A Season for Love (3 page)

“
You are outrageous.”

“
Indeed,” he agreed blandly. “M’lady?”
With more uncertainty that Tony Norville cared to admit, he waved a
hand toward the wingchair opposite the one in which he had been
sitting. “I take it you were having difficulty sleeping. Perhaps a
glass of ratafia or some sherry?”

A swift refusal, but she accepted his offer
of a chair, making no further effort to run away. Gingerly, the
vision of loveliness sat on the edge of the black leather, hands
folded primly in her lap. If this girl were the duke’s latest
indiscretion, Tony thought, Longville’s taste in women had changed
dramatically.

“
I did not see you at the party
tonight,” he ventured.

“
I was not expected,” she murmured,
keeping her eyes on her clasped fingers, “nor did I have the proper
clothes.”

A guest then. But who would dare to come to
Longville House uninvited? “Do you make a long stay in London?”

Startled eyes looked up to meet his. “Oh,
no,” she told him. “I expect to return straightway.”

“
Might I inquire to where?”

“
If I told you, I would be breaking our
agreement to anonymity,” she told him.

Touché
. Clever
little chit. “May I ask when you arrived in London?” Tony countered
smoothly.

“
This evening.”

“
And you intend to return immediately,
with the Season just beginning? Surely you would not deny us the
pleasure of the company of such a beautiful young
woman?”

“
You mistake my situation, sir. I do
not expect to have a Season.”

“
I think not,” the viscount said in a
tone so gentle his friends would not have believed it possible.
“For all our vows of anonymity, I think there is only one person
you could possibly be.”

“
Tell me about the Season,” she said,
with the obvious intent of changing the subject. “Tell me what I
shall be missing. Convince me that I should care.”

Tony searched the lovely face for any
hint that she truly wanted an answer, that she was not simply
making an effort to distract him. The bookroom was full of shadows,
but he recognized her fine amber eyes, currently as solemn as the
duke’s own. Her skin, however, was her mother’s—classic English
porcelain with a blush of rose upon her cheeks, which might have
been natural or was perhaps the result of her unexpected encounter
with a stranger while
en
déshabillé
. Her lips were full, inviting. Perfect. And
that glorious golden hair—hair that should never be cut, no matter
how out of fashion. Inwardly, he sighed. If she was who he thought
she was, he was about to become her uncle.
Bloody hell!

“
Surely you love beautiful clothes,
music, dancing?” Tony asked. “The glitter of the
ton
’s finest enjoying
themselves—”

“
While our soldiers are about to go
back to war?”

The viscount’s guilt and frustration came
sweeping back, as if his desire to join the Royal Fusiliers were
only yesterday. Blasted chit, to have hit on the one thing about
which he could not be blasé.

“
Don’t you know society suffers in
silence?” the viscount said, maintaining his bland social façade
only with considerable effort. “During all the years of war Papas
played cards for high stakes to avoid contemplating the reality of
Younger Sons baking in the Spanish heat. Mamas and Sisters ran from
one entertainment to the next.
Don’t think,
don’t think, don’t think
about John or Henry or George
who may be on the next casualty list.”

“
And you?” she asked, her seemingly
simple question pinning him to the wingchair like a butterfly to a
collector’s case.

They were supposed to be talking about
her. Not him. He could not possibly be having this
extraordinary
anonymous
conversation in Longville’s library.

“
I am an only son,” Tony replied
without inflection. “And my sister’s husband died at Badajoz. The
reality of war was too close for my family to ignore. My father
would not countenance my going.” He managed a wry smile. “In truth,
I find the Season I am touting to you sadly flat. Season after
Season, I might add. But I am stuck with it, so I try to make the
best of a frequently boring burden. As you should,” he emphasized,
returning abruptly to their original topic.

He had to give her credit, Tony thought. She
was sensitive enough to realize he had said all he intended to say
on the subject of the military. More, in fact, that he had ever
said to anyone before.

“
Very well,” she agreed briskly, “I
concede that beautiful clothes and glittering people have a certain
fascination, particularly to one who has been mewed up in the
country for years. What activities do you recommend during the
Season?”

Mewed up in the country for
years
. Oh, yes, she had to be Longville’s long-lost
daughter.

“
In addition to the routs, balls,
picnics, and musicales, most enjoy the opera, theater, concerts,
drives in the park, visiting with friends, particularly those who
come to town only during the Season.”

She did not seem impressed. “Are you a member
of the Four-Horse Club?” she demanded.

“
Truthfully, I find their costume
ridiculous,” Tony admitted. “Too embarrassing by half to don a
waistcoat of such shockingly bad taste, not to mention plush
breeches.
Plush
breeches,” he
reiterated in accents of loathing, “with
rosettes
, and a driving coat with buttons the
size of butter plates. And all that only to drive a four-horse team
up a hill and back down. Reminds me of that rhyme about the Duke of
York.”

His companion emitted an unladylike chortle.
“Oh, you mean that silly children’s song about the Noble Duke of
York and ten thousand men going up the hill, then down again?”

“
Exactly.” For a fleeting moment an
impish grin lit his companion’s features. Tony found it
delightful.

“
Do you drive a curricle?” she
asked.

“
If you stay in town, I shall give you
a ride in it,” he promised.

Obviously disconcerted, she glanced down. “I
think I should like that,” she admitted softly. “It would be very
fine to ride in the park. I can remember my fa—” She broke off.
“But I do not think I will be here even for a whole day.” She
raised her eyes, cocked her head to one side, golden curls gleaming
against the black leather. “Yet I will admit that you have
half-convinced me that for many people a Season has its purpose. As
for myself . . . I believe I should like the theater and the opera.
I would also like to dance,” she added wistfully, “and see all the
beautiful gowns.” The unknown young lady’s chin firmed; her fine
amber eyes took on a militant glint. “But I will not place myself
on the Marriage Mart as I am not in search of a husband.”

“
You disapprove of the Marriage Mart?”
Tony inquired mildly, finding his mysterious companion delightfully
young and naive.

“
Yes,” she responded directly. “I have
long thought it quite terrible that young women are paraded about
like horses at Tattersall’s. Or, worse yet, geese at a fair. For I
think gentleman frequently choose a horse with more care than a
wife.”

Tony could only gape at her, as he himself
had been known to make the exact same comment; once, unfortunately,
just prior to the marriage of a good friend. A wedding which had
resulted in as much disaster as the Viscount Frayne had predicted
it would.

So his anonymous companion was as cynical
about marriage as he himself. An odd opinion for one so young.

Not if she was Longville’s daughter. In
truth, with her background, it was a wonder she had not screamed
like a banshee when he spoke to her, resulting in the awkward
situation of the duke being forced to call out his future
brother-in-law. Or, worse yet, in an instant betrothal.

He should have stayed hidden in the
confines of the great black wingchair. With his mouth firmly closed
and his hands over his eyes. Instead, here he was—Anthony Norville,
Viscount Frayne—idiot
extraordinaire
, having a highly questionable
tête-à-tête with what he feared was his host’s only
child.

“
Oh, there you are!” Lady Eugenia
Norville Wharton came sailing through the door of the bookroom on
her usual whirl of energy, despite the lateness of the hour. “For
shame, Tony, to hide in here when I have run my voice to a thread
bidding every last one of the family goodbye. You might have
helped— Goodness gracious, who is this?” she ended, voice rising in
surprise.

With lazy grace, Tony rose to his feet. “My
apologies, Jen,” he told his sister, “but I am unable to make
introductions. You see, we agreed on anonymity,” he confided, “as
the lady is not exactly dressed—”

“
I should say she isn’t,” Jenny Wharton
interrupted in ominous accents, every tale of her intended’s
proclivities rushing through her mind in a torrent so shocking, her
customary good sense disintegrated on the spot. “Well, girl, speak
up. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“
Jen!” Tony warned.

The young lady in nightgown, robe, and
slippers, rose to her feet with such regal grace that Viscount
Frayne knew his guess had been correct. This was not good. But he
was given no opportunity to act as mediator, for his anonymous
companion had already launched into speech.

“
You are Lady Eugenia, Longville’s
betrothed?” she asked stonily.

“
I am.”

“
Then I am not at all surprised by your
error. Think how many times in future you may encounter true
dem-reps
scattered about your
bookroom. I wish you joy of him, my lady. But I doubt you shall
have it.”

As an exit line, it was superb. Mrs.
Siddons herself could not have done better, Tony thought. But Jen,
poor Jen. He had not realized how much the
on dits
about Longville had affected her. And
now, he was quite certain his sister had made an enemy of her
future step-daughter, one whose come-out she would be expected to
arrange. Jenny was going to need every ounce of the courage that
had gotten her through the long marches in Portugal and Spain and
through the birth of a child in a hovel in a village far from
home.

The bookroom door slammed with all the vigor
of an eighteen-year-old arm and an eighteen-year-old intellect that
had not yet learned discretion. A book, abandoned on a sidetable
near the door, teetered and slid to the floor.

“
Jen, my dear,” said Tony Norville,
shaking his head, “I fear you have just made a sad
mistake.”

~ * ~

Caroline collapsed onto her bed’s blue
velvet coverlet, burying her face in the soft rumpled folds. All
she had wanted was a book to while away the sleepless hours until
she could meet with her father. Instead, she had met the Enemy . .
. and quite the most handsome and charming man she had ever been
privileged to see. And, to her eternal mortification, she had
managed to disgrace herself before them both. Even her poor dear
mama, who had never failed to excoriate the
ton
and all it stood for, would have been shocked
by her conduct.

Caroline cringed.
Lady Eugenia . . . and the man she called Tony
.
If the careless ease with which they addressed each other were any
indication, they were closely related, perhaps even brother and
sister. Caroline’s fingers clutched the soft blue velvet; a tear
fell onto the appliquéd white satin rose beneath her cheek. Those
few moments before the arrival of Lady Eugenia had been the most
delicious of her life. Imagine, a girl from Little Stoughton having
a conversation with a perfect stranger. And that stranger a member
of the
ton,
instantly
recognizable by the style and elegance of his clothing. By that
certain
je-ne-sais-quoi
that
set him apart from any man she had previously known. And made her
devastatingly aware that in his eyes she was no more than a country
miss.

Tony
. A lovely
name. Which would, of course, never pass her lips. They were
destined to remain strangers forever.

Yet he had looked so fine in his
understated black tailcoat and pantaloons, which fit like a second
skin, and a white nubbed silk waistcoat embroidered in white, each
button winking with a central diamond. His cravat . . . Lady
Caroline sighed. Neil Lissett, the squire’s son back home in Little
Stoughton, would give his favorite hound for the secret of how
Tony’s cravat was tied. In spite of a valiant effort to remember
that she did not approve of the
ton
, that their careless ways had ruined her
mother’s life, Caroline had been thoroughly charmed.

Undoubtedly in the same fashion he charmed
every other woman he met!

And he was connected to
that woman
.

Abruptly, Caroline sat up, pulled her
knees up under her chin, glaring at the fog-shrouded windows above
the drive. Lady Eugenia was not at all what she had expected. Not
that she had had a clear picture in her head, yet . . . Her mother
had been a belle of the
ton
.
Even at her death it had been possible to see she had once been a
ravishing beauty. Therefore, Caroline had anticipated that her
father’s betrothed would be a veritable princess, tall and stately,
or possibly the opposite, a pocket Venus like her mother, delicate
and infinitely appealing to a gentleman’s desire to protect.
Caroline had not expected a woman who was tall and
sturdy
, a dark-haired Boadicea who
looked capable of standing at the top of the duke’s staircase,
managing his multiple homes, bearing an infinite number of
children, perhaps while taking an occasional holiday to ride at the
head of an invading army.