Amanda Scott (20 page)

“I explained about that.”

“So you did.” His steady gaze did not waver, and when he smiled, her body stirred in response.

Uncertain whether he believed her—although her explanation about Rockland and Charley had been the exact truth—she licked her lips again, trying to think. The way he looked at her now made that difficult, because her physical awareness of him seemed to impede her mind’s ability to function. Just seeing him take a deep breath made her whole body tingle with anticipation of what he might say.

“Do you know,” he said suddenly, in an altogether different, more intimate tone of voice, “now that we are betrothed, I have been promising myself something all day.”

“Have you, sir?” Her gaze seemed riveted to his. Her mouth was dry again. “W-what is it?”

He did not speak, but his increasingly ardent expression made his intent quite clear. When he moved a hand to her shoulder, she felt its warmth easily through her thin muslin sleeve. She could still hear the others’ voices from the main part of the drawing room, but only as a murmur, no more distracting to her than the crackling of the fire on the hearth. Vexford’s eyes darkened and gleamed with purpose. She parted her lips in anticipation, moistening them yet one more time. She held her breath.

He lowered his head. “You always smell delightfully of lavender,” he murmured, very close now. She could feel his warm breath touch her lips, and a light aroma of fine old port wafted past her nostrils. She could almost taste him.

“Nick,” Lord Ulcombe called suddenly, “you do mean to have Oliver as your chief witness, do you not?”

With a speaking grimace, Vexford raised his head, then stood up and drew Melissa to her feet, saying in a voice loud enough to carry to the others, “No, sir. I’d like him to stand up with me, of course, but Tommy Minley and I promised each other when we were ten that we would each serve as chief witness for the other.”

As they emerged from the alcove, Ulcombe said, “I should certainly think you would choose your brother over a mere school chum.”

“Indeed, sir? Did my uncle serve as your chief witness?”

Lady Ulcombe chuckled. “He has you there, my dear sir. You said that you would see Harold damned and in—”

“Yes, yes, madam,” Ulcombe interjected hastily. “No one wants to hear about that now. You will have Thomas if you want him, Nick, of course. I just made an obvious suggestion, that’s all.”

Vexford said calmly, “I think, if you were to ask Ollie, sir, you would find him happy to be given no responsibility other than to stand up and be counted.”

“It shall be as you wish, naturally,” Ulcombe said. “Come and sit down now, the pair of you. We’ve other details to discuss.”

The moment of intimacy was over, and Melissa was not sure whether she was glad or sorry when Vexford drew her forward to join the others. They were planning her wedding, and she knew she ought to take part, but she believed, too, that stronger personalities than her own were bound to prevail. Still, she began to look forward to the marriage with much more enthusiasm than before, and she was more than a little disappointed that the interval with Vexford had ended so abruptly.

T
HE WEEKEND PASSED SWIFTLY
. Melissa rode in Hyde Park with Charley and Lord Rockland early Saturday morning. Having discovered that his lordship was her cousin’s most persistent suitor, albeit apparently without persuading that young lady even to consider the notion of marriage, Melissa had accepted him into the ranks of her new friends. He paid Melissa little attention, however, once he discovered that his attentions to her went entirely unnoticed by Miss Tarrant.

He clearly knew better than to criticize Charley’s riding, and Melissa was delighted to follow her intrepid cousin’s lead in a mad gallop along the otherwise deserted Rotten Row, despite the stern rules posted against such behavior. They were expert riders, and each frequently rode at home, but that mad morning gallop whisked Melissa’s mind back once again to Cornwall, where she had often followed Charley’s lead over fences and walls, and across the grassy moor.

Saturday afternoon the two young ladies paid calls with Lady Ophelia, and all three enjoyed another round of parties that evening. They did not see Vexford or Oliver, but both were in attendance the next morning when the ladies joined Ulcombe and his family at St. James’s Church in Piccadilly for morning worship. The afternoon passed quietly at home, and after a dinner shared with guests, whom Lady Ophelia had invited some time before, they made an early night of it.

A slight setback to Lady Ophelia’s plans occurred on Monday, when a notice regarding the forthcoming Drawing Room appeared in the
Times.
Charley, an avid reader of that respectable newspaper, drew Melissa’s attention to it soon after breakfast, in the morning room, by declaring with annoyance, “Well, if that isn’t just like him!”

At the time, Melissa was looking through the recently delivered morning post in hopes of finding a letter from her mama, though she knew she was being foolish to hope for a reply to a letter sent to Scotland only on Thursday. She turned from her futile search, and said, “If what isn’t just like whom?”

“The King, of course, to be still in the gout after weeks and weeks of coddling himself, which is
just
like a man. He means to make you put off your wedding, that’s all. Only listen to this, Aunt Ophelia,” she added, drawing the attention of the old lady from her daily journal entry. “‘The fact proves to be nearly as we predicted with respect to the state of the King’s health. It now appears that His Majesty is not able to hold the Drawing-Room even on the thirteenth, and that a
farther
prorogation of a week is necessary.’ So, you see, Lissa, although it has been two full years since the last Drawing Room, he has now put this one off again, till the twentieth of June. You will have to put off your wedding as well, I expect.”

“No, she will not,” Lady Ophelia said emphatically before Melissa had so much as opened her mouth to reply.

“But if she has not yet been presented, ma’am, surely—”

“The wedding will go forward as planned,” Lady Ophelia said. “The King’s health is no good reason to put it off, unless he pops off his hook, of course, and that does not seem to be an event that anyone anticipates. She can simply be presented on the occasion of her marriage, which is, after all, a perfectly good reason in and of itself. I must speak to Arabella, however, to see if she will desire to act as Melissa’s sponsor, which would be the most proper course after she marries.”

Melissa had taken a strong liking to Lady Ulcombe and had no objection to put forward to such a plan, which was just as well under the circumstances, since no one asked for her opinion on that point or—as the days passed by—on any other. Though it was to be her wedding, her great-aunt and cousin both had decided notions about how the event should be arranged. It seemed easier in the face of their constant discussion of details to let them argue their way to consensus without muddling things by offering a third opinion. Melissa had no real objection to offer in any case, except that her life suddenly seemed to be moving much too swiftly.

If she had hoped to learn more about Vexford in the days before their wedding, she soon learned her mistake, for she encountered him exactly twice. The first meeting took place at the Theater Royal, Covent Garden, on Monday evening when he and his friend Lord Thomas Minley strolled into Lady Ophelia’s box at the first interval. Vexford introduced Minley to them, exchanged a few remarks about the play, and the two gentlemen departed at the end of the interval.

The second meeting took place the following Wednesday afternoon when the ladies emerged from the exhibition at the Royal Academy. Vexford was driving by in his tilbury and, catching sight of them, was so obliging as to draw up at the curb. Melissa recognized the man perched behind him as his groom, Artemus, whom she had last seen in the inn yard at Newmarket. Lord Thomas was again at Vexford’s side.

Vexford handed the reins to Artemus and jumped down to the pavement, saying, “Good day to you all. I see you have been admiring Lawrence’s heads.”

Melissa smiled. “Indeed, we have. He is very talented, don’t you agree?”

He smiled back at her, the look in his eyes reminding her instantly of Friday evening at Barrington House, but then he said, “Do you mean taken as an individual or by comparison with the mass of mediocrity and imbecility with which he competes?”

Biting back an unseemly retort, since she had liked not only Sir Thomas Lawrence’s portraits but several of Mr. Constable’s landscapes, and a splendid water piece of Mr. Callcott’s as well, Melissa glanced at Lady Ophelia.

The old lady said with customary abruptness, “You’ve a good eye, young man. Anyone can see at a glance that the number of true works of art is by no means as great this year as in past years. One or two are an utter disgrace to the Academy, yet we are told that the men who selected them rejected multitudes of others.”

“In justice to the managing committee, ma’am, we must then suppose that those which
were
rejected were outrageously bad indeed,” Vexford said, smiling at her.

“Unless there was foul play,” Lord Thomas added sagely.

With a sardonic look, Vexford said, “You suspect mischief when your breakfast is served five minutes late, Tommy.”

“What better cause?” Minley demanded. “But we are keeping the ladies standing in this chilly wind, Nick.” Turning to Lady Ophelia, he said politely, “May we send someone to fetch your carriage, ma’am?”

Charley said, “It’s coming now, sir. We told Higgins two o’clock, and he is never late.”

Glancing at her watch-bracelet, Melissa saw that her cousin was right. She found herself hoping that the gentlemen—at least one of them—would accompany them back to Berkeley Square. They did not, however, and she looked in vain for Vexford at Almack’s Assembly Rooms that evening. Thanks to the efforts of her cousin and Lady Ophelia, she had, by that time, become acquainted with a number of people and did not lack for partners, but she was disappointed. To her astonishment, however, she had no sooner finished a set with Lord Rockland than she was solicited to dance by Yarborne. Although she blushed to recall their meeting in Newmarket, Yarborne behaved as if he had forgotten all about it.

“I trust you are enjoying your visit to the metropolis,” he said smoothly as he led her into the nearest set. He acted for all the world, she thought, as if she had been introduced to him at a supper party by a mutual friend.

“Y-yes, sir. Everyone has been very kind.”

“I observed the notice of your betrothal in the
Gazette.
Vexford is a luckier man than he knows, I believe.”

“Thank you, sir.”

His attitude was benign, and his friendly charm soon put her at ease. He identified people for her, describing them in terms clearly calculated to make her smile, and she found herself liking him, relaxing in his company in a way that she would not, days before, have believed possible. Thus, when the set was over and he escorted her back to Lady Ophelia, she was not as dismayed as she might otherwise have been to hear him say, “I am giving a ladies’ supper party at my home in Bedford Square on Wednesday next. We’ll provide a few amusing little games of chance to raise money for a most worthy cause, and I’d be most honored if you and your nieces would attend.”

Lady Ophelia said coolly, “You may send us cards, sir, but I cannot answer for Miss Seacourt. She will be married by then, you know, and must—as one of the more absurd rules of our time demands—request permission from her husband.”

Remembering that Vexford liked confident women, Melissa said impulsively, “I do not believe he will object, ma’am, if the cause is indeed a worthy one.”

Yarborne chuckled. “Since the cause is one of Ulcombe’s favorite charities, I do not think Vexford will dare to object.”

Charley, grinning, said, “Perhaps, in that case, he will wish to accompany us.”

“Ah, but that cannot be allowed, Miss Tarrant. ’Tis a supper for ladies only. Except for those of us engaged in organizing the evening, and porters and the like to see that it runs smoothly, no men will be allowed on the premises.”

“That seems peculiar,” Charley said when he had moved beyond earshot. “Why would his lordship not desire gentlemen to attend his charitable dinner?”

Lady Ophelia said, “Such events have become popular of late, although they are generally arranged by ladies engaged in charitable works. Silver loo suppers are most effective, and I daresay Yarborne believes that ladies are more easily charmed out of their money than their husbands are. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say he’s leaving the men out lest they curb the generosity of their wives and daughters.”

“Well, if he thinks he will get more money than I think it wise to give him,” Charley said, “he will find himself mistaken. Grandpapa gave me what money Papa had left me for the Season before he and Mama departed for the Continent, but he said he won’t give me a penny more. Since neither he nor Papa puts the smallest rub in the way of my pleasure, I want to do all I can to show them I can be as frugal as a nun.”

Melissa was still trying to imagine Vexford’s reaction, both to Yarborne’s invitation and to her acceptance, and she paid little heed to her cousin’s remarks. Although he had told Lady Ophelia and Charley about the events in Newmarket, they had never discussed the details of what had occurred, and Melissa had no intention of telling them more. She had thought she could not bear to see anyone else whom she associated with that night, yet she had as much as told Yarborne that she would attend his supper. Just doing that, without asking anyone for permission, had given her an unfamiliar but invigorating sense of freedom. Now she wondered what Vexford would say, but she doubted that he would care a whit. Despite his attitude the evening he had surprised her with Rockland, he certainly had net proved to be a possessive suitor.

In truth, she wished he were more so, and the fact that he was not, puzzled her a little, for in her experience, men were possessive of what they owned. Vexford certainly thought of her as a possession, a prize in the game, albeit one acquired against his better judgment. Having been told that admission to Almack’s was exclusive and that most applicants were denied, she had expected him to take a certain pleasure in escorting her there, but Charley had laughed when she noted his absence.