastel blue gown and sparkling white
pinafore valiantly struggled to keep up. Laurence took the last two
steps in one great leap to the tiles below and threw his arms
around the viscount’s knees. Miss Susan Wharton, pausing mid-stairs
to catch her breath, managed the first plea. “We want to go with
you,” she called, her voice rising to a near wail.

The young marquess immediately straightened
to his full height, squared his shoulders, and looked his
uncle-in-law straight in the eye. “It’s true,” he pronounced with
all the drama of a seven-year-old nobleman’s injured dignity.
“We’ve been no farther than the garden since papa returned. We
might as well be prisoners in the Tower,” Laurence added on a
decided grumble. “So may we go with you? Please?” The marquess’s
cornflower blue eyes, inherited from the first Duchess of
Longville, filled with the abject pleading Tony had previously
associated only with puppies.

“
Please, Unc’a Tony,” piped Susan, who
had now finished descending the stairs and was tugging on the tails
of his burgundy jacket.

The viscount forced himself to a severity he
was far from feeling. “You have escaped Miss Tompkins, both of you.
I am quite certain you know that is not the proper way to
behave.”

“
My lord,” Laurence declared, “we
were
desperate
.”

“
Des-prit,” Susan echoed
plaintively.

Lady Caroline paused on the uppermost curve
of the staircase, seeing all her cherished plans for the afternoon
teetering on the brink of extinction. She had dressed with care for
her drive in the park with Viscount Frayne. Her carriage dress of
French Blue overlaid by a series of panels piped in midnight blue
was a color that suited her to perfection. Her bonnet was made to
match, the severity of its design, decorated solely with two white
rosettes on the band, enhanced rather than detracted from her
natural beauty. She had planned to make a grand entry from the top
of the staircase, allowing Tony Norville to savor her appearance
during her slow and elegant descent.

Instead, as she took in the scene below,
Caroline picked up her skirts—heedless of the viscount’s
unobstructed view of a lace-trimmed petticoat and neatly turned
ankles above her blue kid half boots—and charged down the
staircase. “Laurence, Susan, upstairs immediately!” she ordered.
“Do not trouble Lord Frayne.”

“
We are not troubling him,” Laurence
explained grandly. “We are merely asking him to take us to the
park.”

“
Ye-es,” Susan agreed.

“
Sims,” Lady Caroline said to the
hovering butler, “pray see what is keeping Miss
Tompkins.”

“
Sims,” said Viscount Frayne, raising
his hand to stay the butler’s orders, “is Longville at
home?”

“
No, my lord.”

“
My sister?”

“
No, my lord.”

“
Then I believe the decision is ours,”
Tony said to Caroline, raising one slightly wicked brow.

Caroline, incensed by his attempt to
countermand her orders, glared at him. There was nothing she wished
to say that could be stated before two children and the butler.

Laurence promptly threw his arms about his
sister, crushing the gown she had so carefully arranged before
leaving her room. “Please, please, please,” he begged. “We are like
those poor lions at the Tower. Miss Tompkins says they are
withering away from captivity.”

“
The garden is horrid,” Susan added. “I
do not
wish
to know the names
of all the fl’wrs.”

Instantly contrite, Caroline looked
helplessly at Tony. She had been gadding about town for two weeks
now while the children stayed home. She had attended routs, balls,
Venetian breakfasts, musical evenings, poetry readings, the opera,
and the theater. The polish on her town bronze was considerably
more burnished than on the evening of her debut at Almack’s. And on
nearly all of those occasions she had enjoyed the familiar
attentions of Viscount Frayne.

The children, however, had not set foot
outside the confines of Longville House.

She was a selfish wretch. Exactly as
her mother had warned, she had fallen into the
ton
’s trap and quite forgotten the most important
things in life.

“
Very well,” Caroline sighed. “Sims,”
please inform Miss Tompkins that the children—”

“
Oh, miss . . . my lady,” Nell Brindley
cried as she came crashing through the green baize door and scooted
across the black and white tiles. “I’m
that
sorry. It be Miz Tompkins’s ’alf day, y’see,
and I—”

“
Then you will have an hour or so to
yourself as well, Nell,” Lady Caroline announced, “for Lord Frayne
and I will be taking the children to the park. Please be sure you
are available when we return.”

“
Oh, I will, mi—my lady. It weren’t my
fault,” she added unwisely. “Those little scamps do be good
at—”

“
That will be all, Nell,” Caroline
interjected, continuing to glare after the girl as she bobbed a
curtsy and made a hasty retreat behind the door to the servants’
portion of the house.

“
I daresay we should not indulge them
when they have been naughty enough to escape their bounds,” Tony
murmured, half to himself, as he found himself seriously wondering
if he might prove to be an overly indulgent parent.

“
I daresay you’re right,” Caroline
sighed, “but it’s true papa has kept them confined, though I cannot
imagine why.” Over the heads of the eager children she gave the
viscount an anxious look. “Do you know, Tony, why papa has kept
them so close?”

“
General unrest,” the viscount offered
without elaboration. “But I believe Longville cannot object if we
take two outriders.”

“
To the park?” Caroline squeaked. “You
cannot be serious.”

“
Two outriders, Caroline, or we all
stay home.”

Tension hovered. The children held their
breaths. Caroline frowned as the viscount remained adamant.

“
Oh, very well,” Lady Caroline sighed.
Then, struck by a sudden thought, she brightened, momentarily
forgetting her attack of conscience. “But how are we to travel? We
cannot all fit in your curricle, Tony.”

“
The landau is available, my lady,”
Sims ventured. “His Grace took his curricle, and Lady Longville has
the barouche.”

“
Thank you, Sims,” the viscount said as
Lady Caroline remained markedly silent. “Please see that it is
brought ‘round.”

The Marquess of Huntley chortled, while
Miss Susan Wharton clapped her hands and beamed at her uncle. Lady
Caroline, torn between lost dreams of a private drive in Hyde Park
with Lord Frayne and her genuine concern for the children’s
welfare, waited for the landau with mixed feelings. And somewhere
in the midst of her whirling thoughts came a niggling voice that
asked what her papa would think. Were they wrong to take the
children out . . . or was that her personal foolishness talking?
Surely her papa was being overly protective of his new family. Did
he truly fear the London mob? Or was his prohibition due to fear of
the vicious tongues Laurence and Susan might encounter on their
afternoon excursion into the
ton
’s most well-known showcase?